On the island of Aeaea, in a marble palace surrounded by a forest, lived the sorceress Circe.

She spent her days alone working at her loom while animals nibbled at the plants in her garden and invisible servants floated through the halls. In her kitchen, she murmured spells and mixed potions, humming as flower petals and sea water swirled in cauldrons between large jars in which homunculi dangled in murky waters.

Soon after her arrival on the island, the sea god Glaucus visited, seeking a love spell. "Day and night I ask her to be mine," he said. "But Scylla of Messina is too proud, saying she would rather be with Apollo."

Circe watched water drip off the god's chest, thinking the girl was foolish to ignore so eager a lover. "I'll take care of it," she promised.

In a small boat, she traveled to the Strait of Messina where Scylla sat on a high rock, watching Apollo's sun chariot as it crossed the sky.

"Why do you wait for Apollo?" Circe called to her. "Don't you like the gods of the ocean?"

The young woman sighed. "They're cold and wet. Apollo is always warm and light." She turned to climb down the rock, her head still tilted up to the sky.

In a swift, silent motion, Circe leaned over and poured a potion into the bay. When Scylla stepped into the water, she cried in pain when the poison stung her skin. Her legs turned into dogs and serpents replaced her hair.

Hoisting herself back up on the rock, the girl cried out, "Apollo, save me!" But the sun moved on and Scylla's monstrous body bolted onto the stone.

Satisfied, Circe sailed back to Aeaea.

"Why?" demanded Glaucus as she stepped out of the boat. "The winds bring news about a monster in Messina. She was proud but innocent."

"And not worthy of you," said Circe, tossing her sultriest look at the god. "A sorceress would make a better lover."

"I made a mistake out of lust, I won't make another." And Glaucus dove into the sea, his fishtail kicking up a plume of water.

Circe frowned and flounced back into the palace, muttering, "I don't need him anyway. He'd only chase after someone else."

Years went by. Circe labored over her weaving and spell casting, pausing once in a while to complain to Aphrodite. "Why won't you send me a lover?" she asked one morning as they worked in the kitchen. "Exile is so lonely."

The goddess of love licked a spot of jam off a spoon and then patted the head of a deer that wandered through. "Because your temper gets the best of you, dear, and then you storm around waving that wand of yours," she said. "You banish men to the far-off lands or turn them into animals. I know what you did to King Demachis. And the stable boy. And the shepherd. "

"Demachis was a pig to begin with," said Circe. "Did you see the state of his palace? He was made for the sty. As for the boy, he had the most annoying laugh. Being a donkey suits him. When did you become so caring about mortals?"

"Since the war in Troy I've been thinking—"

"You, thinking?" Circe laughed. "You only have feathers in your head."

Aphrodite gathered her dress about her, eyes moist. "How rude! All those disastrous love affairs have made you hard and bitter. Most unbecoming in a goddess, especially in a minor one." Clutching a pot of strawberry jam, she minced away.

Circe snapped a jar shut, grumbling about the oversensitivity of the Olympians.

One day a traveler arrived, a tall man with golden hair. Circe stood up at her loom, excited. Aphrodite must have come to her senses and sent her a man, a young, healthy one at that. A two legged beast would be helpful for the upkeep of the palace and keeping the four-legged ones in check.

The young man knelt before her. "Great Circe," he began.

"Yes, that's the proper way to address me." She smoothed her purple dress.

"My name is Picus. I've come to seek your skill in magic."

"I have much of that."

"Please help me." He raised his head, expression desperate, "I'm terribly in love with a girl who will have nothing to do with me. Even after I won the archery contest, she still won't look at me." He groaned. "I need a love potion."

Circe took in a measured breath and waited. But her temper would not hold. "It's always someone else," she said. "Here I am with all my charms, and men come to me about girls without one quarter of my talent or beauty."

Picus became pale. "I-I beg your pardon. I thought you helped people."

"Enough with you!" Circe waved her wand over the young man's head. His form shrunk, feathered, and darkened. And a woodpecker circled the room and flew out into the forest.

