was. Something was materializing in the air next to him.
He tugged futilely at the leather cuffs, dropping the duar in
the process. The instrument was glowing brightly as it
bounced around on the floor like a toad at a disco.
The slow-moving porcupine was on his feet and staring.
He’d abandoned the cord in favor of edging ’round toward
the rack of weapons. Selecting a long spear, he aimed it at
the cell. Jon-Tom was uncomfortably aware of the fact that
if the jailer so chose, he could run him through where he
stood.
“What are you doing, spellsinger? Stop it!”
52
Alan Dean Foster
“I’m not doing anything!” Jon-Tom prayed his hysteria
was as convincing as it was heartfelt. “Untie my hands!”
The jailer ignored him, gazing in stupefied fascination at
the slowly rotating cylinder of fluorescent gas that had
gathered inside the cell. “Don’t lie to me. Something is
happening. Something is happening!”
“I know something’s happening, you moron! Let me
loose!” He wrenched uselessly at his bonds.
The jailer continued to keep his distance. ‘ ‘I am warning
you, spellsinger. Put an end to this magic right now!”
Keeping his thorny back against the walls, he edged
around until he was standing close to the bars. From there
he was able to prod the prisoner with the tip of his spear. It
was extremely sharp.
“I can’t stop it! I don’t know what I did and I don’t
know what’s happening.”
“I do not believe you.” The jailer’s voice had turned
shrill and he was jabbing seriously with the spear.
Suddenly a loud bang came from the cloud of gas. The