The secret was lost with Fortunato, in an obscure timeline disturbance of 1846, a year of vast acknowledgment and acclaim for the opium-addicted writer Edgar Allan Poe. Bacchus was not pleased.

"What do you mean Fortunato's been killed?" he screamed at me. "What do you mean?"

I was new at the time, new and unsure.

"He has been sealed in the catacombs," I replied.

"Catacombs?" Bacchus spat. "I authorized no catacombs!"

"It was not of your doing," I answered with nervous anticipation. "It seems that a writer has infringed upon your creation, snatching it down to the dirty earth before it could properly be born inheaven, my lord."

Bacchus clenched his fist, and somewhere on Earth a volcano erupted.

"I want this man...this, writer!"

His eyes were two coals from some Stygian pit, burning into me.

"Yes, my lord."

He was sitting in a chair, eyes glazed, jaw slack, looking at me in drunken disbelief.

"Her name was not Lenore," he said, looking down at his mumbling lips, "methinks it was Virginia.Yes," sudden recollection, "Virginia. Virginia! Virginia Clemm!"

I felt sorry for him.

"Poor Virginia Clemm!" he went on. "Poor soul! The life that feeds us stabs at us and bleeds us!Poor Virgina Clemm!" He lifted a bottle of bourbon from beside his chair and tried to drink, spilling most of it on his shirt.Disgustedly, he threw it against the wall.

The crash of the bottle got his attention, and he looked at me a bit more clearly.

"What foul minion from Hell might you be? What accursed sycophant? What reeking corpse!" Thewords came grinding to a halt as he said 'corpse', and Poe fell to his knees.

"Ah, my Virginia...is...a...corpse!"

He was sobbing. "A corpse! A corpse! A lifeless corpse to shrink from light and dance no more!"

I knelt by his side and whispered to him, "It need not be so, for the destination year is 1846. Virginia is still alive."

Poe recoiled from me and sprawled to the floor,a look of sheer horror on his pallid face. Then he mellowed.

"A-l-i-v-e? As in 'to live'?" he asked hopefully. "A zombie? An aberration? Or... is she somethingmore divine? Dare I hope that she might still be mine?"

Suddenly, the angry voice of Bacchus came ringing through the room. "Damn it, Poe, stop this rhyming!"

Edgar looked pleadingly up at the ceiling. "Oh Great Voice, why do you speak so harshly?"

"He can speak however he likes," I cautioned the writer, but he wasn't listening to me.

"You have killed Fortunato," Bacchus grumbled.

"Fortunato?" Poe asked stupidly. "Fortunato was a man of paper and ink, and the murder of such acharacter is not a crime, I should think!"

"Fortunato was not meant to be the jester-like victim of a practical joke," I told him, but he stillwasn't listening to me. He was searching the ceiling in vain to locate Bacchus.

There was a long pause.

"You have killed Fortunato," Bacchus repeated. "You must be punished."

The streets were filled at the height of the Italian carnival. Bodies bumped into each other and,smiling, went about their cheerful business. The click-click of wooden soles on cobblestone filled the ears. The rich scent of breads andpastries revitalized the nose. The color, splendor and pageantry of the carnival engulfed all senses.

Poe was there, looking awkward. He wore a tight-fitting striped dress with snug leggings. Aconical cap with bells rested on his head, and his wrists and neck were lost in an avalanche of white ruffles.He sniffled, still managing to look miserable despite his gay costume. Picture Winston Churchill dressed as a court jester.

"Why have you transported me here?" he mumbled into the darkening sky. "Is this penitence? Locked in my own vision?"

Bacchus did not answer; but he watched.

And suddenly Poe was not alone.

A large, overly friendly man walked up and slapped the writer on the back, causing him to jump.

"My dear friend, I did not mean to scare you. Don't you remember your old friend Luchesi?"

Poe snorted. "Luchesi?"

"Yes," the other responded, "it is I." He withdrew a pinch of snuff from his pocket, then, thinkingbetter of it, put it back. "You are looking very well to-day, my friend! But I have received a keg of whatmight be Amontillado, although I have my doubts..."

Poe let out a low, gruff chuckle. "You could not tell Amontillado from a barrel of mule piss, Luchesi. Leave me alone."

