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She shook her head, and stepped away from the god. “What are you doing?” Her eyes narrowed, and she took another step back.
    “What do you mean?” His voice was soft, lyrical.
    Phoibe started walking again; she wanted to get to Priska’s– wanted to get away from him.
    “Are you trying to seduce me?” She was irritated, but her feelings turned into confusion when she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. The longing returned, and her pace slowed.
    “Persuade. Aren’t all conversations meant to persuade?”
    Phoibe closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then with her eyes still closed she asked, “What do you want from me?”
    “Phoibe.” His voice called her.
    “Apollo.” She said his name through clenched teeth. “What do you want from me?”
    “Why, I just want to be your friend.” In his words, his tone, the pull was gone.
    She knew she hadn’t imagined it. “Well, don’t do that…” her arms waved, “anymore. It was disturbing me.” She looked at him warily.
    His smile was warm, friendly, inviting. “Well,” he laughed, “the last thing I want to do is disturb you. Where are you going?”
    “Home.”
    “Any chance I can induce you to come for a walk?”
    “No.”
    “Really? I won’t harm you.” His laugh reminded her of summer.
    “Not today. I have this,” she held up the bag, “and I need to get back.”
    “Oh, Phoibe. Wouldn’t you rather be entertained than dyeing thread? I would be happy to… entertain you.”
    “No, thank you.”
    “All right then.” He stood up straight, but the look he gave her was the same as a child being denied a treat. “I’ll come find you at a more convenient time.”
    She looked at him with doubt, “How will you know?”
    He smiled at her, and then he was gone.
    “I hate that…” She looked up at the sky, and left her sentence unfinished.
    The next morning Phoibe woke knowing that the day would be spent indoors. She had to finish dyeing the wool Priska had spun over the past week. There were several wealthy families that paid very well to have Priska’s cloth, and the orders were due.
    “Phoibe?” Priska’s voice could be heard from the other room.
    “Yes, Priska, I’ll be in there in a minute.” Phoibe should have already started.
    “When did you get this all done?”
    Phoibe walked into their work room and looked around in surprise. The thread was dyed. Done. All of it. What should have taken days was completed.
    “What happened? How?” Phoibe looked to Priska as if she could explain.
    “I didn’t do this, Phoibe. If you didn’t do this…” She left it hanging.
    “Apollo,” Phoibe whispered.
    “What? You saw Apollo again?” Priska pulled Phoibe into the living area and forced her to sit. “When did that happen?”
    Phoibe was dazed by the amount of work that was completed in the other room.
    “Phoibe!”
    She looked up into the eyes of Priska and briefly told of the encounter the day before.
    Priska shook her head while Phoibe spoke.
    When Phoibe finished Priska sat staring at her; her gaze was relentless.
    Uncomfortable, Phoibe squirmed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “Be careful, child.”
    “You keep saying that.” Phoibe’s frustration bubbled out of her. She had wanted to talk with Priska about what had happened and the power of the gods, but Priska’s warning, the same as before, made her feel defensive.
    With the wool thread dyed both women sat down at their looms. The silence was uncomfortable at first, but, within a couple of hours both had settled into a rhythm, the tension dissipated with the clicking of the looms.
    “Priska? Do gods have special powers?” Even as she said it she knew the answer.
    “Of course. What are you referring to?”
    “Nothing, never mind.” Phoibe suddenly didn’t want to talk about it; she felt naïve, ridiculous.
    “Phoibe, the god’s have many powers; some can control weather, water, the harvest, and all can help mortals when they want. All of