Albric stood in the smithy under the light of a smoking pine-knot torch. He was keeping an eye on his brother Mimir, whose sweating back bent over the anvil while he rang a tune with his hammer on a delicate piece of work. But ever and again Albric’s gaze returned to the ring on his finger, and his heart warmed with satisfaction.

  The ring was a rare work of art, forged from the nugget stolen from the daughters of Aegir, but even greater than its beauty was the power it conferred. It was a wide ring of sinuous shape, hanging loose on Albric’s bony finger since it had to pass over his knuckle; in its depths was captured the enchantment of the whole nugget. Albric had hung jealously over the work while it was in progress, and had seen how the longer Mimir worked it, the smaller the gold had shrunk, until at last there was only enough for this single ring, a concentration of pure power. He turned it in the torchlight, admiring the rich color, the sensuous shape that seemed to twist and embrace his finger as he stared. It was formed in the shape of a serpent devouring its own tail; the tiny malevolent eye appeared to blink and glisten with life as it caught the light.

  As for its power, he had already tested its efficacy and found it all that the sea nymphs had claimed. He was lord and ruler of the dark elves now; he had only to lift a hand and they would come groveling to his feet. They were down in the mines now, digging in fear of their lives to meet the quota of precious metals that he had set. He gave a malicious chuckle, then in quick suspicion his eye flashed back to Mimir.

  The smith had paused to lean on the anvil, wiping the sweat from his brow. With a shriek of fury Albric leapt across the cavern, flinging up his hand in a gesture that made firelight flash from the ring.

  Mimir started and shrank back in fear against the corner of the hearth. He sneered at Albric no longer. Brawny as he was, the smith cowered, his face paling beneath the flush of the forge. He had felt the power of the ring already.

  “What do you mean,” screeched Albric, “lazing away my time like this? I gave you a task to do. Maybe you did not hear me? Maybe your ears need sharpening?”

  “I only stopped to rest for a moment,” said Mimir sullenly. “It is nearly done. See?” He reached toward the anvil, but Albric flung up his hand again.

  “I will teach you to stop without leave, under my very nose.” He pointed at a length of chain, and it rose into the air snapping and coiling like a snake, striking sparks from its own length. It bore down on Mimir, who backed as far as he could into the corner, gasping out broken pleas. It was no use; Albric was enjoying himself too much. He pointed at the chain; it descended in a flurry of blows to the sound of the smith’s cries of pain.

  At the sound of shuffling footsteps he turned to see three or four of the dwarves gathered with fearful faces. “Stop that noise!” he snapped, and the chain fell lifeless to the ground.

  “What do you want?” he growled at the dwarves.

  “My lord, we have brought more stones,” stammered the foremost dwarf. He hunched his way into the cavern, bent beneath the burden of a sack. “Where do you want them, my lord?”

  Albric waved a careless hand at the corner, where a pile of uncut stones glowed with dull fire. “Heap them up.” He watched with narrowed eyes while the line of dwarves shuffled in, deposited their treasures and scurried out again. But the last in line approached him hesitantly. “Please, Lord Albric . . .”

  “What is it?” Albric crossed his arms, sticking out his chest. He cast an eye at Mimir, who had gone groaning back to work. “I am busy, cannot you see?”

  “Yes, sir, but . . . We have come to the end of the vein of rubies. It will be some time before we can strike another, and we wondered if —if the quota of rubies could be— if we could—”

  “You want me to lower the quota?” cried Albric. “You little wretch! You know well enough what happens if you fail to meet your quota. This!” He stuck out his finger. The dwarf cried out in terror, staggered, and sat down with a thump, clutching at his heart. Albric saw a crowd of pale faces peering through the doorway. He said shrilly, “That— and worse — is what will happen to all of you if you fail to meet the quotas. Get back to work!”

  The pale faces scattered. The dwarf who had fallen crawled to his feet, sweat streaming down his face, and hurried after them.

