The Earth with its wide ways yawned over the Nyssian plain; the lord Host-to-Many rose up on herwith his immortal horses, the
celebrated son of Kronos; he snatched the unwilling maid into his golden chariot and led her off lamenting.
Homeric Hymn to Demeter, trans. Helen P. Foley

Darkness and the black flesh of the Earth part under the diamond hooves of the chariot horses of Hades. Their
lightless bodies raise before them a great bow wave of rock and soil.

Within the chariot of Hades is a darkness that impresses itself upon every sense. It is much more than a simple absence
of photons, though it is that. It is textured and moving, with a whisper and plash as the Earth opens before the dark horses
 and closes aft the chariot. It has a softness, a thickness, like fur, and the bloody twang of iron hangs in it.  The Princess
 of Flowers inhales the darkness. Nothing fills her lungs. Molecules of darkness enter the blood of the Maiden of New Life.
Under the Earth, living seeds plunge into their sleep of winter, and in her breast the tempered flame of womanhood is growing,
glowing, changing her.

Persephone stands proudly at the front rail of the plunging chariot, blind and filled with magic. Her flesh feels the presence of
Lord Hades as wondrous warmth. Her skin has a thousand mouths that hunger for him. It has a thousand eyes, and she can see
him standing behind her.

“What can he be thinking? I am an Immortal. He cannot keep me here. My father, Zeus, will be quite perturbed, maybe even
enraged… Mother will be really angry. But she’s so busy with the harvest…”

The obsidian eyes of the great god Hades, king of the deepest realm, require no light. They delve into the darkest reaches of
Life and Death and Judgment, unflinching. Now they drink the sweet golden vision of the goddess who stands before him.

Her hair is writhing madly in the magnetic wind that sings around and through them as they plunge deeper into the Earth. 
He hears in it a song of love, and wishes only to bury his face in that honeyed storm, to taste her skin, breathe her essence…

He sighs, and his lungs are filled with molecules of Life, and molecules of Life enter the blood of the Lord of the Dead. He
opens to the mystery of Life and Death is softened and enhanced. The darkness thins and becomes dilute. Persephone hears
the baying of hounds, the rushing of water. Abruptly the twin horses whinny and their feet break through the darkness as
through a sheet of thin ice. Without missing a stride they are galloping down a broad clay road in a wild country, under a dark
 and mildly rosy sky. Stands of tall evergreens with dark red bark wash down fluted hills like color on a paint pony. 

“What an interesting place…” The changing landscape is sad and lovely in the muted light. Persephone wonders if the strange
but compelling land of the honored dead - and the company of its handsome master - could be an interesting change from the
diminishing days of autumn. “And Mother is so busy right now, I hardly ever see her …”

Unexpectedly, tears well up in Persephone’s eyes, but she commands them not to fall. “Yes, Mother is very busy. She will not
miss me…for awhile…” One tear spills from her eye and is swept away by the wind. “Surely she will miss me…” Another jewels
her cheek, then is gone.

The tears of Persephone kiss the face of Hades, and he is changed. The ancient ice that grips in the heart of the Dark Lord  warms,
softens. It begins to flow and slake the primal thirst he has known for ever.  Persephone takes a very deep breath of the dry,
scentless air, squares her shoulders, and rides on.

When at last they gallop up the grand approach to the great hall of Erebos, Persephone is well composed and highly charged. 
She notes that Hades' palace is simple and elegant, thanks mostly, she suspects, to the touch of his mother, Rhea, the Earth
Mother, Persephone's beloved grandmother. Persephone has heard many good things about her dark, handsome uncle from
her grandmother. She remembers and does not fear him.

She rides through the wide gates composed, not giving Hades so much as a thin smile. Every cell in her body and every
cell in his body is convulsing in ectoplasmic ecstasy. The polarity of the Princess of Life and the King of Death is unmatched in
intensity in all the four kingdoms and three times. Their current is cycling fast, the building. Ozone crackles with heady potentials.
It is just as well that she would not look at him, for they might have set the world on fire. Then this story would be quite different.

