“Damnation!” he said. Everything was off schedule, and there was no way of telling how long the castle would stand unattended, its obsolescent spells running down. And his young people, the Prince and Princess, had to be animated as soon as possible, before they could deteriorate.
And here he was flying through the air, unable to recite his counterveillance in time to prevent what was happening. Not that it necessarily would. These general spells often fail in specific situations.
Azzie passed out during this transition. When he recovered, he had an ache in his head. He tried to stand up, but he seemed to be on some slippery surface. Every time he rose, he fell down again. He was also a little sick to his stomach.
He was lying inside a pentagram. You can’t get any more conjured than that.
This was not the first time he had been conjured, of course. Every demon who wishes to lead an active life among mankind must become accustomed to being conjured many times, since mankind plays tricks on demons just as demons do on people. There never has been a time when men and women did not conjure up demons. There are many folktales to that effect, telling of the triumphs and failures of the humans who have trod such a path. What is not told is how often sensible arrangements are arrived at, since even souls are commodities that can be purchased fairly. It is an ancient arrangement: the demon furnishing various kinds of work in return for a soul. Kings are good favor granters and many of them have had demon servants. But it is not a one-sided situation. Many demons have had kings as servants.
“See, Father, I told you he’d come!”
That was the voice of Brigitte. A triumphant voice. And there she was standing in front and above him, a dirty-faced little girl who had used the promise she had wrung from him to call him up now.
“Looks like you did, all right,” a man’s heavy voice said. It was her father, Thomas Scrivener. The fellow seemed to have regained his senses. But, of course, he lacked his memory of the Pit and of his meeting with Azzie. Azzie was thankful for that. Once humans got too much knowledge, they became dangerous.
“Oh, it’s you,” Azzie said, remembering the little girl who had caught him with a spirit-catcher back when he was shepherding her father. “What do you want?”
“My promise!” Brigitte said.
Yes, it was true; Azzie owed her a promise. He would have dearly loved to forget it. But the world of magic registers promises between humans and supernatural creatures as facts of physical import. It was impossible for Azzie not to deal with this.
“Well,” Azzie said, “open one of the sides of the pentagram and let me come out and we’ll discuss it.”
Brigitte leaned forward to rub out a line, but her father seized her and pulled her back. “Don’t let him out! You’ll lose all power over him!”
Azzie shrugged. It had been worth a try. “Master Scrivener,” he said, “tell your little girl to be reasonable. We can clear this up quickly and I can be on my way.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Scrivener said to his daughter. “Demons are rich. You can ask for anything you want! Anything at all!”
“I’d better explain about that,” Azzie said. “That is the popular superstition, but I can assure you it is not true. Demons can only fulfill wishes within their individual powers. Only a very high demon, for example, could grant you great wealth. I, however, am a poor demon working on a government grant.”
“I’d like a new doll,” Brigitte said to her father. Azzie tensed and leaned forward. It didn’t quite constitute a wish, since it hadn’t been directed to him. But if she would say it again . . .
“A doll, Brigitte?” he asked. “I can get you the most wonderful doll in the world. You’ve heard of the Queen of the North, haven’t you? She has a special little toy house with tiny figures that do the work, and pet mice that run in and out, and other things besides, I don’t quite remember what. Shall I fetch it for you?”