  Albric turned to Mimir. “I am going up for a breath of air. Keep working. I will know it if you stop.”

  “I hear you,” muttered Mimir, lifting pain-smudged eyes. Albric swaggered out of the cavern to the stairway.

  The ringing music of hammer and pickax died behind him as he climbed. He groped for the iron ring in the stone door, pulling it open on the pale twilit world before sunrise, the air pungent with the fresh scents of autumn. With a grunt he hoisted himself out, letting the door crash shut behind him. No more skulking and sneaking for him; he need fear no creature on earth any longer.

  Striding to the brow of the cliff, he gazed out over the dark waters of the fjord to the hills beyond. In the east the sky had begun to fade to gray, but the world still lay under the spell of night, steeped in silence and darkness. A distant sound stole to his ears, a melancholy keening, but he could not tell whether it was the wind moaning in the pines or the wailing of the sea nymphs in the depths. He shrugged with a grin. He no longer cared one way or the other, for with the ring he could have any woman he desired. But that could come later, when he had subdued all of Midgard to his rule. The thought was a pleasant one; he savored it, rolling it on his tongue.

  Still he found a strange dissatisfaction underlying his newfound pleasures. Power and wealth had not satisfied the hunger in him. Owning the ring seemed only to increase it, so that the more he gained, the greater his appetite grew. He creased his forehead in irritation. Glancing down at the ring, he caressed it with his thumb, watching the soft glow of the halflight in its depths. The delight of possession drove all other thoughts from his mind.

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  “Good evening,”

  Albric started nervously, then collected himself with a muttered curse. Peering through the shadows, he saw a human figure stretched beneath an oak. “Who is there?” he rasped, suspicion in his voice.

  The figure stretched lazily and sat up. Moving closer, Albric saw a young man richly dressed in a scarlet coat embroidered with fantastic golden flames. His face was sardonic, his brows flaring with an elvish air. Albric took him for some noble of humankind, perhaps gone astray while hunting.

  “I did not mean to alarm you,” said the young man. His sarcastic brows lifted in amusement, belying his words.

  “I am not alarmed,” said Albric, jutting out his chin. He did not intend to be laughed at by a mortal. “Perhaps it is you who should be alarmed,” he suggested with a hint of the sinister. “It cannot be often that you meet a denizen of the underworld.”

  “Is that what you are?” asked the stranger with interest. He leaned back, clasping his hands around one knee in a posture that suggested anything but alarm. “Fascinating,” he drawled.

  “I am the lord of Svartalfheim,” flung out Albric, determined to provoke some reaction. “It is only fair to warn you that I intend to take over your lands shortly. Perhaps you will wish to take your household and flee, sparing yourself much bloodshed.”

  “Is that so?” said the stranger. “How kind of you to warn me.” His eyes flicked over Albric like fiery pinpricks. “But tell me, how do you intend to accomplish all this? Have you an army?”

  “I rule the Army of the Night,” said Albric. “A thousand dwarves march at my command. But that is only the cutting edge of my power. My real strength is greater and deeper still. “

  The stranger sat up, interest kindling in his eyes. “That is amazing. It must have taken you many years and many sacrifices to gain such power.”

  “Not as many as you would suppose,” said Albric with a grin. He felt that he had at last made a dent in the stranger’s awareness. “In fact, the only thing I had to sacrifice was a mere trifle, a useless fancy that runs current in the world. I renounced love.”

  “Love?” said the stranger in disbelief. He spoke the word as if it were a foreign term whose meaning escaped him.

  “Yes,” said Albric with a delighted chuckle. “Ridiculous, is it not? It was some foolish curse that Aegir had put on his treasure: to gain it, one had only to renounce love. I chose to do so—” with resolution he put out of his memory the events of that despairing, water-logged night— “and gained the lordship of the worlds.”

  “Aegir’s gold,” said the stranger slowly. “It seems to me I have heard something of that. And you possess it?”

