“Frike! Bring me chalk! Candles!”
Frike hurried to the pantry where the magic supplies were stored. There, in a stout chest, he found the things Azzie needed. The candles were as thick as a man’s wrist, and they stood almost as high as Frike himself. He bundled five of them under his arm, one for each point of the pentagram. The candles were as hard as petrified flesh and slightly greasy to the touch. Frike brought them and the chalk to the front room. Azzie moved the trestle table out of the way. He had taken off his cloak and doublet. Long muscles gleamed under his shirt as he tugged an extra suit of armor into a corner.
“I don’t know why I keep all this junk around,” Azzie said. “Give me the chalk, Frike. I’ll inscribe the figure myself.”
Azzie bent low and, lump of chalk in his right hand, inscribed a large five-sided figure on the stone floor. A ruddy glow from the fireplace outlined his figure, tinging it red, accentuating his foxlike look. Frike almost expected to see Azzie’s legs change into the furry red legs of a fox. But despite his excitement, Azzie retained his human shape. He had worked on it for a long time, since demons of experience take great pains to shape their human forms to suit their self-ideals.
Frike watched as Azzie inscribed the Hebrew letters of power, then lighted the candles.
“Ylith!” Azzie intoned, crossing his claws and genuflecting in a manner that hurt Frike’s eyes. “Come to me, Ylith!”
Frike could see the beginning of movement in the center of the pentagram. The candles gave off coiled streamers of colored smoke. These danced up and down, coalesced, gave off bright sparks, then settled into a solid shape.
“Ylith!” he cried. But it was not. The being in the pentagram was a woman, but there all resemblance to the Ylith he remembered ceased. This was a short, stout female with orange hair and a hooked nose. This female crossed her arms and glared at Azzie.
“What do you want?” she asked severely. “I was just leaving for my coven meeting when you conjured me. If I hadn’t been caught by surprise, I would have canceled your spell, which was wrongly cast anyhow.”
“You’re not Ylith, are you?” Azzie asked.
“I’m Mylith,” the witch replied.
“From Athens?”
“Copenhagen.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Azzie said. “I was trying to conjure up Ylith from Athens. The Spirit Exchange must have gotten things mixed up.”
Mylith sniffed, rubbed out one of Azzie’s Hebrew characters, and scribbled in another. “You had the wrong exchange. Now, if there is nothing more . . . ?”
“I’ll be happy to conjure you back to your home,” Azzie said. “I’ll do it myself,” Mylith said. “No telling where your charm would land me!”
She made a gesture with both hands and vanished.
“That was embarrassing,” Azzie remarked.
“I think it amazing,” Frike said, “that you can conjure anything. My last master, the demon Throdeus, was quite unable to conjure at all on Saturdays.”
“Why, do you suppose?” Azzie said.
“He had been an Orthodox rabbi before becoming a demon,” Frike said.
Again he conjured. Again colored smokes coiled in the center of the pentagram. But this time, when they coalesced, instead of a short, ugly orange-haired witch standing in the pentagram, there was a tall, good-looking black-haired witch in a silk shorty nightgown.
“Ylith!” Azzie cried.
“Who is it?” the witch asked, rubbing her eyes. “Azzie? Is it really you? My dear, you should have sent a messenger first. I was sleeping.”
“Is that a sleeping garment? ” Azzie asked, for through and around the peach-colored diaphanous garment he could see her plump and well-shaped breasts and, by walking around her, get a look at her rosy bottom, too.
“Shorty nightgowns are the newest sensation in Byzantium,” Ylith said. “I don’t suppose they will catch on in Europe. Not soon, anyhow.” She stepped out of the pentagram. “It is wonderful seeing you, Azzie, but I really need some clothes.”
“I’ve seen you in less than that,” Azzie said.
“I know, but this is not one of those times. And your loutish servant is staring at me! I must have a wardrobe, Azzie!”