"Another nuisance taken care of." Circe placed her wand back into her belt and went into the kitchen to work through a book of spells from the old Egyptians.

More years passed. The palace began to crumble, her dresses became threadbare, and the animals kept to themselves. "Being alone is boring," she sighed as she worked in the garden. "I've got to lure some mortals in here, have some fun."

One afternoon, the water in her scrying pot on the stove tilted to the left. "Aha!" cried Circe. "A ship approaches." And she recited a spell, sending a large stag out into the forest.

At the end of the day, a group of men in ragged clothing gathered at the palace door. Smiling, she put down a skein of thread next to the loom and combed out her hair, calling, "Come in, strangers. What do you need?"

"Greetings, mistress of Aeaea," said the man who led the party. "We come from the war in Troy, have long since lost our way, encountering nothing but troubles. We need a safe place to stay while we repair our ship."

Circe rose from her chair, mind calculating what sort of beasts the men might make. As she approached them, she used her magic to brighten the palace with glamour, adding lights, soft music, and the scent of fresh flowers. "Of course you can stay," she said in her most beguiling tone. "It's been too long since I've had such intelligent and handsome guests. I'll give a banquet in your honor. Food, music, rest—whatever you need, I'll give you."

The men grinned and the head soldier took off his helmet. "That's a blessing," he said. Turning to a man who lingered at the threshold, he said, "Tell Odysseus we've been invited to dinner."

"Odysseus?" Circe looked past the men out the doors. By the shore, a Greek ship with a torn sail bobbed on the lapping waters.

"Our captain, as brave a man as there ever was," said the head soldier. "Led us through terrible times after we left Troy. We were about to perish from hunger when he managed to slay a stag in your forest."

"Good, my servants will cook it up then." Circe waved them in, laughing to herself. Her plan had worked. Now the fun would begin.

Her murmured spell animated the homunculi. They climbed from their jars and moved about the kitchen, cooking exotic, enchanted foods and bringing the dishes and bottles of wine to a long table in the hall. The men pulled chairs up to the table except for the lingerer at the threshold.

"Won't you come in?" Circe asked him, making certain that the light breeze stirred her curls in just the right way.

"I'm not hungry," said the lingerer, watching his shipmates fill their plates.

"But you must—" The noise of a dropped platter distracted her. "Clumsy man!" she cried, running to the table. "That was a gift from Poseidon and Amphitrite!"

The soldier looked around, sheepish. "Pardon, mistress."

"That's all right. Try this fig salad." She dished out servings, knowing she would fix the annoyance soon.

The men feasted until the enchantment took hold. They fell asleep, heads lolling on shoulders. "Now the dessert," said Circe as she took out her wand.

Tapping their shoulders, she went down the row. One by one, each man turned into a pig. Squealing, the animals jumped off the seats and followed her outdoors into a sty where she shut the door behind them.

"There, enjoy your natural state." With a laugh, she brushed the dust from her dress and went back into the palace.

But in the hall stood the most remarkable man she had ever seen, well above six feet, soldier's cloak revealing his fine form. The man's eyes blazed at her from under the crest of his helmet.

Circe's legs trembled, but she counseled herself to be strong—this one would make a sleek fox. She didn't have one of those yet.

"Take back your wicked spell, sorceress," said the soldier.

"Welcome, Odysseus." Circe walked toward him in measured steps, knowing when and where to sway her hips. She paused to scoop a golden goblet of enchanted wine off the table. "What spell?"

"Don't lie." Odysseus placed a hand on his sword. "One of my men didn't eat your poisoned food and ran back to the ship to warn me."

"He was dreaming, hallucinating from hunger and thirst. You must be thirsty, too. Here." She held out the goblet. "From the vineyards of Dionysius."

Odysseus paused, then accepted the wine. "To your generosity," he said, raising it to her.

Tilting his head back, he drank the wine while Circe waited, her nerves taut with excitement. In a moment, he would be asleep.

But he regarded the goblet with a smile and said, "My compliments to the god of the vine. It's been a while since I've had wine of this quality."

