“So why do you want to be a god?” asked Vejovis.

I sat up on the Roman-style chair, to convey confidence. “I want to help people.”

Vejovis leaned forward, toga rippling like water, and rested his bronzed forearms on the marble desktop. “Help them do what?”

“Grow,” I said. “Thrive. Become the best civilization they can be.”

Vejovis glanced at a scroll on his desk. “Your resume’s strong. But we’re looking for a god of pestilence. Island chain, very primitive. Mostly tropical fevers and vermin. More of a nature spirit, really.” He creased his noble brow. “I’m worried you’re overqualified.”

“Sir, I love plague. It forces the people to work together, to believe in one another.”

“We’re not looking for them to believe in one another,” said Vejovis. “They should be believing in us.”

“Of course, sir,” I said. “Absolutely.”

Vejovis sat back. Behind him, beyond the temple’s columns, ruddy clouds stretched away to infinity. “Well, thank you for coming in,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”