The miserable little beast ceased its pacing and stood stiffly erect, peering forth intently, exhibiting in every angle of its posture that superlative dignity which was the hallmark of the mage Zulkeh when pronouncing an unpleasant but true truth.
“For you are the witch Magrit, the horrid harridan, the repulsive termagant, the fustigant fury, the lamia rampant, the execrable harpy, the verminous virago, the loathsome she-wolf. Hence are you known the world over as the unquestioned mistress of the lore and practice of foety, this expertise being explained, of course, not simply by its natural attraction to one of your demonic foulness, but, more simply still, by the demands of self-preservation.”
The vile little monster ceased and stared at Zulkeh. “Well,” it demanded, “has the unnatural beast captured the essence of your thoughts?”
Zulkeh coughed. “As to that,” he spoke, “in so far as you explicate the dimensions of my situation, I believe you have succeeded in capturing its focus, if not perhaps all aspects of its permutations.” Then he frowned. “But certainly must I take exception to the various descriptions of the witch Magrit which you placed in my mouth! For I can assure you—and all present!—that never once would such intemperate and demeaning characterizations of such a fine and respected sorceress as Magrit cross my lips! I am shocked! I am appalled! I am—”
“Oh no!” interrupted Shelyid. The dwarf took a step toward Magrit, his hands outstretched.
“I can swear to it, ma—Magrit! The master didn’t say those things! No, you shouldn’t think that!”
The dwarf shook his finger fiercely at the salamander. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Wittgenstein!” Then, turning back to Magrit, Shelyid continued, in a most earnest tone:
“He never once called you a lamia or a harpy or a fury or a she-wolf, and—”
“You see!” exclaimed Zulkeh. “My stupid but honest apprentice vindicates me! And I can assure you all—”
“—he didn’t call you a repulsive termagant or a verminous virago, oh no!—not at all!—instead—”
“—that Shelyid shares with many morons an uncanny accuracy of memory, the which—”
“—he called you a crass termagant and a loathsome virago, and while it’s true that—”
“Shelyid!” cried the wizard. “Desist at—”
“—he called you a horrid harridan, I don’t think Wittgenstein should make such a big deal about that because he called you all kinds of harridan, not—”
“—at once! Desist I say!”
“—just a horrid harridan but a vile harridan and a noxious harridan and a debauched harridan, too. So you can see—”
“Desist, I say!” This last in a roar, following which Zulkeh smote the apprentice with his staff, knocking the gnome flat. There can be little doubt that this first well-deserved buffet should have been followed by quite the proper thrashing, but his staff was suddenly snatched from his hand.
Turning with indignation, the mage beheld the staff firmly held in Greyboar’s giant fist.
“What is the meaning of this outrage!” demanded Zulkeh. “You, sir! Return my staff at once!”
“Do you wish this staff in its most suitable place?” inquired Greyboar, in a very mild tone.
“Certainly! And at once!” The mage extended his hand. “And furthermore—” He paused, considered.
“A moment!” spoke the mage hastily. He pondered again. “It occurs to me, in retrospect, that your inquiry was phrased somewhat oddly. I should—”
“Magrit, I’ll need some chicken fat,” rumbled the chokester.
“Got lots of the stuff!” said Wittgenstein cheerfully.
“Just give me a minute!” added Magrit, heading toward the pantry.
“One moment! One moment!” spoke Zulkeh. “There is no need—”
He was interrupted by Shelyid, now risen to his feet.
“Why did you hit me, master?” demanded the dwarf, in a most untoward tone of voice. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, I was just setting the record straight!”
“Bah!” oathed Zulkeh. “You—”
“Bah yourself!” shrilled Shelyid. The wizard’s eyes goggled at this impudence.
“I’m tired of you hitting me all the time,” grumbled the dwarf, “especially ’cause most of the time I don’t deserve it, and even most of the time when I do, I don’t deserve to be hit as hard and as often as you hit me, and even the few times I maybe deserve to be hit as hard and as often as you do, you still shouldn’t do it because, well, because it’s mean.” He ceased and stared up at his master, a preposterous look of aggrievement upon his semi-simian face.