'Right. If only the goofy stuff had begun just a tad earlier. He could have just snapped his fingers and tidied up the whole mess.'
'God, I wish.' Linda's shoulders fell. 'I don't want to go down into any spooky basements.'
'Do not be afraid, my dear,' Gene said, doing a passable Bela Lugosi. 'Those screams are merely the howling of the wind.'
Linda frowned. 'Gene, don't start with me. I hate spooky stuff, you know that.'
'Why, I wasn't starting anything, my dear,' he went on, now into his best Boris Karloff. 'The basement is merely where I conduct my experiments in cell division and growth. What? You say you've never seen a spider that size? Why, the little devil must have gotten loose-'
Linda stared him down. 'Gene,' she said warningly.
'I'll stop. Thing is, I don't think we'll make it.'
'To the basement? Why not?'
'The congestion is increasing geometrically the farther down we go.'
Linda nodded glumly. 'Yeah. Well, we have to try.'
'We'll need your magic in there.'
'No problem. I can create a shield.'
'The old magical force screen.'
'But it'll make maneuvering harder.'
'Always some dues to pay for magic,' Gene said.
'True. Well, shall we give it a go?'
'Once more into the dumpster, dear friends.' Gene got up. 'Let's get moving.'
Snowclaw had pulled up a major portion of the grass at the edge of the pond.
'Not much to this stuff,' he commented, 'but it is tasty. Specially the little dab of mud that comes up from the bottom.'
Linda's face soured. 'Snowy, you're making me ill.'
'Sorry. I'm hungry.'
'Snowy, you're always hungry.'
''The sedge has withered from the lake,'' Gene said. ''And no birds sing.''
'Where?' Snowclaw said, looking around eagerly.
'You leave those poor birds alone, Snowy,' Linda reprimanded. 'We're going now.'
'I'm going to be starving in a little while.'
'I'll whip up something for you in the castle,' Linda assured him. 'Come along, Snowclaw.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Linda started walking up the hill.
When she'd gotten halfway up, Snowclaw asked, 'Are most human females as bossy as Linda is sometimes?'
Gene put a finger to his lips. 'Shhh. You are treading very dangerous ground, my friend. Not PC, if you get my drift.'
'Huh?'
' `Into the valley of death rode the six hundred,' and all that.'
'What?'
'Let's go.'
'Oh. All right.'
Scratching his massive white head, Snowclaw followed Gene up the hill.
ARENA
The arena shook with the roar of the crowd. Howls of blood lust resounded. The crowd was average for a Saturday night. On the sandy floor at the base of the vast circus, several contests were going on. One, not properly a contest, involved lions attacking helpless victims. Another featured a clash of cavalries, horses neighing and rearing amidst the rising dust of battle. Still another pitted charioteers against spear-carrying men on foot. The former were winning.
Thorsby regained consciousness and sat up. He looked out across the arena, then swung his feet over the edge of his divan.
He tried to get up. He couldn't quite make it and sat back down heavily.
'Is something wrong, great Caesar?'
'Eh? Uh, no. I've had enough. I'm heading up.'
'Why, O Magnificent One?'
'I've a bleedin' headache. And besides that, I've seen everything.'
'A thousand pardons if I contradict the divine Caesar, but you have seen nothing yet!'
Thorsby looked bleary-eyed at the houri who had entreated him. 'Oh? I'd like to know what else there is. I've gobbled all the grub, guzzled all the grog, did all the naughty bits. Wonderful, wonderful, but, really…'
'What is it, Divine One?'
'Well, you know…' Thorsby chuckled. 'It's all a spell, really. Just a conjuration. Means nothing, all hocus pocus, don't you know. It was all a bit of fun, but we really have to be getting back to work. Matter of fact, I do think we're in serious trouble already. Where the blazes is Fetchen? Fetchen!'
'Methinks, Divine One, thou knowest not the true trouble thou'rt in.'
Thorsby got unsteadily to his feet. 'Fetchen, old boy? Now, where did that rascal get to-'
Thorsby's face collided with a massive naked chest. He stepped back and looked up. The owner of the chest was an immense figure in a turban, voluminous pants, and long pointed slippers. The man (if that is what he was) stood with his sinewy arms folded, one hand grasping the haft of an immense scimitar, its wicked curving blade upraised and gleaming.
'Going somewhere?' the man asked pointedly.
Thorsby took another step back. 'Uh, well, yes. More or less. Time to cancel the spell.'
'Cancel the spell?' The huge man shook his head. 'I'm afraid not.'
'Oh?' Thorsby's voiced squeaked. He cleared his throat. 'Why not?'
'We get this chance very seldom. We shall not miss it.'
'Chance for what, exactly?'
'To come out into the world. To be alive. Very tiresome simply to exist as potential, with no actuality.'
'Oh. Yes, well, I'm afraid that can't be helped, old boy. You'll have to go back into your bottle or lamp or whatever. The whole lot of you, in fact. It was a bit of fun, but-'
'That will not happen, great one.'
Thorsby made an effort to gather himself together. 'See here. You're forgetting who the magician is, who's in charge of this whole charade.'
'That is not forgotten, master. But these obligations are not one-sided. By giving us unlimited license, you have opened a door that is not easily shut.'
Thorsby nodded. 'I see, I see.' He looked around. 'Well, we'll just have a look at that grimoire. Around here someplace…' Thorsby got down on his knees and searched.
'You won't find it, master.'
'Eh? I won't?'
'No.'
'Oh. Well.' Thorsby rose and dusted off his hands. 'Then we'll throw a general cancellation spell on the whole affair and see what happens.'
The turbaned man ran a thick finger delicately along the blade of his scimitar. 'Master would not want to do that.'
'And why not?'
'Because master would not get the second word out of his mouth if he uttered the first.'
