Aesir and Vanir followed us out. Odin came last, looking curious. ‘Heimdall’s the best shot in Asgard,’ he said. ‘The Vanir call him Hawkeye.’

I shrugged. ‘So what?’

‘So you’d better be good.’

I grinned again. ‘I’m Loki,’ I said. ‘Good doesn’t enter into it.’

We stood in front of the target. I could tell from his colours that Heimdall was sure of beating me; his golden smile radiated confidence. Behind him, all the rest of them stared at me with suspicion and scorn. I’d thought that I knew prejudice, but this lot redefined it. I could see them itching to spill some of my demon blood, even though it ran through the veins of a dozen or more of them. Heimdall himself was one of them – a bastard child of the primal Fire – but I could see he wasn’t about to celebrate our kinship. There are races that hate each other on sight – mongoose and snake; cat and dog – and though I didn’t know much of the Worlds, I guessed that the straightforward, muscular type would be the natural enemy of the lithe and devious type who thinks with his head and not his fists.

‘How far? A hundred paces? More?’

I shrugged. ‘You choose. I couldn’t care less. I’m going to beat you anyway.’

Once more, Heimdall smiled. He beckoned two servants forward and pointed at a distant spot right at the end of the Rainbow Bridge.

‘Stand the target there,’ he told them. ‘Then, when Loki loses his bet, he won’t have quite so far to walk home.’

I said nothing, but only smiled.

The servants set off. They took their time. Meanwhile I lay down on the grass and pretended to have a little nap. I might even have slept a little, if Bragi, the god of music and song, hadn’t already been working on a victory chant for Heimdall. To be fair, his voice wasn’t bad, but the subject matter wasn’t entirely to my taste. Besides, he was playing a lute. I hate lutes.

Ten minutes later, I opened one eye. Heimdall was looking down at me.

‘I’ve got pins and needles,’ I said. ‘You go first. Whatever you do, I promise I can do better.’

Heimdall bared his golden teeth, then summoned the rune Madr, aimed and fired. I didn’t see where the rune struck – my eyes weren’t nearly as good as his – but I could see from the flash of his golden teeth that it must have been good.

I stretched and yawned.

‘Your turn, traitor,’ he said.

‘All right. But bring the target closer.’

Heimdall looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I said, bring the target closer. I can hardly see it from here. About three dozen paces should do.’

Heimdall’s face was a study in confusion. ‘You say you’re going to win – against me – by bringing the target closer?’