"For what doth it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and suffer the loss of his own soul?"

                                                    --Matthew 16:26

"When you come to a fork in the road, take it." 

                                                    --Lawrence Peter "Yogi" Berra, American Philosopher (1925- )

One

Brenton Eld fished out his key from his left pocket with a trembling hand, and carefully fit it into the lock on the door. He jiggled it, shifted it slightly, then turned it. He quickly grabbed the door knob with his other hand and opened it, moving quickly into the small studio apartment that was his home. Closing the door behind him, he bolted the door shut, switched on the light, and sighed with relief. Safe. He was safe.

"Safe? Is that what you think?"

Brenton dropped the keys. He knew the voice; it fit in that hollow spot of his soul just as the key fit the tumblers in the lock. 

"I've taken precautions," he said, not daring to turn to the kitchen, to the one he feared more than anyone. The one he should fear more than anyone.

"Oh, Brenton. Do you really believe that you have?"

"I've washed the walls with Holy Water. There's a crucifix watching over the apartment. I've --"

"A crucifix?" The voice was mirthful, mocking. "I'm not a vampire, Brenton."

"I know," he whispered.

"Did you hang up garlic? Maybe buy some silver bullets? Come now. Do you really think that these...precautions...will protect you from Me?"

"No," Brenton replied, as a single tear tracked down his cheek.

"Good. You have disappointed Me enough, Brenton. At least you do not underestimate Me."

"I would never underestimate you."

"Excellent. Look at me, Brenton."

Brenton Eid finally allowed himself to turn toward the kitchen, where He stood, calmly, hands on his hips, foot tapping impatiently. He was dashingly handsome, a tall, thin man with a ruddy complexion and a neatly-trimmed goatee, a red rose in the lapel of his black pinstripe suit. 

"Lord Satan, I --"

"Now is not the time for explanations, Brenton. You failed Me. You know it, and I know it. We hada deal."

"Yes, I know, but  --"

"I would allow you to live, and you would corrupt someone."

"It's not that I haven't been trying, but --"

"And yet eighteen months later, what have you done? Lost the girl you told Me you had to live for. Lost the fortune you swore you were days away from making. Lost everything -- and yet, you still have not turned anyone toward Me. You haven't even tried."

"Please, Lord Satan, give me more time, I just need to --"

"If you were actively trying, I'd forgive you. I am very patient. Oh yes -- I am. But you come here at the end of each day and hide in the shadows, as if you can ignore our little bargain. And you cannot, Brenton. You exist at My pleasure; I can end your existence at any moment. And I will, you know. I will end it today."

"Please, Lord Satan. Not the Pit. Not yet. I can turn someone, I swear it."

"It is only because you know someone who is wavering that I come here today," Satan said, calmly. "And so here is your mark: Tom Lane. You know him well, don't you."

Brenton knew his jaw had dropped. When he picked it up, he said, "Lord, not Tom. Don't...don't make me corrupt Tom."

"I don't make you do anything, Brenton. If you do not wish to corrupt Tom, you do not have to. I can end this as easy as switching off that light; say the word, and we go back to the Pit -- and Tom is safe. It's your choice."

Brenton looked at the Prince of Lies, and bowed his head.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Shaitan Lucifer Iblis smiled his most winning smile. He gave Brenton his choice. And Brenton, he had chosen poorly.

"Just one little thing," Satan said. "Just one little thing."

*  *  *

At the precise moment that Satan was explaining his plan to Brenton, Tom was across town in the back row of an aging, mid-sized lecture hall at a small local college.

It wasn't a required course or anything; Tom had been out of college for five years, and had no desire to return any time soon. No, he was attending the lecture for strictly personal reasons. The topic being presented fascinated him. 

"White's Disease manifests itself differently in almost every victim," said the lecturer, an oncologist with a slight Hyderabadi accent. "Sometimes it comes on slowly, sometimes fast. Sometimes its effects are permanent, sometimes they abate. There is no clear vector of infection, no clear mechanism by which the disease progresses. We have only tantalizing clues that raise far more questions than they answer."

