life. That these three were honestly sincere was something she did not doubt for a moment—but what they were showing her was the utter sincerity of madness. Glory had been famous for six months, long enough to know the dark side of it: the obsessed, the stalkers, the people dazzled by the bright images on their movie or television screen into believing those images were real people who could see them back. So much belief could twist people in ways they never would have chosen for themselves: twist them and change them into weapons pointed at the celebrities they worshipped. These three truly believed that they needed Vixen the Slayer, but all she had to give them was Glory McArdle. When they realized the difference—when they realized there was a difference, things were going to get . . . ugly.
"I'm not what you need," she said, very quietly. I couldn't even medal at the Games. I'm a too-tall Phys Ed teacher who got lucky! "It's not like I— You shouldn't believe everything you see on television. I mean— You've got the wrong person. I'm an actress. Not even all that good an actress, I reckon. Romy's better. She plays Lilith, and . . ." Cut the grizzling, Glor. 
"You were our last hope," Belegir said, his voice choked with hopelessness. "We have sought through all the worlds, gone to each hero—kings, barbarians, warrior-maids, and doomed princes. Always the answer is the same: they are too busy, they will come later. But there is no later for us, Slayer! We are dying now!"
"And so we came here. This is not a world for heroes—but we did our research," Englor said despairingly. He thrust the book he carried toward her.
Glory looked