Songs of the Dying Earth

“Will you help me, then?” asked Pelmundo. “Will you enchant her so that she can see only me?”

“And be blind to the rest of the world?” asked Umbassario with an amused smile. “That would almost be fitting.”

“No, I don’t mean that,” protested the Watchman. “But I burn for her. Can you not instill the same fire within her?”

“It is there.”

“But she teases and ignores me!”

“The fire is there, but it does not burn for you, son of Riloh,” continued the mage. “It burns only for Lith. She is a physically perfect woman, so she seeks only physical perfection — in jewels, in clothes, in men.”

“But you can change that!” urged Pelmindo. “You are the greatest of all the magicians who ply their trade up and down the River Scaum. You can make her love me!”

“I could,” acknowledged Umbassario. “But I will not. There once was a woman, almost as young and almost as perfect as the golden witch of your heart’s desire. I made her fall in love with me when I was younger and more foolish. Every night on the silken mat, she was the most responsive female that has ever lived, I truly believe that. But each time I would look into her eyes, even as her body jerked and spasmed in ecstasy, I would see the repugnance that my magic had banished to some secret inner part of her, and the taste of our erotic bliss turned to dust in my mouth. Finally, I removed the spell, and she was gone within an hour. Is that what you would want with Lith?”

“I truly do not know,” answered Pelmundo. “If I just had the chance, I know I could make her love me.”

The old mage sighed. “I don’t believe you have heard a word I have said. The golden witch loves only herself.”

“She will love me, with or without your spells,” said Pelmundo with iron determination.

“Without, I should think,” replied Umbassario as the Watchman left his cave.

Pelmundo walked back to Maloth in a foul mood that was apparent to one and all. People stayed out of his sight, and even the curs that scoured the street for scraps remained hidden until he passed by. Finally he entered the Place of the Seven Nectars, glared at the innkeeper and ordered the nonexistent Eighth Nectar, and, a moment later, was given a flagon filled to the brim. It tasted, he thought, exactly like the Seventh Nectar, but as it eased its way down his throat and warmed his insides, his temper began to improve and he decided not to protest.

He left the tavern and headed across the street to Laja’s House of Golden Flowers, where he found Taj the Malingerer standing in the street, staring at the front door.

“Greetings,” said Taj. “You can tell she is here today. She attracts men as honey attracts bees.”

“Who do you mean?” asked Pelmundo, feigning ignorance.

“Why, the golden witch,” replied Taj. “It is as if men read a secret signal on the winds, for I am drawn here only when she comes to Maloth from the Old Forest.” He winked at the Watchman. “Confess, friend Pelmundo: that is why you are here too.”

The Watchman glared at him and said nothing.

“My only question,” continued Taj, “is why she is here at all. Probably she is not yet skilled enough to pay her way as a witch.” Another wink. “Or perhaps this is the kind of witchcraft and enchantment at which she excels, for I love and honor my wife except on days Lith has come to town, and I have never seen you so much as look at any other woman.”

“You talk too much,” said Pelmundo irritably, because he disliked hearing the uncomfortable truths that rolled so easily off Taj’s tongue.

“I am almost through talking,” answered Taj. “For when the next man is escorted out of the house by Leja, it is my turn to pay my respects — and my tribute — to Lith.”

As the words left his mouth, Leja, old wrinkled crone who had once been almost as beautiful as the golden witch — some said two hundred years ago — led Metoxos the silk merchant to the door and bade him farewell. Suddenly, both men became aware that Lith herself was standing next to Leja — slender, with an animal grace, full ripe breasts, golden skin, hair that seemed to be made of spin gold, full red lips, and laughing eyes that seemed like sparkling embers.

“Prepare yourself, golden one,” said Taj, “for you are about to meet a real man, not a used-up walking wrinkle like that pathetic Metoxos.”

Leja reached out with her walking stick and cracked Taj across the shin.

He yelped in surprise. “What was that for?” he demanded.

“Be careful what you say about us walking wrinkles,” she answered.

“Come,” said Taj, taking Lith roughly by her bare arm. “Let us leave this crazy old woman behind and let me feast my eyes upon you in private.”

“You eyes have become bloated by the feast,” said Lith. “I do not like bloated eyes.” She turned to Pelmundo. “You are the Watchman. This person is annoying me.”

“He is a braggart and a boor, but he has every right to be here,” said Pelmundo unhappily. “This is, after all, the House of Golden Flowers.”

“Get rid of him and I will give you a kiss,” said Lith.

“He is my friend,” said Taj. “He laughs at your offer.”

“Look at him,” said Lith, obviously amused. “Is he laughing?”

Taj turned to face Pelmundo, who was clearly not laughing.

“Move on,” said the Watchman.

“No!” shouted Taj. “I have the tribute. I have waited my turn!”

“You have waited in the wrong line for the wrong flower,” said Pelmundo. “Move on.”

He lay his hand on the hilt of his sword. Taj looked at the sword. It was not new, did not shine, bore no jewels, no mystic inscriptions; it was the workmanlike tool of a man who used it with bad intentions.

“We are no longer friends, son of Riloh!” snapped Taj, starting to walk away.

“We never were,” replied Pelmundo.

He waited until Taj had gone one hundred paces, and then turned back to the doorway. Leja had returned to the dimly-lit interior of the structure, but Lith remained.

“And now your reward,” she said softly.

He stepped forward. “You have never let me touch you before,” he noted.

“And you shall not touch me now,” she said. “I shall touch you.”

“But—”

“Be quiet, step forward, and receive your reward,” said Lith.

Muscles tensed with excitement, loins bursting with lust, Pelmundo stepped forward.

“And here is your prize,” said Lith, kissing him chastely on the forehead.

He stepped back and shook his head as if he could not believe it. Lith smiled slyly.

“That is it?” he said, dumbfounded.

“That’s all Taj was worth,” she replied, her eyes bright with amusement. “For a greater reward, you must perform a greater deed.”

“And for the greatest reward you have to offer?” he asked eagerly.

“Why, for that, you must perform the greatest deed,” said the golden witch with a roguish smile.

“Name it, and it shall be done!”

“When I am not here, I live in a hollow tree in the Old Forest,” began Lith.

“I know. I have looked for your tree, but I have never found it.”

She smiled. “It is protected by my magic. I think perhaps even Umbassario of the Glowing Eyes could not find it.”

“The deed!” he said passionately. “Get to the deed!”

“Whenever I come to Maloth, or return from here to my forest, I must pass through Modavna Moor,” continued Lith.

Suddenly Pelmundo felt the muscles in his stomach tighten, for he knew what she would say next.

“Something lives on that moor, something evil and malignant, something that frightens and threatens me whenever I walk through it, a creature from some domain that is not of this world. It is known only as Graebe the