V enus was restless. No. It was worse than restlessness. Restlessness could be calmed by a lovely chilled goblet of ambrosia and ordering a nymph to amuse her. (Which meant anything from plaiting the goddess's hair into an intricate crown of blond braids to receiving a full body massage from a water nymph - a deliciously sensual experience that was best performed on the seashore. Naked.) But Venus didn't feel like summoning a nymph. And she was already sipping a glass of this season's excellent ambrosia, newly harvested from the Elysian Fields. Venus sighed and tapped her elegant foot against the smooth marble floor of her chamber in Vulcan's underground palace. She'd retreated from her own golden temple located high atop Mount Olympus (she did have a spectacular view) and come down to her husband's palace for the same reason she had for centuries: to find peace and solace from the exhausting duties of being the most beautiful, most desirable female ever created - of literally being love personified. It usually worked to hide away from the demands of being the Goddess of Love deep within the bowels of Vulcan's realm. After all, it wasn't as if there was anything romantic going on between Vulcan and Venus. The very thought made a musical little laugh escape from the goddess's perfect lips. That had been the point of marrying Vulcan. Well, not the whole point. For her, marrying Vulcan had given her an escape from the exhausting job of