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‘Humans know better than to come here,’ said the god before Lessa spoke, not sparing her a glance.

His voice rumbled over the sound of his hammer, and he plunged the metal he was striking back into the magma vat in a spray of hot rock.

Droplets of melted stone flew out, sticking to the ceiling or dropping to the floor.

The god’s hair hung long and knotted down his back, black, brown and russet, and through it Kissen could only see the curve of his ear, the array of steel earrings he had plugged it with.

In the wavering stone-light, his skin looked golden brown, though blasted with charcoal and dusted with white ash, he did not look as if he belonged to any land or state that she knew.

The origins of Satuan were indeterminate, and this god was older than most borders that had been drawn through mud, rivers and hills by the strikes of bloodied swords.

‘Our apologies for intruding on your solitude, Satuan,’ said Lessa. ‘We come with tidings, and to hear your wisdom.’

‘I want none and offer none. Leave.’

With his final word, the furnace blasted out a wave of searing heat.

Kissen looked around and noted no offerings within the cavern.

No baubles, totems, food or drink. Curious.

Then she noted the basket. It hung above the furnace vat, not unlike the one in which the woman had been bathing her wares.

As she watched, Satuan plunged in his hand and pulled out some trinkets; metal hands by the dozen, rocks with eyes carved in the stone, embroidered pieces of art and prayer.

He tossed them into the lava. He did not need to burn them, the offerings that Skedi would give a wing for, his size was already indicative of his incredible strength.

He just had no desire for them.

‘A fire god has been reborn with war in her making,’ said Lessa, lifting up her head. ‘She now leads an army into our lands killing gods and humans alike.’

‘What’s that to do with me?’ said Satuan.

At last, he turned to them, showing not two eyes, but three, one in the centre of his forehead.

One for the forge, one for the hammer, one for his hands, so the saying went.

‘The flame god tried to entice me too, appearing in my fires, spinning threads of blood and war, crowing over a king she had won to her side. I sent her away with a sting in her tongue, and I will do the same to you.’

It took rare power for gods to speak to one another in their shrines. There was little point; gods scrapped for prayers and had no interest in each other’s woes. But water could speak to water, flame to flame, and Hestra’s double had travelled great distances as long as Arren sat in her hearth.

Hseth had clearly come recruiting before Kissen killed her.

‘Great Satuan,’ said Lessa, ‘the god has brought war and ruin. She was killed then resurrected with Bridhid ore in her making, and now your briddite blades cannot hurt her.’

The god threw down his hammer, shattering the stalagmites it hit, then heaved the metal he was working back into the boiling vat. Hot spits of it spattered his chest, and Kissen flinched as some came close to her and Lessa.

‘You taught us the ways of briddite,’ the lady pressed, playing on his pride, ‘gave us the means to defend ourselves. Aid us now before the fire god destroys us all, mortal and immortal. I can bring you offerings, if you would extend your power to help our people.’

Kissen held her breath. Lessa spoke so passionately, a plea such as hers might tempt any god. But Satuan was not acting like the gods Kissen knew.

’Ware the god. That is what Lessa translated. God. Not Gods. Satuan.

‘Offer me?’ said Satuan. A bubble of magma filled and burst next to him, brightening his face and, for a terrifying moment, turning his glower into a mask of pure rage.

‘I want nothing of your offerings.’ He raised his fingers to his face, staring at their metal.

Even as Kissen watched, they began to cool, stiffening away from the heat of the fire.

‘I plunged my own hands into the molten bowels of the earth and gave them so I could write my boon into the lava flow, where no other god could touch it. An offering that hardens in bridhid, so humans and gods could turn each other back to ashes and dreams. So I might rest.’ His three eyes narrowed. ‘More fool I.’

Kissen took a breath of hot air, steadying herself.

This was a mistake. She knew nothing of this god except the gift he gave veiga, and even that he saw as a failure.

Satuan was almost as powerful as Hseth had been, and Kissen had barely scraped by with her life using every trick in her cloak.

She had now two weapons, and neither of them much use against a god so strong.

‘So what if a fire god has taken briddite into her bosom?’ said Satuan, putting his hands again near the lava and flexing them in the heat.

‘She will be naught but power and blood, a mindless rage that her coddling priests will make her, my curse eating at her reason, her will, the things that make a god a god.’ He cracked a smile, and sparks flew out of his teeth.

