torn and ragged clothes tighter about him.
“Not accident, then,” he muttered as he stood there.
“Not just luck. I worried about that, but in the end gave it
little credence. Now I see that I was wrong. You think
you’ve won, don’t you? You think you’ve beaten me?” He
looked up at the ladder. Snooth stood on it holding the
original container of medicine. Zancresta had been so busy
watching Jon-Tom that he hadn’t seen the proprietress
switch it for the smoke bomb.
“You all think you’ve beaten me. Well, you haven’t.
Not Zancresta, you haven’t. Because you see, I came
prepared to deal with every possibility, no matter how
remote or unlikely. Yes, I even came prepared to deal with
the chance that this stripling spellsinger might possess
some small smidgen of talent.”
270
Alan Dean Foster
“Go ahead and try something.” Jon-Tom felt ten feet
tall. He could feel the power surging inside him, could feel
the music fighting to get out. His fingers tingled and the
duar was like a third arm. He was riding high, on the same
kind of high the stars got when they sang in front of
thousands in the big halls and arenas. He stopped just short
of levitating.
“Come on, Zancresta,” he taunted the sorcerer, “trot
out anything you can think of, bring forth all your nasti-
ness! I’ve got a song for every one of ’em, and when
you’re finished”—he was already humming silently the last
song he planned to sing this day—”when you’re finished,
Jalwar-Zancresta, I’ve got a final riff for you.”
The ferret pursed his lips and shook his head sadiy.