But Persephone is not pleased that Hades has dared take her away unwlling. He underestimates the will of a goddess, she understands,
but that will change. When he swears to bring her home at the time of her choosing, only then will she deign to give him her smile. 
So when they pull up and the horses halt and stamp and blow, she does not take his proffered hand, but leaps from the chariot with
the agility of the wild child that she still is in many ways.

Hades bows and sweeps his hand towards his palace. “All yours, my Queen,” he says. She says nothing, but walks through the immense
portals.

Hades watches her go.

He has reached the end of his script. The plan was to snatch Kore and take her back here to be his queen. The first part went well —
perfect;u, in fact, because nobody but those cowering sprites saw him and they certainly aren't going to talk after the thunder he gave
them! And now that she is here, well...

He throws his cloak in the back of the chariot and follows her within.

Persephone likes what this room says about Hades: honest, comfortable, perhaps a bit gloomy, but with a lamp or two here and
there… She scans for the power place, then strides over to the enormous chair snug by the deep stone hearth. His chair, in fact.
She knows. She sits and draws up her slim legs, tucking them under her.

Hades, who commands darkness, calls for cold drinks and hot towels. He is startled to see her in his chair, but gracefully seats
himself by the fire, gazing into it, glancing often at the lovely creature, curled up and silent, but turns away from her direct,
uncompromising gaze.

She studies his noble profile, the sadness in his eyes, the curve of his jaw. His black curly hair lies close upon his neck and
muscular shoulders. Though he is massive, deep-chested and great-armed, though he is a mighty king, he is helpless
before this silent maiden, a novel experience for him. She sees this, and her heart softens a little. Perhaps she will not prick
him too harshly, but only match him pride for pride, push for shove, until they get to yes.

The servants are quick, and shortly the two are refreshed and eying each other warily, cups of cold ale in hand. He stands before
her and offers a toast: “To you, my lady, queen of all my domain, and especially of the wild country of my heart.” He drinks to her.
Touched, she raises her cup with him and says, “How dare you bring me here, against my will.”

Reddening, Hades’ face falls. He drains his cup, sits awkwardly and gazes into the fire. The face he turns to her is soft and boyish.
“I dare because I need you. I begged my brother Zeus for a consort, and he gave me you. I knew you wouldn't come of your own will —
few ever do — so, well, I took you.” He sets his golden cup on a block of black marble shot with quartz and turns to her empty-handed. 
“I need you. I cannot do it alone, not well enough. For the sake of all the worthy ones who die and seek new life. I need you by my side,
to make it whole, to be my queen and and rule as my equal.”

She does not reply, so he kneels before her. “I will be your most loving husband, your devoted king, your greatest admirer. You will
want for nothing that is in my power to give you. All that is mine is yours, including my heart.”  He gently kisses her hand.

Persephone likes what she sees and loves what she feels. She smiles secretly and gazes evenly into his eyes over her cup. “We shall see,”
she says.

Hades smiles weakly, then stands and summons a wraith. “Let us dress for dinner.”

Persephone follows the wraith up a sweeping malachite staircase, then down a high-ceilinged hall hung with heavy tapestries depicting
the various gods' creation and deeds. A golden door opens silently into a large chamber lit with foxfire and crystal lamps of all colors. 
Gold serpents with jeweled eyes coil, inset in carnelian walls. On the far wall a canopied and curtained bed seems to float above the floor. 
It is made of eiderdown and dressed in red silk. At the center of the room a round hearth glows.

Before an immense volcanic glass mirror, Persephone finds a bouquet of red poppies with a note written in an elegant hand in luminous
black: For My Queen.

Smiling, Persephone smells sweet oils and turns her head towards the gentle touch of warm, moist vapor on her cheek. She sees a huge
alabaster swan of great luminosity and beauty. Its wings are dropped slightly, its neck bowed in a perfect curve: a bathing vessel
suitable for the Queen of Erebus. She is touched by this thoughtful offering. Laying her hand on her breast, she feels her heart dancing.

