Phaethon was the son of Helios the sun-god by the mortal woman Clymene, but had been raised by his mother and her husband Merops, an Ethiopian king, and was uncertain of his true paternity. When his playmates mocked his claim to be a son of the sun, Phaethon went to his mother in distress; and Clymene, swearing it was true, sent him to Helios's palace at the eastern edge of the world to demand acknowledgment.
Phaethon came to the palace of dawn and was received by his father, who, joyful at the meeting, swore by the Styx — the unbreakable oath of the gods — that he would grant the boy any boon he wished, in earnest of his fatherhood. Phaethon asked for the one thing his father could not safely give: to drive the chariot of the sun for one day across the sky. Helios pleaded, warned of the dangers, named the difficulties of the route — the steep ascent, the high apex from which the sea looked impossibly far below, the rearing horses that even he could scarcely control — but the oath had been sworn and could not be revoked. So at dawn the boy mounted the chariot, took the reins from his father, and the four horses sprang forward.
What followed was disaster. The horses, finding the chariot lighter than usual, left the proper road and ran wild — first too high, scorching the heavens, then too low, parching the earth. The clouds caught fire, the rivers ran dry, the seas withdrew from their beds, and the dark-skinned peoples of Africa got their skin (so the ancient mythographers said) from the heat of that day; the Sahara was made a desert. Earth herself cried out to Zeus, and Zeus, with no choice, hurled his thunderbolt against Phaethon. The boy fell flaming from the chariot into the river Eridanus; his sisters, the Heliades, came to mourn him beside the river, and they were transformed into poplars whose tears congealed into amber, which the river carried down to the sea. So the Greeks accounted for the origin of amber from the rivers of the north.





