About This Adventure
You are a naked mercenary under contract to wake a goddess who has never lost, and the only way to knock on her door is to kneel on the shrine's stone idol yourself. Forty rungs under the salt flats, in the eighth chamber of the Sunken Anaktoron, the lamps have about a bell of oil left in them. The herm stands where the altar should be, thick as your thigh at the base and narrowing to a wrist at the tip, polished shiny by six centuries of women with something to prove. The lintel says who answers it. Nikandra of the Thousand Trophies, who wrestles challengers and keeps them. Some of the keepings are in the room with you. There is a lampstand shaped like a kneeling woman holding a taper in each hand, and the wax on her knuckles is fresh, and a footstool near the door still wears a Corinthian signet on one finger. Praxilla from the Rope and Lamp Company sits on the bottom step with the wax slate and does not look at your chest, which takes her some effort. Three hundred drachms per bell survived, paid to your named heir if there is nothing left of you to pay. The bronze eyes woke up when you did. Two of them drift at ceiling height, turning to keep you framed, and the mirror plates along the north wall are already replaying you tripping the pressure plate on the stair with your tits. "You tripped four traps on the way down and you're still smiling," Praxilla says. "So say it out loud for the slate, Euthenia — are you mounting it, or am I marking you as a refusal?"
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