To all those reading this: Congratulations! You're among the handful of people clever enough to see through the blocking enchantment-opening for the worthy-Dumbledore stuff like that. But we'll get to that later.

This is our side of the story.

When I say 'our' I'm talking me and Set, the god of deserts, storms and foreigners, Lieutenant of Ra, Lover of Lettuce(heh) etcetera, etcetera.

My name is Cassie, short for Cassandra O'Reiley, Chaos magician, Southpaw, Australian.

There it is: the sideways looks, the slight frown, the isn't-chaos-evil-I-mean-we've-never-really-seen-it 's-side-of-the-story-because-Sadie-and-Cater-lack- any-kind-of-perspective-or-objectivity-and-it's-ev il-because…-REASONS face that most people get when they're told that Chaos is not in fact inherently bad.

Or maybe it's because you haven't heard of Australia. It's big and everything tries to kill you.

Back to Chaos, (whats the difference? Oh yeah, Australia actively wants to kill you).

Balance is the key, order to balance the Chaos: freedom, creativity, free will, change, and chaos to balance the Order: authority, rules, protection, tradition. Extremes only destroy.

Everyone got that. Extremes =bad, moderation=good.

Should be logical huh? Aristotle's Golden mean, the craziness the Enlightenments and the Romantics got up to in their time. Every empire falls too far into the extreme and burns. Greece, Rome, Alexander's Macedonia(He. Was. Not. Greek.), Persia, Egypt, no exceptions.

That's why you're reading this, friendly Internet stranger. You understand, whether its upbringing, natural or just a huge deal of curiosity, you're reading this. Just enough Chaos, just enough Order. Balance

Of course it doesn't have to be perfect- there's leaning room, so to speak. But you're open, and that's what counts.

My first run in with the gods of Egypt happened just after Carter and Sadie finished saving the state of Arizona. Not as if Arizona isn't always a wasteland, but they did it. Yay for them. I think it was about a week after when I met the crazy hobo my backyard.

When I say my backyard, what I really mean is the desert the farm backs on to. See I live smack bang in the middle of Australia, with my Savta, whose looks like a frail old biddy, but has the mind of a mob boss. The farm's rather small compared to some of the other ones, but since we don't actually produce anything, and our closest neighbor is at least 40 kilometers down the road, it pretty isolated.

Yeah I know it sounds dangerous, letting a little kid wander around a sandy hell filled with poisonous snakes, scorpions and spiders but Savta was always cool about that sort of thing, even after Mum and Dad died when I was little.

It was the holidays, so I was back from my boarding school, which is in Melbourne, down south. Melbourne's pretty good for a city; cafés, the crazy weather, the state library, Lord of the Fries. But I was glad to be back home, the farm house white against the blue sky, Savta watching the Godfather for the hundredth time, my room, red as ever and the desert spreading out as far as the eye could see.

I work up on a fine Saturday morning, the first day back home, and I was desperate to get outside, jumping over my dumped suitcase that I'd left on the floor of my room, stuffed a couple of books (history and philosophy), my journal, several large bottles of water, disinfection pills, lucky cigarette lighter, and some food (apples, sausages, Jammy Doggers, marshmallows, Wizz Fizz, the essentials), into my rucksack (red), put on my hat, (floppy and red), sunglass and walking jacket (pale brown to reflect the sun off (and red). Have you guessed my favourite colour yet?

I've heard Cater and Sadie say how they'd rather not have hosted Lord Pigeon and Lady Cow, how they should have gotten out while there was still time blah blah blah, but honestly, if I'd known what was waiting for me in the desert, I wouldn't have changed anything. Hell I would have full out sprinted there.

It took me an extra hour to reach Crossroad by the Pool after jumping the back fence around eight in the morning, an hour later than normal, but after being away for so long, I took the river route, which curves around in a circle and comes up by the pool, rather than cutting across the desert. The river's a creek really, not big enough for a crocodile, and the wiry, hard trees that grow along the bank provide a good bit of shade, which I needed despite my layers of 30+ sunscreen after sleeping in.

Why do I need 30+ sunscreen and shade during a morning walk? I'm what would be classified a 'ginger'. Not Day walker, full on no-soul ginger. My hair, too dark to be termed carroty, despite what a handful of girls at my boarding school say, is still too red to be 'auburn' something I'm glad about because there are few hair colours as pretentious as auburn, and curly as well, because I'm a bloody stereotype.

For all the Hufflepuffs (Slytherin and proud) who haven't worked it out by my last name, I'm Irish. Curly red hair and freckles comes with the territory. (So does being drunk, but that has to wait until I'm 21(18 is the legal age in Australia for Americans and others playing the home game, but there's no way Nan will let me near it until then and I'll have hopefully finished uni by then.))

I reached Crossroad by the Pool, so named because of the crossroad sign that sits outside of the one room hut, at around 11, one hour off from the beginning of the adventure. No mistake its got modern conveniences by way of light, heating, a bed, a toilet, a fridge, a door and windows. No T.V of course, or a proper kitchen or bathroom, not that I need one. It is one of the unspoken rules that I can only stay by the Crossroads for three days at the most, or else Savta will come looking for me. God help the human race as a whole if she misses out one even one of her prohibition documentaries.

