The Nemean does not run like Redana runs, no fleet-footed champion she. Redana moves like a graceful stag, pushing off every step, every one sure. The Nemean [i]lunges,[/i] and the air hisses and sparks behind her. The axe can be felt before it is heard, and that is Bella’s salvation. Someone quick and desperate and acting on instinct could evade the Nemean’s lightning, letting it blow open walls and topple columns. What the years and neglect have not done, the Nemean does without so much as a qualm; if the palace fell on top of her, she would bat it aside.

And worst of all, she [i]sings.[/i]

[b]”when will this end?
where do you go?
four-foot you hurtle
hither and fro—

where do you go?
when will this end?
the knife that dares [i]me[/i]
will learn how to bend!

where are you now?
why do you try?
little fleet-limb,
quiet your cry—

why do you try?
where are you now?
do you think you can flee,
my little [i]niáou[/i]?”[/b]

It is the kind of effortless, shameless pageantry that only the gods can get away with. Redana would never be able to do this with a straight face; she would stumble over words and crack up into laughter, or get distracted by the chase. But the Nemean’s voice rolls like the deeps and makes the fallen stones tremble like they mean to jump up and join her in the chase. She is inhuman. She is a fury on the wing. And she cannot, will not, be stopped until she has levied punishment.