“I’m sorry!” Zancresta screamed, utterly frantic now.
“I was blinded by anger.”
“YOU WERE BLINDED BY EGO, WHICH IS FAR WORSE.”
“It is a terrible thing to feel inferior to another. I can’t
stand it. I was overcome with the need to redeem myself,
to restore my standing as the greatest practitioner of the
mystic arts. All I have done was only for love of my
profession.” He prostrated himself, arms extended. “I
throw myself on your mercy.”
“YOU LOVE ONLY YOURSELF, WORM. MERCY? YOU
WOULD HAVE SLAIN MY MORTAL TO SAVE A FEW COINS,
TO SHOW YOUR DOMINANCE. MERCY? YEA, I WILL GRANT
YOU MERCY.” The ferret’s head lifted, and there was a
hopeful look on his tormented face.
“THIS is MY MERCY: THAT YOU SHALL DIE QUICKLY
INSTEAD OF SLOWLY!”
Zancresta shrieked and dodged to his left, but he wasn’t
fast enough to escape that immense descending hand. The
fingers contracted once, and the shriek was not repeated.
There was only a quick echo of bones crunching. Jon-Tom
and his companions stared numbly.
282
Alan Dean Foster
The hand opened and dropped the jellied smear that had
been Jalwar-Zancresta, Wizard of Malderpot.
“I ASK YOU,” the djinn muttered in slightly less deafen-
ing tones, “YOU TRY TO RUN A LITTLE BUSINESS DOWN
THROUGH THE AGES AND YOU FIND ETERNITY FULL OF
WELCHERS. SPEAKING OF WHICH”—the massive toothy
skull and burning yellow eyes lifted to regard Jon-Tom—
“THERE is MORE YET TO DO.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” said Jon-Tom, starting to back
away, “we’re ready to pay for what we want. We didn’t
come here to stiff anybody.” He glanced toward Snooth,