I settled quickly, tossing the food and water into the fridge and dropping my rucksack on the bed. My Mythomagic(I play a poker hybrid with it. I like poker.) cards spilled all over the quilt, and I didn't bother checking for the three SSS (spiders, scorpions and serpents), something that I knew would come back to bite me. As always, the hut at the Crossroads smelt like home, a combination of the desert, old books and good food. I've always considered this slightly weird, as the only time I can cook edible food is over a campfire, but I didn't have time to savor the smell, or hit one of the girls on top of one of my gym trophies with a dart(Yes I did gymnastics. It was a love/hate relationship before I fell badly from the climbing rope); a favourite author of mine had a new book out, one that for some reason had the name of an old associate on the back.

I'm not going to bother telling you the name of the book, if you hadn't read it; I doubt you'd have noticed this anyway. I'm not going to go into detail about how I knew this person, because it's not really important: just know it took me under an hour to realize that either Carter Kane and his sister had gone insane, or Egyptian gods were running around Brooklyn.

A part of me insisted that it was probably just a teen fantasy novel as I swung myself off of the hammock, something that I don't usually read. Romance has a tendency to unearth my pyromaniac urges. It couldn't be real, I thought as a tossed The Red Pyramid on the bed, pulling an eclectic stack of history books instead. It couldn't.(I find this hilarious in hindsight.)

It was a minute to noon when I went into the Hut, fifteen seconds to when I came out again, nothing was out of the ordinary. Then, the moment the second hand on my watch ticked over to noon, a man was on my hammock.

He looked asleep, so I took advantage to make sure he wasn't a convict or mass murder from the sixties with a time vortex manipulator. Apart from the clothes on his back and a weird iron walking stick, he had nothing, not a drop of water or a scrap of food. He certainly didn't look dangerous. Then again, I thought as I set my books down quietly my hand curling around my walking stick that I always forget to take home, neither did the cone snail. I walked forward slowly; ready to run at any sign of movement or knock him out with a witty remark. Then again, considering the fact he was asleep on my hammock, breaking on or two(Or several.) bones seemed a proportionate retribution. Also it's a lot easier to be sarcastic about.

I stopped a meter or two away, holding my staff across my body like the irritating Tae Kwon Do person said in P.E, and looked at him. He had sharp features, ones that could be cruel or full of laughter depending on expression, which was currently the epitome of laziness and floppy red hair. Something about him was vaguely familiar, like the dreams that I can never remember or an actor from a really old gangster movie.

There was no way this man could have walked some distance into the desert without looking a little worse of wear, and his cloths were immaculate, if slightly windblown, like he'd just teleported here. I frowned, torn between curiosity and practicality. I wanted to know who he was, but being stabbed to death by a souless ginger (Oh wow, I might be a hypocrite or something) maniac wasn't on my to-do list.

So I threw a handful of blood red sand in his face.(I maintain this have been an excellent idea.)

Instead of sending him into a coughing fit, which would have given me time to tie him up in the hammock, the sand shot across his chest and hovered above his outstretched palm, a small cloud of red.

"My dear, is this how introduction's are started in…Where am I?" The man asked raising his head lazily, frowning up at me.

"Australia," I said, my eyes on the sand. My face was a mask of wariness, while my brain was going wowcoolcoolcoolcooletc. "How are you doing that?"

The man glanced at his hand, as though magic sand wasn't anything out of the ordinary for him. "Simple magic, child." He smirked and flicked it towards my face.

My hands was over my mouth and my eyes were shut a second before it hit, my walking stick clattering to my feet. I been in a sandstorm before, and you have to have something covering your mouth so you don't inhale sand. Of course hands aren't good for this, and soon I was on all fours, coughing. Then something happened…. It was as if I could feel the sand, swirling around me. I wanted to breath and then it stopped, dropping back into the desert.

"Oh bravo," the man said applauding, a genuine grin on his face as I grabbed my walking stick and started to get to my feet. He swung himself of my hammock, moving forward like he was going to help me up and all I could think of was that he'd been on my hammock, the one my grandfather gave me before he died and I slammed my walking stick into his stomach.

We both hit the ground, him winded and me still unsteady.

"Don't touch my hammock," I gasped.

"Well I'm sorry," the man groaned back, an arm wrapped around his stomach. "Considering that you could have died child, you need to get your priorities straight."

"Death's death," I managed rolling onto my back. "You think all hammock's are that nice? Or resistant"

"Or red?" the man added wincing as he prodded him stomach. "You're strong for someone so small, and not very observant of the rules of battle." His tone made it a complement as in you fight dirty and bruised my pancreas. I like you.

"Since when did battle have rules?" I asked with a faint laugh as in Cheers, mystery man. "The trick was cool." He inclined his head. "Cassie," I held out my hand instinctively. He stared at it for a moment non-plussed before shaking it a wry grin twisting his lips.

"Set, god of Chaos. Pleasure to make you're acquaintance."

"Ditto." It took me a moment to compute what he'd said, but given I was reworking what I knew about the universe and had almost suffocated in a manicure sandstorm, I feel a little delay was allowed.

"What?"