Somehow, as the sun set he found himself gazing out of the door in the hillside. Peaceful silence lay over the twilit world; a gentle breeze blew from the fjord, and in the distance faded the last notes of cowbells as the kine wandered home. The sky was deep blue and gold; it was a sharp contrast to the stifling, blazing red and black world of the forges below. He sat outside the entrance with his back to the cold rock and watched the dusk deepen into night, the Spinner of Dreams, and the stars come out one by one, large and frosty in the deep black sky. Still he sat, hugging his knees in the stillness, listening to the whisper of the wind in the coarse grass, while the moon rose above the mountains. It threw a cold silver light, casting long misty shadows of trees and rocks. His eyes had grown used to it in the long nights of his vigils, and he scarcely blinked.

  He began now to hear a sound, so faint at first that he thought it only the lapping of water in the fjord. But it grew clearer as he listened; it was singing. The song came to him in fragments as the breeze blew fitfully, but something in the melody tugged at his heart. Slowly he rose and crept across the meadow down to the cliff’s edge, where he could look over.

  There on the shore sat another of the sea maidens, the youngest one, singing all alone in the moonlight. The breeze lifted tendrils of her hair, silvered by the moon, as she gazed wistfully at the land. He crouched in hiding above her and held his breath. Her song was low and sweet, filled with such longing that his heart swelled, echoing the ache.

  I should go back to Svartalfheim, he thought. But he did not go back; he could not move. The song drew him. Instead, slowly, picking his way with care, he crept down the crevice to the shore until he was close enough to see her plainly. Pearls glimmered in her hair. Her hands were clasped in her lap. She was fairer than her two sisters as the diamond is fairer than coal; or it may have been that her song wove an enchantment that blinded him. It was in a language he did not know. It surrounded him like a silken net, as if he were a fish swimming peacefully in the wide sea, that does not realize his danger as the cords tighten behind him, around him.

  I should go back, he thought again. She will only laugh at me. But he did not move. He sat and watched her. Her legs were long and slim, pale in the moonlight. Her thin garment was the color of the moonlight, of seafoam. He could see the throbbing in the hollow of her throat as she sang.

  Come to me, she sang in the language he did not know. Come down to the sea with me, and the currents will wash away all grief, all loneliness. We will be together. He wanted to touch the fine pale skin, to stroke her hair, to speak to her gently and see a loving light in her eyes; but he knew that if he came out she would only flee. A gasp of fear and she would be gone, leaving him the empty shore; the spell would break. He did not think he could bear it, but he could not bear to crouch where he was any longer. The song drew him.

  At last, as if in a dream, he crept closer. Her back was to a rock; she did not seem to hear his stealthy footsteps. He was near enough to see the droplets glistening on her back; he was near enough to reach out and touch her. He lunged and caught her by the arm, not roughly, but in a grip she could not break.

  She gasped, struggling with him. Her eyes were wild and bright, but there was not the terror in them that he had feared. Instead for an instant a cold smile hovered on her lips. Then it was gone, and he was certain he had imagined it; she was pleading with him to let her go. “Please,” she said breathlessly, “please. You are hurting me. Only let go of my arm.”

  “I will not hurt you,” he said. “I only want to talk to you. You will run away if I let go.” He tightened his grip.

  She ceased struggling suddenly, and her strange eyes grew wide. “I know you. You have been here before. You were the one who watched us.”

  “I did you no harm,” he said quickly.

  “No, I know that.” She smiled at him, a tremulous wistful smile. “My sisters were unkind to you. I hope you will forgive them. They were only teasing.”

  He wanted to believe her. But gazing into her elusive sea green eyes veiled by dark lashes, he could not quite achieve belief. “They tried to drown me.”

  “But can you not swim, not even a little?” she asked.

  “I can swim, a little.”

  “But that is so hard for us to understand. We spend our whole lives in the water. It is like the air to us, we breathe it. How could it frighten you? You airbreathers are so funny!”

  There was something cold, something hollow in her laugh that repelled him. It was only for a breath of time; then she was grave and mysterious again, the loveliest creature he had ever seen. “Your sisters do not matter,” he said huskily. “Beside you they are coarse and clumsy. You are like the diamond that lies hidden in the heart of the stone, a sudden shining. You are beautiful.”

  At the passion in his voice she tried to draw away, but he did not release her. He grew puzzled; he could not read her eyes, and she seemed elusive and slippery. “I have heard,” he said slowly, “that you have no souls.”

  She gave him an irritable glance. “And I have heard that you are maggotmen, formed from the maggots that crawled on Ymir’s body when the worlds were made.”

  “That is not true!”

  “You see,” she said, smiling sweetly, “you must not believe everything you hear. But truly, you must release me now.”

  “No.”

  She lifted a delicate brow. “How long do you intend to hold me here?”

  “Until . . .” He paused, uncertain, then plunged on recklessly, “until you love me. Until you give me something I can believe in.”

  “You ask a great deal,” she said, and a shiver stole over her. It was the first real sign of fear, if fear it was, that she had shown. She drew a deep breath as if reaching a decision. “I will give you something. I will show you our treasure, the lovely shining treasure that we guard.”

  “I have seen plenty of treasures,” he said. “I do not need to see any more.”

  “But you have seen nothing like this.” She shook her head, and for the first time he suspected that she was telling the truth. “There is no treasure on earth like the marvelous thing we guard. The gems and ornaments that lie rotting in the seachests, those are nothing. We watch over something much more precious than those.”

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  He looked at her with suspicion, but her face was alight, and she met his gaze clearly. Then from beyond the rocks, in the dark wind-rippled water, he heard voices crying. “No,” they called, “no, sister. Tell him no more. We are bound to secrecy.”

  “They do not want you to show it to me,” he said. “What is it? What is so precious?”

  “You can see it, over there in the rock. It is not far from the shore, and there are stepping stones all the way.” She rose to her knees, drawing him with her.

  “What is it?” he said, rising stiffly.

  “It is Aegir’s treasure, the golden eye that gleams and glistens, and shines under the wave.” She spoke softly, her own eyes glowing; she seemed to have forgotten her fear of him.

  Jealously he clutched her arm, stroking her smooth white shoulder, torn between greed and distrust. He was curious; he wanted to see this gold— but he did not dare believe her. She wanted only to escape from him. There was a sadness in the depth of his crooked, hungry soul that he would not acknowledge, but he knew it was there. “I do not know,” he muttered. He glanced back toward the cliff, toward the doorway to Svartalfheim, and took a tentative step in that direction.

  From the shadowed water the voices wailed again. “Do not show him, Flosshild. Tell him nothing. Get away from the cruel creature.”

  The voices decided him. Whatever it was, they did not want him to see it. He slid his grip down to Flosshild’s wrist. “Show me,” he said brusquely.

  She stood with her head cocked as if listening, but she turned to him lightly, compliant and gentle. “I will,” she said. “Then you will let me go, and we shall be friends.” Her eyes were veiled with a bright mist; she put up her hand as if to touch his cheek, then whirled away again, tugging at his hand.

  They came to the stones at the shore. “My sisters are foolish,” she said with scorn. “There is no harm in showing you.”

  “I am not easily impressed,” he said, following her onto the stones. “I have seen treasures enough. The only thing I see of value here is your beauty.” He began to pant with the exertion of keeping his balance on the slippery stones while retaining his grip on her wrist. She cast him a bright glance, but said nothing.

  They came to the last stone, with foam curling over it. Beyond, a tall crag rose from the water, high and stark as a spire, cleft in the middle. Dimly he sensed the depth of water below him, where the sea bottom plunged suddenly to obscure distances; the black crag rose from those deeps. He clutched the rock with his toes and peered with suspicion into the moon-dimpled darkness. “Where is this treasure?”

  “There,” she said breathlessly, pointing to the cleft in the crag. “It lies underwater most of the time, all but at low tide. It laughs through the water when the sun strikes it. There is nothing more precious in all Aegir’s realm.”

  He leaned closer, thinking he saw a gleam in the rock. Then the moon passed behind a cloud and all the light dimmed. He stood in the cool darkness with the water lapping at his feet and the breathing silence all around him, and felt the touch of fear. “I do not see anything,” he said roughly, twisting her wrist. “There is nothing there.”

  “Of course there is.” Her voice was silky. “Wait until the moon comes out.” She brushed closer to him; his pulses raced.

  “Flosshild!” hissed the voice from the water. “Take him away from here!”

  “It is safe enough, I tell you,” she cried back impatiently. “Albric will never tell.”

