“Good to see you again, Hermes,” Azzie said. “I was just philosophizing over this pair of legs.”
“I’m not going to stop you,” Hermes said.
He had been floating in the air about five feet above Azzie’s head. Now he drifted gracefully to the ground, bent, and examined the legs.
“What sort of man do you suppose these belonged to?” Hermes asked.
Azzie turned and considered the legs. “A merry sort, obviously, for look you, they are still wrapped around with gaily colored woolen strips, of the sort that dandies and fellows who think well of themselves affect.”
“A dandy, do you think?”
“Most certainly, for look how exquisitely the calves are turned. And notice how perfectly formed and finely muscled the thighs are. You might also notice the small foot, with high, aristocratic arch, well-shaped toes, and evenly clipped nails. Nor is there much in the way of callusing on the heel and along the sides. This fellow did not have to do much to get his living, certainly not with his feet! How do you suppose he met his fate?”
“I know not,” Hermes said. “But we can soon find out.”
“Have you some trick?” Azzie asked. “Some feat of conjuration unknown to the common lot of demons?”
“Not for nothing,” Hermes said, “am I the patron saint of the alchemists, who invoke me when they concoct their mixtures. They seek to turn base metal into gold, but I can turn dead flesh into living memory.”
“That seems a useful trick,” Azzie said. “Can you show me?”
“With pleasure,” Hermes said. “Let’s see how these legs spent their last day.”
As is customary in conjurations, there was a puff of smoke and a sound as of a brazen gong. As Azzie watched, the smoke parted and he saw . . .