4 Alan Dean Foster
“Of course you wouldn’t. Because if I die it means the
end of your chances to return to your own world. Because
only I know the necessary, complicated, dangerous spell
that can send you back. It is in your own interest to see
that I remain alive and well.”
“I know, I know. Don’t rub it in.”
“Furthermore,” the wizard went on, pressing his advan-
tage, “you are partly to blame for my present discomfort.”
“What!” Jon-Tom whirled on the bed. “I don’t know
what the hell you’ve got, Clothahump, but I certainly
didn’t give it to you.”
“My illness is compounded of many factors, not the
least of which are my current awkward living conditions.”
Jon-Tom frowned and leaned on his long ramwood staff.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ever since we returned from the great battle at the
Jo-Troom Gate my daily life has been one unending litany
of misery and frustration. All because you had to go and
turn my rude but dutiful famulus Pog into a phoenix.
Whereupon he promptly departed my service for the dubi-
ous pleasures his falcon ladylove could bestow on him.”
“Is it my fault you’ve had a hard time replacing him?
That’s hardly a surprise, considering the reputation you got
for mistreating Pog.”
“I did not mistreat Pog,” the wizard insisted. “I treated
him exactly as an apprentice should be treated. It’s true
that I had to discipline him from time to time. That was
due to his own laziness and incompetence. All part of the
learning process.” Clothahump straightened his new glasses.
“Pog spread the details of your teaching methods all