Looking disgruntled, Luchesi shuffledaway.

Poe's eyes met the night's sky. "Oh Great Voice, what are the stakes in this weird game?"

Bacchus was amused. "You must first stop trying to contact me. From now on you are a character in this literary delusion, capable and yet limited, and talking to the incorporeal air will not advance your cause."

Poe bowed his balding head like a penitent monk.

Bacchus continued, "The stakes are simple. I have reclaimed my creation, the jocose Fortunato,and put you in his place."

"Outlandish!" Poe protested. "How could a game with such a handicap be dubbed as fair? Surely, man, you have reason!"

"I have reason," Bacchus confirmed.

Poe furrowed his brow. "But how am I to win? For that matter, what am I to win?"

"Two great prizes," Bacchus assured him. "The first, obviously, is your life--your real life. Oh, it will be just as wretched as you left it, but I think it suits you..."

"And the second prize?" asked Poe.

Bacchus smiled, and a thousand orchids bloomed.

"The second prize, of course, is Virginia Clemm."

Shortly after dusk Poe was accosted by a pleasant, determined fellow by the name of Montresor. Strangely, Poe did not recognize his own creation, and he practically walked right past him. (They are a truly funny breed, these writers.)

"Ho there, good man!" said Montresor. "How fares your master this evening?"

Poe stared at him. "Montresor?"

"None else," announced the man, bowing quite baroquely. "And you, surely, are Edmondo, the good Fortunato's understudy?"

Poe swallowed some pride. "I am."

"You are indeed." Montresor smiled. "Come then, Edmondo, let us be off. I have a request to makeof you..."

Poe sighed. "Don't tell me. You acquired some Amontillado and are keeping it in your vaults. You want me to enter the vaults and sample the wine to insure that it is really Amontillado."

"Surely you jest," said Montresor. "I have no Amontillado. Luchesi is rumored to have some, but not I."

That one threw Poe for a loop.

"Then what is your request?"

Furtively, Montresor whispered into Poe's ear.

(Now keep in mind that I was new at the job. I didn't think of using celestial powers to eavesdropuntil the very end of Montresor's clandestine speech. All that I heard him say was the Latin phrase "Nemo me impune lacessit", which means "No one wounds me with impunity", and that is indeed strange. Still, I couldn't manage to make the connection...)

Bacchus was speaking.

"Now, ultimately, this is a story of revenge, is it not?"

"Yes," I responded. "Eliminate the weird ending, and the story hinges purely upon the revenge motive. The evil Montresor lured our man Fortunato into an ancient network of catacombs which served asthe wine vaults for his family, under the pretense that he had obtained a rare and valuable wine, Amontillado. The good Fortunato simply couldn't resist the offer to sample such a delicacy."

"Horrible Montresor. Go on."

"Fortunato had already drank much that evening, and Montresor took advantage of it. He lured him deep into the catacombs, to a dead-end chamber where only shackles resided. There he secured our man,and proceded to wall up the chamber and seal him to his doom."

Bacchus was displeased. "All this for revenge?"

"For revenge," I confirmed.

"Revenge for what sort of offense?"

"Poe does not say."

"Something is awry," said Bacchus. He lifted a mental veil to check on Poe's progress, like a fortune teller might look into a crystal ball. His brow lifted.

"Why are they not in the catacombs?"

"I do not know, my lord."

Bacchus turned his head slowly. "Find out."

There was a pause. It seemed as if an hourglass had been turned twice before Bacchus spoke again.

"Enter the story."

"How?" I asked stupidly. "The die is cast."

Bacchus smiled. "Only on this side of the Rubicon. We must breech the borders Poe has set and introduce you into the story as another one of his own characters. A cross-over, if you will."

"Can it be done?"

The god leaned forward and looked into my eyes with great amusement. "Of course it can be done. I am Bacchus, son of Zeus and Semele, god of wine and revelry, and I shall avenge the suffering of mygood student Fortunato. Yes, by the teats of Aphrodite, it can be done!"

A handful of siftings in the sieve of Time later, an old man who wasn't about to argue with Aphrodite's teats was ascending a great mountain. Poe and Montresor were just ahead.

"Stop, good travelers!" I called.

