And lo, the gods and demigods, mages and learned men all gathered for the wedding of the sun and the moon. It was a great feast - a divine feast - and the ceremony was like nothing the mortal men had ever seen before. The sky had turned black as the sun and moon kissed. They gave birth to the stars in the sky. It was over too soon, however, and both were off to count down the days until they could renew their vows again.
Their parting, however, was a signal to those assembled. The cosmic event vouched for many years of good luck until the two grew too lonely. In the spirit of good luck, the god of war proposed a toast - to soldiers, of course - and the feast moved from largo to allegro, from gridlock to expressway. Drinks and merriment abounded and toast flew fast and heartfelt.
As the reception wore down, a brittle old woman - a bag, a hag, or a nag, if you prefer - clamped her icy fingers on the war god's wrist. He was omitting something, she informed him, and he knew what it was.
The god of war paid no mind to the old crone, for he was having too much fun. She then made a loop around the older gods, reminding them they had forgotten something but never saying what it was. In the end, all ignored the woman and the feast ended.
The next night, the downpour began. In their excitement, the gods had never toasted the married couple for whom the feast had been given. The moon cried and cried at the oversight, flooding the world and wiping it of life.
And the old woman welcomed each and every one of them at her black gates.