Free Clash of the Titans by Alan Dean Foster Page A

Those few who claim to have espied him out in his lair have a hard time talking of it." Thallo slapped angrily at one biting insect undeterred by either the fading smoke or the steady swish of the whisk.
    "Well," he continued, "it takes no oracle to imagine what happened afterward. One sight of Calibos as he truly was, his outer self now reflecting the inner, and the good Andromeda understandably refused steadfastly to marry him. Queen Cassiopeia, bless her, was torn between a promise decades old and love for her own daughter. Eventually, despite what the bets in the barracks said would happen, she sided with her daughter and called the marriage off.
    "Well, the priests were called in fast to read the signs and omens and generally do their usual mischief. They declared that the goddess Thetis, the patron goddess of Joppa, by the way, was angry. There's some loose talk that this Calibos is somehow related to the goddess. So that made things doubly difficult.
    "Since then, it seems that any man can present himself as a suitor for the princess. But the courting is cursed by Calibos; therefore, by declaration of the priests, any man who fails the marriage testing is fuel for warming."
    "Have many failed?"
    Thallo nodded somberly. "Too many."
    "I wonder that any would continue to try."
    Thallo's face brightened and he looked wistful. "Andromeda's very beautiful, my friend. Beautiful as a goddess. I've seen her myself, and she's worth the risk.
    "Besides, whoever succeeds in passing the test and marrying her will eventually become king—the queen has no other children—and rule the city and the whole kingdom."
    "If there's so much to be gained," asked Perseus innocently, "and you say she's worth dying for, why not try for her yourself?"
    "Who . . . me?" Thallo held his sides and almost dropped his whisk as he roared with laughter.
    "Bless me, my young friend, but I'm near as ugly as this Calibos himself! She'd never have me. And I'm not so old that I'm ready to give up my life. I don't like the odds. Seen too many good men fail.
    "No, I'll wait out my pension, thanks, and retire to my family's fruit orchard near Tyre. Besides, I'm already wedded. I don't need a great beauty and a kingdom to keep me happy. Some men might."
    Perseus was still listening, but now he was staring down into the crowd surrounding the queen. "Where is she, then?"
    "Not here." Thallo moved away from his wall to gesture past the square and the enclosing ramparts. "Over there, in the highest tower of the palace, above the smoke and stench. She's got no stomach for this carrying-out of the curse's provisions.
    "It's said she will no longer eat or speak, in protest of this damnable ritual. So she remains up there alone—away from these accursed, hell-sent, blood-gutted, putrid, bloated swarms of rotten marsh flies!" and he danced violently as something attacked the back of his neck.
    Perseus stepped back. No one was watching, and Thallo was momentarily occupied. All other eyes were still on the center of the square, where a tall priest was reciting a last litany over the ashes of the most recent royal suitor.
    Slipping the helmet over his head, Perseus turned to depart. Thallo turned to continue the conversation, startled to discover that his friend had vanished.
    Nice enough young fellow, that stranger, he mused. Now, where has he disappeared to? A naive young man like that could run into trouble in a city as frenetic and sophisticated as Joppa.
    On the other hand, old soldier, he told himself, was it not he who asked the questions and you who willingly supplied all the answers? Maybe he isn't quite as innocent as he seems.
    No matter. He turned back to the square, the conversation forgotten. What mattered now was not catching the eye of the queen; that, and preserving at least a little blood from these damnable marsh flies.
    Marketplaces are wonderful, Perseus had decided by that night. You can find anything you need in them: food, clothing, drink . . . and