He took notes; he was hardly the only layperson in the room. White's Disease was viewed theway AIDS once had been -- a terrifying prospect, one that could kill with no warning. Most peoplecame to university lectures like this to try to find ways to prevent infection.

Most people did. Tom was not one of them.

"As best we can tell, when molecules enter the body of a patient, they shatter, or split, intomolecules of an equivalent mass, molecules that the patient can process as food or air. When molecules pass out of the person through waste products, they come back together into molecules of the proper size. It is as if in vivo the victims are literally in a parallel world, where physics behave differently. But how that could be, we have no clue."

"They wouldn't," said a mellifluous voice to his left.

Tom started, and turned, and looked into the big brown eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He could swear she hadn't been sitting there, in the cramped seat right next to him, just a few moments before; he could not possibly have failed to notice her.

"Hello, Tom," she said, smiling coquettishly. "Enjoying the lecture?"

"How...how do you know my name?" he asked.

"I know quite a bit about you. Most of all, I know why you're here," she whispered, leaning in close. She smelled delicious, exotic, a sweet, musky scent that Tom felt like he should recognize.

His very soul vibrated as if plucked by a master guitarist. He felt about eleven years old, talking to a high school cheerleader; he felt about eighty, talking to his beloved wife of sixty years. He would do anything this woman asked. He was hers.

"I want to shrink down," he said, quietly.

"I know, sweetie," she said, softly. "I can make it happen."

His heart leapt. "What must I do?" he asked. It did not occur to him to doubt her. Somehow, he knew that this was no joke, this was no put-on; this was serious as death.

"I will explain," she said, pressing a small stone into his hand.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Aphrodite," she said. "Aphrodite Ourania. Aphrodite Pandemos. Aphrodite Pornos. Aphrodite Praxis."

"Aphrodite Kataskopia. Aphrodite Philommeidês. Aphrodite Symmakhia," breathed Tom. He knew not from where he drew the names, or how they formed on his lips. He only knew that he had vocalized them the same way one might whisper an urgent, desperate prayer.

"Yes," she said, smiling broadly. "I am She."

He knew She told the truth, knew She was the Goddess of Love. How that was possible he neither knew nor cared to know; he was too deep into ecstasy. . 

"Tell me, Iridescent-throned Aphrodite, deathless child of Zeus, wile-weaver, why have You come to help me?"

"You have the chance," she said, "to use this for a good purpose. I am here to give you the chance to do so."

He looked at the stone in his hand. It glowed white, as bright as a spotlight. "How does it work?"he asked.

"Like thought. You simply hold it, and envision your size. It will take you anywhere from six inches tall down to one-sixth of an inch. Or it will return you to normal. You may use it until its power is gone; it will fade, and then change to yellow, then orange, then red; when it reaches red, youhave two more transformations left. There is more to it; the knowledge is now in your mind."

And it was. Exactly how to hold it, exactly how to ask to change size, exactly what the different shades of color meant, everything he could need to know, save for one thing.

"How many changes to I get?"

"Well, that depends. It can be recharged. But I cannot tell you how; you will have to discover that for yourself."

Tom turned the stone over in his hand, examining it carefully. It was a miracle. He knew it would work, knew it like he knew that the Earth held him to the ground.

He had been blessed. 

"You've given me all I ever wanted. How can I ever repay you?"

"Choose well, Tom," said Aphrodite, deadly serious. "This can take you down a most wonderful path, or the path of destruction. I can give you the tool; you must wield it."

Tom nodded, dumbly.

"Now," she said, smiling, "I know that you're going to want to talk to a friend in a few minutes, and then, sooner than you can imagine, you will use this. Choose well, Tom. Choose well."

And with that, Aphrodite left.

