It turned out it was much easier to make an appointment to see a god than might have been initially assumed.

"You're kidding me?" Lowe said, sure Latham was shining him on.

“Not at all. It is, after all, one of the founding principles of Soar that the gods are available to speak to any citizen that wishes an audience."

"And there's no downside?"

“Of course, there's a fucking downside. Why do you think no one does it? Should the god find your petition to be frivolous, irritating or - as is most often the case - just wants to be a dick, you'll lose your Class, half your levels and, if you're even slightly unlucky, your life too."

"That doesn't seem that they're really that committed to those founding principles after all, does it?”

Latham stopped striding down the corridor in the basement of the Temple and allowed Lowe the chance to catch up. "Little man, what do you expect? They're gods. They have more enjoyable ways of spending their time than being questioned by the likes of you."

“So, what do I do? Just close my eyes and pray?”

Latham looked at Lowe with such disgust that Lowe felt actively ashamed of himself. "No. You don't ‘just close your eyes and pray’!” He raised a meaty hand and tapped the sign above the door they had halted outside: it read 'Contact Booth. “You step inside one of these bad boys, then you close your eyes and pray."

Lowe pushed open the door and looked around inside. It was a strangely nondescript space, considering this was supposed to facilitate contact with one of the almighty. There was a chair, and next to it was a side table with a jug of water and a glass on top of it. The only other thing in there was a massive series of pigeonholes dominating one wall. Inside each of them was a huge packet of incense sticks.

“Come on, get on with it. I don't want to be down here any longer than I have to be." Latham pointed to a chalkboard sign that read ‘0 days since our last Smiting.’ “Bad shit goes on down here."

Lowe had a moment reflecting on whether he should be so gung-ho for something that was so freaking out a . However, despite how much he'd rather die than admit it to anyone, he had felt more like himself in the last day than he had for as long as he could remember.

Of course, he'd spent much of the last year trying to forget how much he enjoyed the cut and thrust of an actual investigation. Even his testy back and forth with Penarth had the comforting familiarity of long experience. His time trying to make enough gold to get by as a PI hadn't had anything like the same buzz.

Murder had its own gravitational pull.

But, as well as that sense of doing something that mattered again, there was also something about the unlined face of this particular victim lying on the table that had lit a fire under him. Even more so than the attack on him in the alley, that was spurring him towards uncovering the truth about what happened.

Random beatings were part and parcel of being in the Security Service - there was even a whole expenses form dedicated to claiming back medical expenses associated with ‘Punishment Kickings’ - but it was rare to feel something of a connection with the victim.

The humbleness of the High Priestess's accommodation and her unexpected youth were making him pretty motivated to get to the bottom of what had occurred.

And if that meant speaking to a god, then so be it.

"So, what do I do? " he asked Lathan, stepping into the booth.

The sighed and followed him into the room, locking the door to the Contact Booth behind them. "It's not that complicated, little man. Find your god, light the offering, then sit down and wait.” He painted towards the pigeonholes.

Lowe walked over and was immediately overwhelmed by the number of names before him. There appeared to be no apparent order, and he didn't recognise many of them. "This is chaos!"

"This is Soar. We have more gods than there are citizens."

Lowe kept scanning up and down the wall. "Help a fellow out. Where's Gravalk?"

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Latham sighed and walked to the rows of pigeonholes. He pointed to one towards the lower left-hand corner. "You better believe that I'm not touching anything in here. This is a fool's errand, and I'm not risking a connection with a fucking fire demon that just lost its avatar. "

Lowe reached into the small wooden cupboard and removed a packet of incense. He removed one stick and carefully put the others back. The packet filled up again instantly.

"Now what?"

“You cannot seriously be this fucking helpless! Weren't you supposed to be some sort of shit-hot Investigator?"

"I like to think my particular set of skills were somewhat more ... specialist.” Latham's expression suggested he had limited confidence this was the case. "What do I do know about praying to the gods?"

“Okay. This is a one-time crash course. Take a seat, light the prayer candle and hope whichever god you are bothering is in the mood for triviality."

Lowe sat down, holding up the incense stick. "Do you have a light?"

“For fuck's sake. You know, there are babes in arms out there that can light their own birthday candles, little man?"

“Good for them. I, on the other hand, possess no such skill.”