"He'll be pleased to hear that, but…" She leaned forward, searching for signs of sleepiness. When his hand hovered over sword again, she caught herself from revealing anything more. "Well, then, you must be longing for a bath. My servants will draw one up for you."

Odysseus yanked the sword from its sheath and aimed it at her chest. "I know what you're planning. Release my men from your spell and we'll leave, quickly."

How dare this mortal—handsome as he was—defy her? "All right," she drawled, while reaching for her wand. "I will—" and she tapped his shoulder.

Odysseus stood before her, unchanged.

"What trick is this?" Circe tapped his shoulder a second time.

"Your magic has no effect on me."

"No!" She threw the wand to the ground, frustrated.

Odysseus pushed the tip of the sword on her flesh. "Reverse the spell. Free the men."

She tried to slip away but he caught her and raised the sword to her neck. "Reverse the spell—these men are all I have left of my army from Troy."

Her throat pulse throbbing at the sword's edge, Circe stammered, "I'll let them go and make you king of this island. You'll have all the wealth you want."

"I already have a home in Ithaca where my wife and son wait for me."

Circe fell quiet, her jealousy a hornet-swarm. Why did every silly mortal woman have a man while she remained alone? Why couldn't she have love?

A woodpecker flew into the palace and hovered before them.

"Shoo, you miserable thing!" she cried.

"Another one of your captives, sorceress?" asked Odysseus. "I should cut your throat here and now, but I need my men back."

"What's so special about them?"

"For you to ask this means you've never known the meaning of friendship and loyalty. And for that, I pity you."

Anger mixed with embarrassment pushed against the hard place in her heart. After her arguments with Zeus about the proper conduct of minor goddesses and her departure from Olympus, she had gone from kingdom to kingdom, country to country, weaving her spells and laughing her games at the foolishness of mortals. And now this mortal challenged her on her own ground.

But she had one charm left.

"Brave Odysseus." She placed her hand on his. "The long journey has exhausted you. I'll draw a bath and then share with you the Seven Ways of Ecstasy as practiced in Old Egypt." Her long, dark eyelashes swept over her eyes. "Men all over the lands have begged me for this."

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But the soldier didn't move. "I've no use for beauty or passion," he said. "I come from a long and bloody war because Aphrodite bedazzled a shepherd boy into stealing the wife of Menelaus. And I—" he paused—"none of us were immune to Helen. I did what I could to prevent the war."

Circe's lips twitched in frustration. This man was unlike any she had ever met before. Nobody turned down the Seven Ways of Ecstasy, not even the gangly scribe in Thrace whom she then turned into a stork.

"I'll only release you," said Odysseus, "if you swear the Oath of the Gods that you will free all of the men you have enchanted and change them back."

She twisted in his arms for a moment. The Oath of the Gods was no light matter. And even though she was immortal, the sword could inflict a serious wound. The last thing she wanted was to return to Olympus, begging for a cure from stern Hestia while Zeus and Hera lectured her.

She nodded. "All right. I swear it by the peaks of Olympus where Zeus rules, by the depths of Hades, and by the vastness of Poseidon's seas."

Odysseus released his grip on her. "Now do it."

"Do you always crush women like that?" She fussed at her dress.

The smallest hint of a smile appeared in his beard. "Women all over the lands have begged for it."

"Hmph. Mortal men, more boastful than Ares." And with a wave of her wand, Circe transformed the animals back into men. Four legs became human arms and legs, squawks and grunts turned into human speech. Rejoicing, the men rushed to Odysseus to greet him as their rescuer.

From behind a pillar, she watched as Odysseus spoke with each man, with those who belonged to his company and then with those he had never met, listening to them, greeting each as his equal. And a new feeling welled within, one that surprised her with a spell of sweetness and solemnity.

She, the great sorceress, respected a mere mortal man.

Somewhere, Aphrodite was laughing.

Stepping out from her hiding place, Circe began to speak. "I—"

The man who had lingered leapt forward, sword in hand. "You have nothing to say to us! On your word, sir, I'll slay her where she stands."