Tom turned back to the lecture, not listening. Instead, he sent an urgent text to his best friend. He needed to talk to Brent. Grab a beer, see what he thought. Because he knew what he wanted to do -- but he was terrified at the prospect of doing it. Brent would help him think it through. He always had before.

*  *  *

Satan had left, not moments before Tom sent his text. Brenton read it with dread. He didn't want to help Satan out, didn't want to help guide Tom wrong. Now, what Satan had asked Brent to do was nothing overtly terrible; he was just to steer Tom down a path. But it wouldn't be for the best, not if the Prince of Lies wanted it.

Then again, Tom knew that if he didn't, Satan would claim his soul. He did not want to die, and though he knew that Hell awaited him after death, he was in no rush to get there. 

He texted Tom back that he'd meet him at their usual bar, and opened the door.

A woman was standing there, unperturbed and indescribably gorgeous. She looked vaguelyItalian, with long, dark hair and eyes the color of mahogany. She was dressed remarkably immodestly, wearing a wisp of a skirt and a halter-top that barely covered prodigious breasts; around her neck was a simple gold chain with a pendant hanging from it; it appeared to be a trident, but with the center post replaced with an arrow. It nestled into her cleavage in such a waythat it was impossible to pull one's eyes up without considerable effort if one was even remotelyattracted to women, not least because at her considerable height, it was just below Brenton's eye-level.

"Who are you?" Brenton asked, forcing his gaze north to meet hers.

"Voluptas," she said. "And you are Brenton Eld."

"I am. What can I do for you? I'm supposed to be meeting a friend, but, I mean...I could maketime."

She smiled tightly. "I am not here for that, and I could not cleave unto you if I was; you are forfeitto Satan. I cannot violate that."

Brent sighed. "You're an angel?"

"No. I'm the daughter of gods. And Aphrodite's agent in charge of desire for women. And you, Mr.Eld, are about to do something you will regret."

"I already know that. I have to go."

Voluptas did not move.

"Listen, I...I can't go to Hell. I just can't. Not yet. You don't understand."

"I do. I understand that you put your well-being above your friend's."

"It's not like that."

"Oh no? Do you want to see what it will be like if you go to him, and do as Satan told you to?"

She grabbed his wrist. He felt the world start to dissolve. As a new one started to form around him, one in which he would see the damage he would cause, he wrenched his hand away, and pushed the goddess aside. "No," he said, as the world crystalized again. He pushed her aside, and walked out the door, feeling not entirely in control of himself. "I don't want to know."

"You will know," Voluptas said. "You do not have a choice. If I do not tell you, you will find it out on your own, but it will be too late to change things. To late to put it right. I want to help you."

"Leave me alone," said Brenton, as he stormed down the hallway. He had to do this. He had no choice.

*  *  *

It was just a few moments later he found himself in the bar. It felt almost as if he'd cut directly from one scene to the next, but he knew that couldn't be the case; he knew he'd been simply daydreaming as he walked, trying to push the words of Voluptas out of his head. They still rang like an accusation, and echoed in his soul. He knew he would regret this; how could he not? But he also knew that he would delay his eternal torture as long as he could, and if that meant selling Tom out...well, he had to. He had no choice.

Tom was there already, a bit shorter than Brent, a bit thicker, but still reasonably handsome. He waived Brent to a corner table, and Brent ordered his customary martini; Tom already had a glass of scotch. 

The usual pleasantries were exchanged; Brent asked how Tom was doing since he broke upwith Sharon, and Tom asked how Brent's health was doing, as the near-fatal heart attack he'dsuffered had scared everyone. They talked about work and sports and old friends. And before too long, Tom dug out a small, glowing stone, and set it on the table.

"I don't know if you'd believe me if I told you how I got this," Tom said. 

"It's pretty," said Brent. "What is it?" 

"It allows people to change size."

Brent looked up at Tom. "You're kidding. Like, you know, you'd finally have your giant women?"

"Yeah," Tom murmured. He had been embarrassed when Brent found out about that; he'd forgotten to clear the web history on the computer they shared at their apartment. Brent hadbeen good-natured about it, though. Aside from the occasional playful jibe, he treated it like theweird-but-not-particularly-terrible thing it was.

"Somebody went to a lot of trouble to rip you off, you know."

"Nah," said Tom. "It's real. Can't tell you how I know...you wouldn't believe me if I did. But it's totally legit. It will work."

"Well, assuming it is -- isn't it phenomenally dangerous? I mean, it's a weird fantasy and all, but whatever. But if you're mouse-sized, can't you get stepped on? Sat on? Something like that?"

"I can be hurt, but only on purpose," said Tom, soberly. "Again, don't ask me how that makes sense. If someone wants to crush me, she can. But only if she wants to."

"All right," said Brent, who of course knew that Tom was telling the truth. "So...what? Are you going to go down to a locker room, fire it up?"

"No," said Tom, chuckling. "I thought...I know this will sound dumb...but I thought I'd talk to Rose about it."

Rose Russell had been a friend of both Tom's and Brent's since college. She was single these days, and Brent knew that Tom had always carried a torch for her. 

And he also knew that this was where he was to apply his influence -- to keep Tom from talking things over with Rose.

"Rose? Really? Talk to her?" said Brent.

"Yeah. I know...I know she'd probably say no, but --"

"Probably? Yeah, she'll probably say no to 'I know we've been friends a long time, can I shrink and go muff diving?' I think that's a given."

Tom looked up at Brent. "You really think she'd just shoot it down?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, if you had ever worked up the courage to ask her out, it might not be such a surprise. I suppose you could just try dating her normally, see how things go. But you'd have to be patient with that thing. Wait a while. But man, if I'd been given that thing, and I were you, I couldn't."

"Yeah," said Tom, quietly. "You're right."

"Damn right I'm right. What you should do is not ask."

"What?"

"Just show up at her place, shrink down. See her up close and personal. Just to get the edge off.Maybe you let her find you shrunk, say it just happened."

"Yeah," said Tom. "That's not a bad idea."

"She can't say no if you're already there, see? That's your ticket."

"Yeah, you're right," said Tom. "I always kind of liked the voyeurism stuff anyhow."

"There you go," said Brent. He downed the martini, letting it settle sourly in his stomach. Theyexchanged pleasantries for some time longer before Tom headed off. As Brent followed, a good-looking man with a ruddy complexion brushed by him.

"Well done," the man said, and the words felt like ice in Brenton's soul. He'd done as Satan asked. He'd convinced Tom that she shouldn't ask Rose out. He hadn't made Tom choose his path, but he had pointed to it.

He hoped Tom would find happiness. He rather doubted it. But it didn't matter. He'd earned his reprieve, for now.

He'd go home, and go to sleep, and hope against hope that he wouldn't dream. Somehow, he knew he would.

*  *  *

In the dream that he did not want to dream, Brent was watching television, when Tom appeared on it. Brenton was watching Tom walk down the street, looking this way and that, as if he feared being followed or seen.

He walked through the halls of a condo building that Brent recognized; it was Rose's. Tom walked down the hall resolutely but trepidatiously. His mind raced; how would he explain it if Rose happened to run across him? Once he'd snuck into the building (he helped someone with the door; it wasn't hard to finagle), he would have to explain why he didn't ask Rose to buzz him in. And he didn't have a good explanation.

But he would risk it. He was risking everything on this. The chance to see Rose in all herglory...he couldn't pass it up. Part of him still questioned whether this was the best idea; part of him still thought he should go to her, be honest, be up-front about what he wanted. But Brent was right; that would be disastrous. No, if this worked out, he could be with Rose without her even knowing. 

He came to her door. He knew this would be the most difficult part. Looking both ways to ensure the coast was clear, he grasped the stone in his pocket, and thought, "One-sixth of an inch."