  “You see it before you.” Albric lifted his hand with the ring, gleaming in the first rays of the rising sun.

  “So that is it,” breathed the stranger. His bright eyes raked Albric. “And you love . . . nothing?”

  Albric shrugged. “Of course. Nothing is worth the pain of loving— except my gold.” He looked down at the ring with satisfaction, and rubbed it with his sleeve. He had a strange sensation as he did so, as if the ring were opening into the circle of the universe and he were a mote falling into it, falling and falling with no hope of reaching bottom; swallowed up by the gold. He shook his head and the feeling passed.

  The stranger moved, rising to one knee, and Albric snatched his hands behind him jealously. “No one can take it from me, of course. Whoever approached me would simply drop dead, if I so willed.”

  “You need not fear me,” said the stranger with a laugh. “I abhor violence. I only wished to catch a closer glimpse of the source of so much power.”

  Albric expanded his chest. “You have seen it,” he said sternly. “Now go and tremble, and warn your people to flee. My wrath will fall suddenly, and there will be no appeal from it.”

  “I will indeed,” said the stranger. “I am greatly in your debt.” He rose to his feet, took a step backward, and vanished. Only a small flame licked along the ground before it too faded.

  Albric blinked and shook his head. His eyes were playing tricks on him. He could have sworn the stranger had disappeared; but he must have merely stepped behind the tree. And run like a hare, he added with silent satisfaction. There is one mortal who has learned the meaning of fear.

  As the sun rose Loki approached the Rainbow Bridge with his long loping stride, passing the green slopes of Himinbjorg, the Mount of Heaven, without catching sight of Heimdall whose home it was. But when he came to the foot of Bifrost, there Heimdall stood, leaning on the handle of his great ax with the Gjallar-horn slung at his side, grim and gaunt in his gray armor. Behind him, across the bridge’s foot, burned a line of fire, set there by Odin’s orders to keep the Frost giants from crossing. Loki went lightly to meet him, and saw with a lift of an eyebrow that the guardian of the bridge stood motionless, his helm pulled low over his eyes.

  “Hail, Heimdall,” he said. “Is all secure?”

  Then finally Heimdall moved; he raised an arm stiffly to push back his helm, and gazed at Loki. His face was lined with age, his eyes sunk in hollow sockets, and wisps of white hair blew about his ears. “Winter has come early to Asgard,” he said in a cracked and hollow voice.

  “It would seem that it has come early to the foot of Bifrost as well, said Loki, pausing in surprise. He saw Heimdall’s aging with a thrill of secret delight. He had not thought that Freya’s absence would take effect so quickly.

  “It is because Freya was stolen, and the golden apples lost to us,” said Heimdall. “I saw her carried off three days ago, by two giants. Why did Odin let them take her?”

  “As an experiment,” said Loki impudently. “To see how well gray hairs become the Aesir. Now, by your leave?”

  Heimdall lowered his helm and leaned on his ax again, watching him pass in gloomy silence. Loki stepped up to the wall of fire, which parted before him with a rustle as if it were a curtain drawn aside. Beyond lay the steep slope of Bifrost, its colors translucent in the sunlight, rising out of sight toward the pinnacles of Asgard. He sprang onto it and began to climb.

  He left the sunlight behind as he reached the last long stretch to Asgard. The city of the Aesir lay under gray clouds, dripping rain with dreary monotony. The golden glow of its roofs was quenched, and the white towers loomed gray and shapeless through the mist of rain.

  He entered the gateway, fitted since he had last seen it with massive wooden gates reinforced with bronze hinges. He thought he knew where Odin would be found. Making his way through silent shuttered streets and contemplating with pleasure the thought of the aging Aesir trembling behind locked doors, he came to the garden of Vingolf, where grew Freya’s tree with its golden apples. The wall that encircled it, overgrown with morning-glory vines, rose as high as his shoulder; he vaulted onto it with ease and from the high vantage point looked down on the garden.