"What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?" Heran asked warily. He stood on the brink of a misty cliff.
"A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy." came the mocking reply out of the mists. Eyes, sharp and hungry burned with an inner light that spoke of ageless power.
"Speak plainly," Heran demanded. He was tiring of these word games; though the others had warned him that this was all he could expect of the mists.
The same voice slithered out of the darkness and wrapped around Heran; demanding his attention. "Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the scepter straight be stricken down?"
"A riddle?" Heran asked skeptically. He had come all this way to petition at the Cliffs of Fate, and all he got was a riddle?
"Yes," the voice whispered out of the dark.
Heran pondered the riddle, his brow furrowing in thought. After a few minutes a ghost of a smile crossed his lips, and he tossed his hair back from his face.
"The answer you seek is a Fool."
"Yes, it is." The voice was closer now. "I seek a fool, and it seems as if I have found one."
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