There was no sensation to it at all. One moment he was his usual 5'9", the next he was standing on a gray field of uniform gray posts, about half his height and as wide as he. He followed them to a metal rise that towered over him, a brass monolith fifteen feet high and hundreds of feet long. Above it was a twenty-foot tall mass of tangled black sticks, which affixed to a blank wall that stretched out into the heavens, broken only by the house-sized knob that stuck out a dizzying height above him.

Tom swallowed hard, and began walking to the front door of Rose's condo. 

It was a good ten-minute walk to the baseplate, and then another twenty minutes of difficult climbing to reach its summit; fortunately, the plate had been scored and scratched aplenty overthe course of its existence; there were handholds for an insect-sized man to hold onto. But it was no easy task, and by the time he faced the strip along the bottom of her door, he was readyto lie down.

But he didn't. Instead, he pushed forward, through the brambles of the brush that sat underneath the door, to keep the wind and vermin out. It was quite effective; Tom had thought it would be aneasy walk through the fibers, but each one pulled and poked at him, refusing to yield to the tiny man's pushing and prodding. He had to wrap himself around every one along the arduous, one-inch journey.

He was beginning to fear that he was going sideways, that he'd be stuck here until Rose opened the door in the morning, at which time he'd probably be killed. But gradually, light began to appear, and then sound, and then he pushed through, and tumbled down twenty feet to the hard linoleum of her entryway.

He groaned. But he knew it would not be smart to rest here. He rolled over, and sat up. 

The immense entryway was dimly lit by one light from the kitchen. Three pairs of immense objects sat in a more-or-less organized fashion to the left of the door; it took a moment for Tom to register them as shoes, rather than buildings -- a pair of sensible black pumps, a beat-up pair of trainers, and a nice pair of red high heels. For a second, Tom thought about going over to them and climbing in, but he stopped himself; he wasn't taking this crazy risk to waste time on the appetizer, not when the main course was so close by.

He decided to risk possible detection; he grasped the stone and envisioned himself six inches; the largest he could become without growing back to full size. It was risky, but he was throwing caution to the wind at this point; if she found him, she found him. Not that he wanted to be found, of course; it was just that he had already cast the die.

And so he grew, and rushed to the baseboard, and peeked around the corner to get the lay of the land.

She was not in the living room or the kitchen; those rooms were dark and silent. So she was either gone, or she was in her bedroom. 

He slid down the hallway carefully, cautiously. It was late. She was probably asleep. But he was no fool. He waded through the knee-deep carpet, going deeper into the darkness.

He heard the noise as he approached her room, a steady back-and-forth, like a bellows. It was not overwhelming; indeed, had he been larger he knew he would not have heard it, not like this. But he knew what it was; it was Rose.

She was sleeping. 

In the dim light, he looked up at the mesa that was her bed, one that was topped by her outline. She was laying on her side, eyes closed, peaceful. Her blankets had slid a bit down her, just far enough that he could see her enormous, bare right breast.

He swallowed. Hard.

He would have to get up there. He would have to find a way.

It wasn't much later that he finished climbing the bedspread on the far side of the bed. Even from here, he could feel the heat she radiated. The bed was full of her scent. The dark form of Rose rose up above him, laying on her side, her mammoth arm rising and falling with each breath. 

He walked across the bed, growing ever closer to her. It occurred to him that he should probably shrink; there would be no explaining himself if she found him at this size, in her bed, with her naked. And yet something drew him onward, toward her sleeping form. Sense had gone out the window. There was only her.

He walked up to her back, the part that stuck out above the covers. It was terrifying, like standing right next to a dinosaur. And yet he could smell her, feel her heat, he could taste the miasma that surrounded her.

He reached out a trembling hand, and felt her back. It was soft. It felt like an electric current passed between them.

He looked down into the cave that the blankets formed. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see just the faint outline of her butt.

For a moment, he hesitated. He thought about turning toward her head, calling to her. For a moment.

Instead, he strode purposefully into the darkness.