him.'
'Deal then with me!' roared Flax, raising both hands. As he intoned a spate of awesome sounds, great thick ropes formed in the air and spiraled around Skarn, pinning his arms to his sides.
Drop felt greatly relieved, until Skarn spat other sounds, at which the ropes withered away to mere threads he cast contemptuously to the floor.
'You dare to oppose me?' he sneered. 'I am Skarn the sorcerer! No man stands before my wrath.' Flinging up his hands, he conjured a gust of murky flame that blasted toward Flax, but it was quenched in mid-flight by an equally fierce geyser of conjured water sent by the wizard. Spells and counterspells erupted in the quivering cottage, clashing between the magical combatants.
Literally spellbound, Drop watched, his mind racing. There had to be some way he could aid Master Flax… but first he had to be able to move. Skarn had mistakenly assumed that Drop was a normal human lad; but Drop was not merely that. A binding spell meant to restrain a lad might not necessarily fully bind a magically transformed cat. Drop cautiously endeavored to move his toes… they responded slowly, leadenly, but they did move. Now for one arm, then the other… very slowly. He could not afford to attract Skarn's attention. Fortunately, Skarn's attention was most fully engaged by Flax's magical assaults.
As light-bolts blazed, sounds crashed, and weird smells curdled the air of the study, Drop realized that he might possibly call on two other allies for Flax. The very floor boards had been shuddering beneath their feet for some time, and Drop now distinguished one particularly broad bar of shadow near his own feet. It was Cyril the snake, understandably disturbed by the bizarre lights and upheaval, who had abandoned his table base to seek the cause. Drop eased his bandaged hand down until he could tap on Cyril's questing head. One, two, three, four-there. Cyril should now be alerted to the danger to Flax.
For the last short while, Drop had also become dimly aware of a persistent clicking sound. In a brief lull between spells, he suddenly located the source: Ghost, who had been dozing as usual on a high shelf, had been awakened by the wild activity below, and was snapping his beak in decided disapproval. Drop recalled what Flax had said about Ghost and loud noises. His desperate plan lacked only one other element.
While Skarn and Flax were totally absorbed in their duel by magic, Drop edged quietly toward the desk. At first, he couldn't locate the tawny bottle he sought, then he recognized it over to one side, where Skarn had thrust it during his search. Extending his free hand, Drop extracted a Keep-Shape lozenge. He succeeded just in time, for Skarn produced a wave of force that flung Flax bodily against a bookcase, temporarily dazing the wizard.
Skarn stepped forward, gloating. 'So much for you, you feeble old fool. I have dawdled with you long enough. Feel now my Death Spell, you and your useless apprentice!'
Unluckily for Skarn, he had earlier discarded his fancy riding boots in order to pursue his thievery quietly. When he now strode forward, he planted one stockinged foot flatly on Cyril's back, prompting the offended snake to rear up and sink his fangs into Skarn's unprotected leg.
Seizing this splendid opportunity, Drop yelled as loudly as he could, 'Ho! Ghost! GHOST!'
The owl, driven to frenzy by all the blinding lights, swooped down from his shelf, talons extended. He landed on Skarn's head, buffeting the sorcerer with his great soft wings, while yanking cruelly at the man's long red hair.
Skarn, understandably, yowled under this multiple, totally unexpected attack. As his mouth gaped open, Drop lunged toward the floundering sorcerer and popped the lozenge between his lips.
There was a frozen instant of startled silence, a gasp from Skarn, then a gulp. The tormented sorcerer wrenched Ghost from his head, and would have dashed the owl to the floor had it not twisted from his hands and flown safely to its ceiling shelf.
Skarn gibbered, shuddered, and slowly shrank in size. Drop watched with keen interest to see just what Skarn's True Shape might be. It was momentarily concealed by the heap of Skarn's human clothing, then there was a jerky stirring, and tearing aside the fabric, a rather warty yellow-brown demon emerged from the folds.
Flax, by now recovered from his breathless impact against the bookcase, pointed at the demon, pronouncing a stern magical order.
The demon shook its claws defiantly at him, but was summarily vanished, leaving behind a cloud of foul smoke.
'Faugh!' exclaimed Flax, gesturing open all the adjacent doors and windows. 'A cleansing breeze should suffice to disperse this. All-much better. And there is one more item that needs to be destroyed-Mistress Wryfern's gift potion. Although it was intended only to be an innocent diversion, I now perceive what a deadly threat it could pose in wicked hands.' Snatching up the blue glass bottle, the wizard vaporized it in a flash of white light.
From his lofty perch, Ghost emitted a loud hoot of protest.
'My dear Ghost,' said Flax, 'and Cyril, and above all, Drop! I thank each of you for your valiant efforts. Had you not assisted when you did, I fear that we all should have perished. You must all be fairly rewarded. Let me see- some nice brown eggs for Cyril, I think, and pickled herring for Ghost and Drop. How does that sound? Where did I put that jar of herring? Was it in the kitchen, or the back storeroom?'
As Drop followed the wizard to aid in the search, he privately regretted only one thing. He had not had the chance to try a bite of the demon, which had smelled most deliriously of
Of Age and Wisdom by Roger C. Schlobin
Mei-chou cut through a wide, high-walled canyon as she descended the Mount of God, known as the Bogdo-ola in the old speech. Normally, the chilled air might draw her to thinking of the unknown, remote heights and how cold it was at the twenty-two-thousand-foot summit. No one knew what lived there or how cold it was; the cloud-draped heights defied even the mightiest dragon's wings. But, at this dark hour, her thoughts were filled with her beloved Chu-Chu, the cats' shaman, who lay dying in his cave. Despite his matted fur and hollow flanks, her love's eye always remembered him in the glory of his youth. His dark-blue eyes were almost black. They still shone within the lush fur of his ebony mask. His face and ears were framed by a creamy, camel-colored mane that circled to his full jowls. At least, Chu-Chu liked to call it a mane; Mei-chou thought of it more as a ruff. He'd say ruffs were prissy. But he'd also say that jowls had nothing to do with weight and everything to do with dignity. His mane blended back and down through rich, thick shades of chestnut and sable to black legs, paws, and tail. No color quite separated. They all moved in harmony, one into the other. The changes were so subtle that, when the light changed, there were moments of tan, chestnut, chocolate, and charcoal on his body. His most arresting feature was the oversized fangs that extended down over his lower jaw into the velvet of his chin. He thought they made him look fierce; Mei-chou knew it was only overbite. A Himalayan Sealpoint, Lord Chu insisted he was one of the few felines indigenous to the Gobi. But Mei-chou had heard enough to suspect that he was the product of a momentary lingering between a Black Persian and a Siamese. Cats, for all their proclamations of civilized demeanor, were erotically prone to random couplings, to spontaneous trysts. Perhaps, these passing matings had something to do with their complete immunity to guilt, their absolute freedom from embarrassment.