Odysseus raised a hand. "Eurylochus, no. She swore the Oath of the Gods and must live by it. Let her speak."

"Thank you." Circe met his eyes. "I can be of assistance for your journey home. I know the path you must take and the terrors that yet await you. I can," she then looked down at the floor, uncertain, because she had never spoken these words in sincerity, "I want help you."

"How so?" asked Odysseus. Although roughened and weary, his voice was not unkind.

"I'll hold a banquet—no," she held up her hands as the men grumbled, "a real banquet with real food. And I'll instruct you on everything you need to know. My servants can make you new clothes and forge new weapons and shields." She looked back at Odysseus. "I'll keep my word and in time, we can be allies."

"That remains to be seen, sorceress." But he nodded.

She clapped her hands and the homunculi went about setting the tables again, this time with fruits and roasted venison. Invisible musicians played soft flutes and low drums.

And from that night on, Circe provided lavish banquets and ate with the men, telling them everything she had learned in her long years of travel. She instructed them in the arts of philosophy, music, and poetry while serving them the best of foods from the garden, forest, and sea.

Each night the men thanked her, warming to her new generosity and she smiled and clasped their hands in return. One night, the stable boy stopped in the hall and asked, "Why did you turn me into a donkey?"

She shrugged. "Because that's what I do to people who annoy me."

"I wanted to elope with the cook."

"But she was so common."

"Better to be free and common than to be a pet."

She looked away. "You've been talking with Odysseus."

"Yes, and when he sets sail, I'll go with him."

"But I need someone to stay and help me with the palace." She gestured at the crumbling stone.

"Fix it yourself with your selfish magic. That's your talent, after all." And the youth hurried away.

Embarrassed, hoping nobody had seen her bested by a servant, Circe withdrew to her chambers, alone. Sleep escaped her, as thoughts of the stable boy, King Demachis, and the other men living their days with mortal women, made her restless.

"It's Odysseus' fault," she sighed. "If he wasn't so, well, interesting, no, stubborn, I'd have peace."

She often warned them of the dangers they still faced. "From here you'll encounter Scylla and Charybdis. I advise sailing closer to Scylla as the dogs on her body will attack only six men. Charybdis would swallow the whole ship."

A shudder went up among the company. Even Circe shifted in her seat, recalling Scylla's last cry to Apollo. "And you'll then travel to the Underworld to consult with the shade of the prophet Teresias," she continued. "Make a sacrifice of sheep's blood to draw him forth. The shades love a sacrifice of blood."

"We'll follow your instructions," said Odysseus, staring into his wine cup, face darkening. "Even though it takes us into that terrible land. Thank you for your wise counsel."

She wanted to touch his hand to comfort him, and then attempted to lighten the mood. "Have I told you all about the King of Loth and his war against the giants?"

As she told the story, she watched Odysseus, wanting to coax a laugh from him. But at the end of the evening, he clasped her hand and walked away as he did every night, discussing routes and strategies with Picus and Eurylochus. And she spent her nights alone, until she could stand her loneliness no longer.

One night, after a merry dinner of joke-telling and boasting, Circe went to the baths. There she found Odysseus sitting on the tiled ledge, feet dangling into the water.

"I've wondered to myself these many nights," he said as she entered. "Just what you meant by Seven Ways. In my studies, I learned Eight Ways."

She tossed her curls. "There's only one way of finding out who was the more diligent student."

He chuckled, reaching into a pouch that lay on the tile next to him. "First, I have something to give to you."

"A necklace? I adore gems from Troy."

Odysseus pressed something light into her hand. "Hermes gave it to me."

Circe looked at her hand and saw a slender green plant with small, white flower that hung like a tiny clump of snow. She rubbed a petal and its faint scent rose toward her. "A snowdrop plant?"

"He gave it to me as a protection against your spells. But I think you need it more than I do. Seems you've been under your own bad spell."