  There was a silence, then the voice, with cool laughter in it, whispered, “No, he never will.”

  Albric’s skin crawled. The moon sailed from behind the cloud, bathing the fjord in pale light again. “There,” she said, crouching and pointing. “See it there?

  He bent down and saw it, a nugget of gold as big as his fist, shining in the moonlight as if veins of fire ran in it. His greed awoke; never had he seen gold so pure or so rich. He leaned closer, forgetting the dark water, his grip on her wrist loosening.

  “See it, sweet lover?” she said softly. “But it is not for you.” He felt her slim palm flat on his back, then the shove.

  He flailed the air and clutched at her, but it was too late. With a choked cry and a mighty splash he struck the water. Struggling to the surface he gulped air, but almost at once he felt small cold hands on his legs, tugging him down. He fought them. From somewhere above he heard mocking laughter. But the water closed over his ears, drowning the sound. The small cold hands pulled him deeper.

  With a surge of fury and despair he wrenched loose, striking out, fighting his way up. He emerged into air and lunged for the rock. Instead of the one he had been standing on, he grasped the crag where the gold lay. He did not think of it; he thought of nothing for the moment but holding hard to the sweet solidity of stone and gulping air into his starved lungs.

  There was a flurry in the water, though he saw no one but Flosshild, still standing on the stepping stones. “The gold! The gold!” the voices cried. “Protect the gold from him.”

  “Do not be foolish,” said Flosshild. “The gold is safe enough. It is not for him.”

  Albric turned his head and saw the nugget in the crevice, not two feet from his nose. Its purity blinded him. Its shape was irregular, its curves and hollows as sensuous as a woman’s. He found his voice. “Why not for me?” he said hoarsely. “You tried to drown me. Why should I not take your gold?”

  “It is Aegir’s gold,” she said. She slipped to her knees as if in adoration. “It gives all power to whoever owns it; no one could resist him, if he chose to wage war. Even the Aesir must fall before it. But you cannot have it; Aegir has bound it in a spell of protection. No one can take it but he who first renounces love.” She chuckled, a small hard sound.

  “That is not true!” He grabbed at it, felt the smooth cold surface, but his fingers slipped from it. It was embedded in the rock as solidly as if it were part of the crag. He tried again, wrenching with all his might, but it did not resist, it simply endured. He had a sudden flash of insight; she spoke the truth. Not even with mattock and hammer could he break it loose from its resting place.

  From around and behind him came laughter, chill mocking laughter as if sky and sea had joined to deride him. Flosshild rocked back and forth in her merriment. “Foolish, ugly, lustful little dwarf,” she cried. “You are the last one to renounce love. The seagold is not for you!”

  His pain was like a pickax in his heart. He clung to the rock and shivered, salt drops running down his nose. Everyone laughed at him. It was too painful to bear. “It isn’t true,” he whispered to the rock. Swinging around, he called to her, pleading, “Flosshild! You do not mean it. Say you will come down to Svartalfheim with me.”

  “With you!” Her eyes glittered with scorn. “Not I. I prefer beauty in a man. The cold seabed is good enough for an ugly lump like you.”

  He felt them lingering close beneath the water, cold hands waiting to clutch and pull him down, but he was too desperate now for fear. “Voglinda! Vellgunda! Will you come with me?”

  The only reply was laughter, like a cascade of rippling water.

  “Then I renounce love,” he cried above the derision, the mocking laughter of sea and sky and land. “I will have none of it, however long I live. I will have the gold instead!” Twisting around he wrenched at the nugget. It came loose easily, tumbling into his hand as if eager to be possessed. He lifted it up so the moonlight gleamed and trembled in its depths like cold fire. It filled him with power; he could feel already the strength coursing into him. He was irresistible.

  Flosshild reached for him with a wail of anguish, but he warded her off easily. He tucked it under his arm and began to kick with a clumsy stroke toward shore. The cold hands of the sea nymphs brushed him, but they were powerless, and they fell away. The whole fjord was silent in dismay.

  He reached the reedy shore and climbed out, ignoring the mud squelching under his knees, flushed with vindictive pleasure. He turned back, cradling the gold in his hands, and spat into the water. Between clenched teeth he said, “Make a fool of me, will you?”

  He strode away toward the cliff. Behind him a shrill wailing broke out to trouble the silent waters of the fjord.