The two men turned and studied me. I approached. "Surely you two kind sirs will forgive the harsh demands my great age makes of me, and assist me in my journey up hill."

Poe and Montresor stared at each other.

"Young sirs, that is your destination?" I asked.

After amoment more of deliberation, Montresor spoke.

"Yes, that is where we are headed. But tell me, what possible reason do you have for climbing this incline?"

To him I turned my eye, which was pale blue, with a film over it. I spoke steadily and evenly. "My wife is buried at the top of this hill, if you must know, and with or without your assistance I intend to visit her."

Montresor recoiled a bit, and Poe stepped forward.

"Come, come, my fine old gentleman. All is well. We will assist you in negotiating this hill."

I thanked him, and we proceeded.

(Now, although I knew Bacchus was watching us, I also knew that even he had to abide by certain rules. For instance, he could not directly interfere with our actions. If Montresor suddenly pulled out a knife and stabbed me, that would be it. I would really be dead, not just my character. I no longer had any protection from harm, and my sudden loss of rank caused me to realize, with some distress, just how expendable I was.)

We came to a bend in the slanted dirt path, where two large rocks with flat surfaces were anchored to the side of the mountain, and I made the suggestion of stopping for a break and a little food. After a quick, furtive discussion between themselves, my companions agreed.

Resting on one of the stones, I watched Montresor unhook a small provisions pouch from his belt. He opened it and offered some bread to Poe, then he looked at me expectantly.

Not wanting to raise suspicion, I reached inside the fold of my cloak and whispered a few explanatory words to Bacchus. Within moments a small flask of good port wine materialized between my fingers. I withdrew it as if it had been fastened there all along.

"Here is to your good health," I said, lifting it in Montresor's direction.

"And to yours," he replied, and was satisfied.

"Tell me," I said, after we had resumed our climb, "what purpose do you two have at the top?"

Poe's eyes darted around nervously.

"It is nothing," Montresor answered hastily.

"Mmm," Poe agreed. "A very small matter."

They had obviously rehearsed, and I did not persist; but it didn't really matter. What I had planned would have them both talking soon enough.

The restless, chilly wind played through our hair as we walked, higher and higher. The land below us blurred and became indistinct. The air felt slightly thinner, and we were all getting tired.

I began to wonder how much longer it would take, when just then I noticed the quizzical expression on Poe's face.

"What the devil could that be?" he asked, pointing ahead to some spot on a nearby plateau.

Montresor strained his eyes to see, and I imitated him.

"I'm afraid I haven't got your sight, Edmondo."

"It is there!" Poe said, moving ahead, moving faster. "Surely even the old man sees it?"

"No, I do not."

"What is it?" asked Montresor.

Poe, who was now nearing the plateau, called back, "It is.. a... tombstone!"

"The old man's wife..." Montresor began.

I shook my head. "Not here. She is at the top."

"Then what?" Poe demanded, moving still closer to the tombstone. We followed him.

Suddenly, as Poe came around to the front of the grave, he fell to his knees in amazement.

On the tombstone was the single name, "Lenore".

The writer shook his head. "Time is out of joint...time is out of joint." He mumbled this phrase again and again.

Montresor and I now stood on either side of him. Awkwardly, Montresor leaned over and placed a hand on Poe's shoulder. Unsure of what conclusion to draw, he spoke.

"What tombstone?"

Poe looked up now, frightened.

"By all the gods, do you not see it?"

"I see nothing."

"Nor I," I added for good measure.

At that, Poe buried his face in his hands and began a muffled sort of weeping.

The sound of the bird got his attention again. It was a black raven, perched atop the stone.

"Aah!" Poe whimpered.

The bird leaned forward a bit and stared at the petrified man.

"Nevermore," quoth the raven.

"Blast your black feathers!"

"Who are you talking to?" asked Montresor.

"The evil bird, you fool!"

"I see no bird," I offered.

"Nor do I," Montresor responded.

Poe was now literally tearing at his thinning hair, and a quick wink of my eye heavenward brought about the desired effect.

"Who on earth," Montresor asked, "is Virginia Clemm?"

Poe froze. His icy eyes locked with mine.

"Turn around," I said. "Behold the grave."

Now it was there for all to see; a dolorous, gray tombstone with a simple rhyme etched on its front: