We travelled further north, beyond the Hindarfell pass, and soon approached the Vimur River. It was broad at that point, and fast, swollen by a long month of rains. Rocks and boulders made it worse; and as if that wasn’t bad enough, there on the far bank stood Geirrod’s muffin-faced daughter Gjalp, singing a cantrip of Logr, so that the river swelled even more monstrously, now rushing with filth and debris, threatening to sweep us both away.

Damn. Those ravens must have alerted them. I’d always known Geirrod was twitchy. Rather than stick with the original plan, he’d decided to try and dispatch us both before we reached his stronghold. The river kept on rising – Gjalp casting runes at it all the time – and the bank at my feet began to give way.

‘Loki, who’s this hag?’ yelled Thor, above the roar of the water. ‘Anyone you know?’

I wisely omitted to tell Thor that the lady on the far bank was one of the beauties I’d promised him. Instead I grabbed onto his belt for dear life as the rising water swept us away. Gjalp laughed as the river took us, and we were pelted and beaten and scratched by rocks and pieces of driftwood.

Thor grabbed hold of a dead tree that stuck out from the river bed, and hauling us both upright again, managed to struggle to the far bank. Gjalp fled, mouthing curses, and, wet, cold and filthy, we moved on towards Geirrod’s hall.

‘So, this Geirrod,’ said Thor as we went. ‘How well do you know him?’

‘Not very well,’ I said cautiously. ‘But he offered me hospitality last time I was in these parts.’

‘Really?’ said Thor.

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Two weeks without lifting a finger. He’d have kept me another week, to be sure, if I hadn’t insisted.’

Thor seemed mollified by this, and as evening approached we reached Geirrod’s settlement. I was on my guard by then but saw no sign of imminent violence. Instead, a servant greeted us and led us to our quarters. In winter the Ice Folk build their homes from the ice itself; in summer, they live in wood-framed tents covered in animal skins, though Geirrod had a good-sized hall overlooking the river. Our tent was large, with a chair, a lamp and two beds covered in elk and deerskin.

I went off to wash in the stream, and Thor sat down on the chair and promptly went to sleep. Ten minutes later, I returned to find that, rashly, Geirrod’s daughters had tried to ambush the sleeping Thor. One had looped a length of thin garrotting wire around his neck; the other was trying to hold him down while her sister finished him off.

Big mistake, girls, big mistake. You should have trusted Loki. The one thing not to do around Thor (except, perhaps, to mess with Sif’s hair) is to disturb his naptime.