"Help me up," I told Annabeth and Grover.

 

"'Are you crazy?" Annabeth asked.

 

"Probably," I admitted.

 

"Percy," Grover said, "the gods really don't appreciate people sitting in their

thrones. I mean like tum-you-into-a-pile-of-ashes don't appreciate it."

 

"I need to get his attention," I said. "It's the only way."

 

They exchanged uneasy looks.

 

"Well," Annabeth said, "this'll get his attention."

 

They linked their arms to make a step, then boosted me onto the throne. I felt

like a baby with my feet so high off the ground. I looked around at the other

gloomy, empty thrones, and I could imagine what it would be like sitting on the

Olympian Council — so much power but so much arguing, always eleven other gods

trying to get their way. It would be easy to get paranoid, to look out only for

my own interest, especially if I were Poseidon. Sitting in his throne, I felt

like I had the entire sea at my command — vast cubic miles of ocean churning

with power and mystery. Why should Poseidon listen to anyone? Why shouldn't he

be the greatest of the twelve?