On Olympus, where clouds coiled like serpents, Thoth faced Zeus, his white hair crackling with lightning.

“That tablet,” Zeus thundered, gripping his bolt. “It’s mine by right.”

Thoth sidestepped a searing strike, his feathers singed. “Trade it for Aphrodite’s embrace.”

Zeus paused, then roared with laughter. “You’ve got nerve, scribe. Agreed.”

Aphrodite awaited in a grove of golden apples, her beauty a weapon sharper than any spear. Their night was a storm of desire—her hands tracing the tablet’s runes, his lips mapping her skin. But as he slept, she slipped it to Hermes, who darted away, wings a blur. Thoth awoke, cursing softly, and gave chase—through skies and seas, a duel of speed and wit. Hermes taunted, “Catch me if you can, bird-god!”—but Thoth reclaimed it at Crete’s edge, the tablet’s weight a familiar burden.