 Persephone unties her kirtle, and the busy hands of wraiths loose and receive her short green chiton. When it drops to the floor, a
single pomegranate rolls from its folds and stands reflected on the polished stone.

The exhausted goddess steps gratefully into the swan bath, and bathes most leisurely in the endlessly warm, flower-scented water.  Wraiths
bring sweet nectar for her to drink.  They bring wonderful foaming soap made of Cretan honey for her divine skin, and wash her hair in
rainwater. When at last she emerges from the kindly waters, they massage  into her skin sweet oil made from Athena’s golden olives.

In the peach colored light of the great chamber, Persephone finds her chiton has been replaced with a red silk gown bordered in gold. 
It floats down from her shoulders and sweeps the floor. The pins are golden pomegranates. Gold bracelets set with rubies are laid out
before the mirror, but she puts on only the exquisite earrings hung with rubies like drops of blood. She leaves also the golden tiara,
and instead the wraith weaves the red poppies into her hair. She is ready.

Lord Hades awaits her at the foot of the malachite stair. She sees he is gloriously handsome, a plain silver and onyx coronet upon his
black hair, which is dressed in formal curls. A horse-head torque lies heavy upon his sculptured neck. He wears a long black chiton
lightly shimmering with silver, and soft black boots.

Head high, face a mask, she descends.

He takes her proffered hand and kisses it gently, then accompanies her to an ebony table set for two.   He seats her, then sits to her
left. Servants, all mostly insubstantial, serve them deep red wine. Wordlessly (she for reasons of her own, he because he is speechless),
they raise their goblets to each other.

Black bread, mushrooms, pork and onions are heaped in bowls and baskets, but Hades' usually prodigious appetite is overwhelmed by
the tension in the air and in his loins. Persephone eats nothing. The dinner conversation is strained.
“Does the food not please you?”

“I am here against my will, Lord Hades. When will you return me to my world?”

“Never, my lady. It is the will of the gods that you shall remain here as my wife and queen. May it be your will as well.”
“It is not. Which gods?”

“Our king, Zeus, your father, has betrothed us and bid me bring you here.”

“And my mother?”

“Demeter does not know.”

Persephone sets her cup between them. “She knows. By now she has missed me and extracted the truthfrom the simple daughters
of Ocean.  Else Lord Helios, who sees all, or Grandmother Hecate, who knows all comings and goings, will tell her of your treachery. 
Mother knows how to handle her brothers, no matter how swelled their heads have become on the thrones of Olympus and Hell. 
She'll see to my return, and more besides.”

Hades’ heart is pierced by her words. “That may be as it will be, my lady, but for the eternal present, please accept my hospitality. 
I would show you my kingdom, ride with you in the Elysian Fields, do battle in your name with the great warriors of Valhalla,
and walk with you in the glorious Summerland. Your subjects, the worthy dead, await your advent with glad hearts, and will sing
your praises, shower you with their love, and beg your blessing.”

“You will carry me back the way we came, in your chariot.”

“My lady, I cannot. None but the twelve Olympians may freely return from my halls. All others must abide here.”
“We shall see about that.”

“Yes, my lady. Will you not partake of this delicious confection? Dark chocolate, within which find a black cherry as sweet and tender
as your true heart...”

“No, my lord, I will not, for well do I know that to eat even a tiny morsel within these halls would bind me to this place forever.
Nothing will I eat, nor will I be sustained by sunlight and rainfall, for there is none here. By your leave, Lord Hades, I will retire now.”

They rise and he sadly kisses her hand. She sweeps up the stairs and into her chamber. The door closes silently. She stops to gaze at her
reflection in the mirror: a stranger, a sister smiles wanly. She removes the poppies from her hair, leaves the jewels and red gown at
the mirror and sits in a cloud-soft nightdress pensively before the great stone fireplace. Within it glows red volcanic fire. She
and sends her distress call to her mother via the fire that is all fires.