my lords and great rulers, gods! Hail, the first, aïerōnthi; hail, the second, mercheimeros; hail, the third, achrichiour; hail, the fourth, mesargiltō; hail, the fifth, chichrōalithō; hail, the sixth, ermichthathōps; hail, the seventh, eorasichē.'

The second litany answers the first. Where the Fortunes' names ran light and sibilant, the Pole-lords' run heavy and guttural — aïerōnthi, mercheimeros, achrichiour, mesargiltō, chichrōalithō, ermichthathōps, eorasichē — thick with ch and th, names you feel in the throat, fit for bull-faced gods bellowed at rather than sung to. The rite is scoring its two choirs differently, and the difference is audible. He calls them kýrioí mou, 'my lords,' and megalokrátores, 'great rulers' — and the possessive is the point. Having greeted each of the fourteen powers by name, correctly, the initiate has earned the right to claim them: not lords in the abstract but my lords, gods who now owe him recognition. This is the social architecture of the whole ascent. You climb by knowing names, and knowing a name is a claim of relationship. Seven and seven, maidens and bulls, saluted and possessed — the initiate now stands at the pole with the entire turning-crew of heaven greeted by name, and the sky itself about to break open.