Latham's eyes flicked to the right, and a somewhat unnecessarily large flame burst into being on the top of the incense, burning half of it away instantly. "Get on with it."

Lowe settled down in the chair and poured himself a glass of water, holding the incense, which smelt distinctly of the aftermath of a forest fire. "So, I just pray?"

"You know how to pray, don't you, little man? Just close your eyes and beg."

Ignoring the jibe, Lowe closed his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he had prayed; it was certainly long before he became classless. A more suspicious man might think the two events were somehow linked.

But a long-term citizen of Soar understood how little that was likely to be the case. The gods did not care for them.

Feeling foolish, he reached out with his mind, breathing in the forest fire smell to help him focus. “Erm, Gravalk? Could you spare a moment?"

There was no sudden moment of epiphany. Bushes did not burn. Tablets were not handed clown. And there was no sudden realisation of oneness with the universe.

Instead, Lowe became aware of a low growling sound just at the edge of his hearing. As if he'd stumbled into the presence of an especially malign guard dog.

For whatever reason, the temperature in the Contact Booth felt like it had gone through the roof. Lowe tried to open his eyes, but his facial muscles were no longer under his control. Sweat sprung out on his forehead and began to run down his cheeks, pooling at the collar of his shirt. The smell of burning wood suddenly became deeply sulphuric, and Lowe's sinuses felt like they were being scoured from the inside out.

When they came, the words were less in a language Lowe understood and more on a fundamental soul level: "What do you want?"

Lowe wished he was able to lick his lips, but his head was frozen in place. "My name is Jana Lowe. I am Investigating the murder of ...”

"Bored now."

The temperature increased exponentially, the sweat on his skin evaporating, his eyebrows and hair beginning to char.

"Your High Priestess. Gianna d'Avec. I want to catch whoever killed her," Lowe sent desperately. The heat surrounding Lowe stopped increasing, holding at an unbearable level. "Why?"

Lowe was not certain how to respond. He was, he was sure, literally, metaphorically and spiritually melting in the presence of the Fire Demon. What answer was likely to get a positive response?

His mind flashed back to sitting on his mother's knee. "The thing you must remember about the gods, Jana, is if all else fails, flatter them." Even at the time, he had known there was something distasteful about omnipotent beings who cared more for their feelings than anything so mundane as ‘the truth’. Right now, though? Fuck it.

“The disrespect. It is wrong that anyone could seek to displace your avatar. They need to be brought to justice."

It might have just been his fever talking, but he could swear the temperature lowered a degree or two.

“Disrespect? I have been disrespected?"

Lowe tried to project every possible version of ‘Don't let them do you like that, bro,’ he'd ever witnessed. "Someone killed your High Priestess. I would think you'd want them caught. And, you know, burned alive or something."

“Will have new High Priest, soon. Quick lived things. Fragile."

The heat was rising again and Lowe thought desperately for another approach. "But that should be to your timetable, shouldn’t it? You are a god. You should be able to choose when to end the lives of your avatar. But that was stolen from you. By a murderer."

"Stolen?"

Lowe shared the image of the dead High Priestess on the despoiled floor of the temple. Of the water spilt across the floor. “Someone went against your will. Can you help me find out who?"

The heat in the Contact Booth dropped through the floor and then, just as quickly, became hotter than the inside of a forge. In the middle of the Sun. On a particularly hot day. As it did so, a cavalcade of images hit him. Gianna arguing with various figures - some Lowe had met, some he didn't recognise. Then the High Priestess was alone, holding her head, tears streaming from her eyes. But they weren't tears, were they? The water was exploding from her like a waterfall - just pushing its way through her pores.

The pressure of the water caused the explosion of her left leg from her body first. Then her right. Both in a shower of blood, gore and water.

It was a horrific sight, ending when her head exploded straight up to land in the middle of the chandelier. In the corner of the vision, a shadowy, hooded figure slipped out of the chamber and locked the door behind them.

Then the heat vanished, and he could move his face again. Lowe opened his eyes and fell to his knees, screaming in relief. Latham was helping him up, pouring the jug of water over his head. "What happened? Did Gravalk answer?"

Lowe shook his head, trying to clear the noise of Gravalk shouting out the same words over and over again. "How dare they! How dare they! Burn them. Burn them all!"