Mythologically speaking, if there's anything I hate worse than trios of old ladies, it's bulls. Last summer, I fought the Minotaur on top of Half-Blood Hill. This time what I saw up there was even worse: two bulls. And not just regular bulls - bronze ones the size of elephants. And even that wasn't bad enough. Naturally they had to breathe fire, too.

We stepped back and looked at the king of the gods, slumped in his chair snoring, and cradling his crook like a teddy bear. I placed the war flail across his lap, hoping it might make a difference—maybe complete his powers or something. No such luck. "Sick weasels," Ra muttered. "Behold," Sadie said bitterly. "the glorious Ra.

He warned me the greediest wishes cause the greatest sorrows.

Well, actually it carried Cadmus. Europa fell off and died along the way, but that's not important.' It was probably important to her.

I guessed his name was Face of Horror. I wondered how long it had taken his mom to think of that. Bob? No. Sam? No. How about Face of Horror?

There’s nothing here,” Carter said. “What do you want?” I asked. “We’ve got wax, some toilet papyrus, an ugly statue.

Even strength must bow to wisdom sometimes.