Anger flooded her. So it was a trick, a magic against her magic. "What did Hermes tell you?"

"That he knew you well," said Odysseus. "Do you think, given your reputation, I'd enter your island unprepared? Not all mortals are as foolish as you think."

"My reputation? Don't the gods praise my skills?" She preened.

"No, they think you've become dangerous. That you practice unlawful magic."

"What do they know, the gods live a life of ease on Olympus! They don't have to deal with mortals except when they want to." Circe looked at the flower, exasperated. She should take out her wand and turn this trickster into a toad and all of the men back into their animal form. And then address Hermes with some strong words.

But the Oath of the Gods bound her. Anyone, mortal or immortal, haughty or humble, who broke that oath would spend the rest of their time in Tartarus, the darkest place in Hades' realm, hungering and thirsting for what they wanted most. But to turn smug Odysseus into a toad, maybe that would be worth an eternity of darkness.

She twisted the plant around in her hands, desire battling desire. An image of him dwindling into a scaly toad tugged a smile from her but then loneliness and regret flowed in with the power of Oceanus' tides. Athena was strict with those to whom she taught the magical arts. If the elder goddess took away her magic, then what would she be? Just another minor goddess with nothing to do to fill the long years of immortality.

And Circe admitted the truth to herself: she wanted the regard of this man who didn't waver and didn't back down. Leaning against Odysseus' broad shoulder, she slipped her feet into the water, letting the water warm them.

"Thank you for the gift," she said. "There are other spells I could cast." The hardness in her heart melted when she spoke the words.

And that night, and for the nights thereafter, they discovered it was the Ten Ways.

At the end of a year, Odysseus gathered the men. "Our hostess has been generous with her home and her knowledge. Now it's time we find our own homes," he said.

They made their way down to the shore to the new ships that Circe's servants had built. One by one, the men walked by her before embarking and thanked her until only Odysseus remained on the shore.

"I envy Penelope," she said. "But I wish you happiness."

"What I know, who I am," he said, "is richer because of you, Circe."

And his kiss brushed against hers like the snow melting down Mount Olympus in the spring.

Sighing, she raised her wand. "Great winds," she commanded. "Guide these good men to their homes."

And the winds strengthened, filling the sails of the ships. She watched them disappear into the horizon, her heart aching in its new, tender places.

The island fell quiet, except for the rustling of the non-enchanted animals left behind. Circe stayed in bed to mourn, the snowdrop on her pillow. As she wept, the flower's tiny seed dropped into a crack, taking root where the crumbling marble exposed the earth.

The next morning, she went to the kitchen to look at the mess left behind. Pans, baskets, nut shells, and wine skins cluttered the counters. The homunculi lay shriveled in their jars, their magic gone.

The sound of a pot clattering on the tiles made her turn around. "You won't find much in there," she said. "My guests ate everything."

Aphrodite emerged from the pantry, sighing. "No honey? You used to make the most wonderful honey cakes from the bees Artemis gave you."

"I gave the hive to Picus to start a new livelihood," said Circe. "I suppose you're here to gloat at me."

"I do love a good gloat." Aphrodite suspended a jar and shook it, pouting when only a few flakes of dough floated out. "You finally met your match in him."

"But he wasn't mine to keep."

"Love," said Aphrodite, "is the first step to being truly divine."

"I never thought of it that way before," said Circe. She rubbed the last snowdrop petal between her thumb and finger. "Maybe the feathers in your head work after all."

In the spring, she climbed into her boat and set forth on the waters. When she came to the Strait of Messina, Scylla leaned over and howled at her.

Circe waved her wand. "I wronged you. Be free."

The monster turned to stone. Through a crack in the misshapen rock, the real Scylla emerged. The young woman blinked, looked up and the sun, and smiled. And Circe sailed through, in search of a kingdom in need of a skilled and helpful sorceress.

On Aeaea, the old palace fell into a ruin of rocks and dust. New snowdrops sprouted in the open spaces, small white flowers melting against the fresh, moist soil.

Kirsten Reinking finds her best inspiration in mythology.