‘A pity about the green things of your land, but green grows again from ashes.’

Lessa glanced at Kissen, uncertain, and Kissen carefully crossed the fingers of her left hand and shook them.

Ready? She meant in sign. Are you ready to go? To run?

Kissen had met many gods who had sneered at humans. They found them pathetic, manipulable, but necessary. Some few seemed to actually like them. Aan, perhaps, Skedi … though Kissen was still not sure what he would do when he did have a sniff at power to call his own.

But she’d never met a god who hated humans.

Lessa shook her head slightly. Not yet. Not ready yet.

Fool. But they were in the god’s domain, and Kissen wouldn’t leave her here.

‘She has taken over forges, Satuan,’ Lessa tried. ‘She was a god of flame in the wild slopes, but has enriched her lands through brass and smithwork. She steals your worship.’

Satuan barked out a laugh. He leaned down and picked up his hammer by the base with his left hand and whirled it around so its head slammed into his right, bending the metal there.

‘I care not,’ he said. ‘Humans desired me into being, bound to the working of fires, the forging of metal. I had no choice but to be what I am, caged by your imagining.’ He scowled, another flare of heat singeing the lashes of Kissen’s eyes.

‘You mortal creatures grow and fade like fungus, daring to imagine gods from your desire for power, for purpose. One day, I will burn this whole island to dust and see what purpose you can scrape off it then.’

‘Please, Satuan,’ said Lessa, her voice cracking, to Kissen’s surprise.

‘I cannot let our people be murdered for a god who does not feel their pain.’ She was normally so cool, so controlled, but there was more feeling in her than she dared to reveal.

‘I have seen it before, in the God War, and read of worse; ages when gods take dominion of the lands they live in, and shatter them when they do not fit their image. We need your help.’

It was then that Kissen realised that Lessa truly wanted to save Middren.

This was what had driven her to sacrifice her rebellion and ally with a king who had tried to kill her, who had killed her own people, and burned her house to the ground.

Kissen saw beneath her armour, into her heart of hearts: Lessa held to her duties, her home, because they were hers.

She would fight for Middren, the home she had already given up so much for, no matter what it would cost.

What would Kissen do?

Satuan scoffed. He reached back into the vat of magma and pulled out another molten piece of metal with his bare hand, its ore-flesh re-forming from the damage he had given it. He slapped it down on his anvil, dripping and thick with clinging heat, like a fish he was about to gut.

Lessa looked down at the ground, clearly thinking fast and coming up short. Kissen choked back some doubts. She wanted to help Lessa, Elo, Inara. She was here to help.

‘You are right, Satuan,’ Kissen said. ‘It is my life’s work to separate gods and people.

’ She drew her cutlass, though Lessa looked up sharply in warning.

Normally, baring briddite in a shrine would anger a god, but Satuan was already angry.

‘I am a briddite wielder, forge-god, I hold the line you drove between people and the divine. I tried to hold it against Hseth and failed.’

The smith god regarded her, his hot orange eyes raking over the broken curse on her face, the burns at her neck. Kissen lifted her chin proudly.

‘The fire god rides to war like a king on the shoulders of her followers,’ she said.

‘Adored, not feared. Humans mark themselves with patterns of her favour, give their children to her purpose and her worship, and each land she crosses, she and her priests try to turn to their desire. One god, loved and feared by all.’

He paused, lifting his hammer again and giving the metal an experimental tap. Kissen noted that she saw none of his creations around the cavern. He did not keep what he forged … he must toss it back into the fires, making and unmaking everything he created.

‘And what should I do about it?’ he whispered, running his hands over the metal.

‘Fight her with us,’ said Lessa. ‘Help us to defeat her.’

Not the right thing to say.

Satuan turned on them. ‘I gave you a gift!’ he roared. ‘A gift for defeating gods! And you wasted it. ’

The room was getting hotter, Kissen felt the trickle of sweat down her neck. She tightened her grip on her sword.

‘You have had enough of my magic,’ the god growled. ‘Make your own. Your human magic. Only faith can break her now.’

‘Give us better shit than that,’ Kissen spat back. ‘She has faith. Faith is what makes her.’

‘Then unmake it and leave me the fuck alone. Faith cannot be forged in fire. Break their belief, or steal it away. Now get OUT.’