AFTER THAT, I was more or less accepted into Asgard’s fold. I already knew I would never be part of the popular crowd. But my little escapade had bought me some goodwill, at least, and the chilliness of previous months was replaced by a kind of tolerance. I was back in with the General, and the rest of the gods followed his lead, except, of course, for Heimdall (did I mention he hated me?) and Freyja, who hadn’t yet forgiven me for promising her to one of the Rock Folk.

Still, I’d cut myself some slack, and made a reputation. People called me ‘Trickster’ now and forgave me my misdemeanours. Aegir invited me to his place for drinks. His almond-eyed wife asked me if I wanted to learn how to swim. Balder magnanimously offered to include me in the next Aesir versus Vanir football tournament. Odin promoted me to the rank of Captain, Bragi wrote ballads about me and the ladies enjoyed my company to such an extent that Frigg, Odin’s motherly wife, started to drop less than tactful hints that I should find a wife of my own before some jealous husband decided to teach me a lesson.

Perhaps it was the threat of wedlock that made me overstep the mark – or perhaps the Chaos in my blood rebelling against the unnatural peace. Either way, the General should have seen it coming. You don’t bring Wildfire into your home and expect it to stay in the fireplace. And Thor should have seen it coming as well; you don’t leave a wife as alluring as Sif to fend for herself day in, day out. And . . .

All right. I confess. I was angry. Thor had treated me roughly over that business with Asgard’s wall, and I might have been looking for a chance to pay him back in some way. He just happened to have a pretty wife – Sif, the Golden-Haired, she was; the Goddess of Grace and Plenty. Very pretty, but not very bright, with a promising streak of vanity that made her easy to cajole.

Anyway, I wooed her a little, spun her a little yarn or two, and one thing led to another. Fine. Thor had a place of his own to sleep, far from Sif’s bedchamber, so the lady’s reputation was safe – that is, until the moment at which Yours Truly decided (in an early-morning moment of madness) to mark his victory by taking a trophy – in the form of the sleeping lady’s hair, which spilled across the pillow like grain.

So shoot me. I cut it off.