“It is secure,” croaked Toth-Set-Ra. “Now, by the spells which made you and the spells which bind you, I would have word of the world.”
“There is pain and suffering,” squeaked the demon. “There is mortal misery and unhappiness, and boredom and ennui among the non-mortal.”
“Specifically!” snapped the wizard and the demon fell back gibbering under the lash of his voice.
“What you will, Dread Master. What you will of me?”
“The Wizard Patrius.”
“Dead, Dread Master. Struck down unprotected by your servants as he strove to weave a powerful spell. The Mighty in the midst of the mighty laid low.”
“The spell?”
“A Great Summoning, Master. A Great Summoning.”
“His assistants?”
“None, Master. None save a hedge witch.”
Toth-Set-Ra frowned.
“And the Summoned?”
“A man, Master, only a man.”
“A magician? A wizard?”
“I see no magic, Master. Save the hedge witch’s and Bal-Simba, who comes after Patrius’s burning.”
“And what is his virtue? What is the special thing which made Patrius summon this one?”
“I do not know, Master. I see no answer.”
“Then look ahead,” commanded Toth-Set-Ra. “Look to the future.”
“Aiii,” gibbered the demon. “Aiii, destruction for us all! Pain and fire and the fall of towers. Magic of the strangest sort loosed upon the land! A plague, a pox, the bane of all wizards!” He capered about the pentagram as if the table had become red hot.
“How?” snapped the wizard. “Is he a wizard, then?”
“No wizard, Master. Magic without magic. Magic complex and subtle and strange. A plague upon all wizards, a bane. A bane! Aiii Good Master, let me leave him! Aiii!”
Toth-Set-Ra scowled. The demon was frightened! He knew from experience that it took a very great deal to frighten a demon and this one was so terrified it was almost incoherent.
“Leave then,” he said and made the gesture of dismissal. The demon vanished in a puff of smoke and the lid of the box snapped down.
Toth-Set-Ra sat long scowling at the carven box while the heatless blue light from the flame at the door played across his leathery face and reflected from the sunken pits of his eyes. A plague upon all wizards . What could that be? And why would Patrius—may his soul rot!—risk his life to Summon such a one? The Northerners relied on magic fully as much as the League. Magic was as vital to life as air. More vital, he corrected himself. There were spells which allowed a man to live without air.
Might the demon have been mistaken? Toth-Set-Ra cocked his head to one side as he considered the notion. It was not unknown for demons to be wrong. They were, after all, no better than the spells that created them. But this scrying demon had never failed him. Not like this.
A trick by the Northerners? The scowl deepened. The wizard held out his hand to the side, fingers extended, and an amethyst goblet, twin to the one that lay in fragments on the floor, filled with wine from an unseen pitcher and flew to his clawlike grasp. Yes, it was possible the Northerners had staged the incident for the League’s benefit, or even spoofed both the demon and the Sea of Scrying.
Toth-Set-Ra took a sip of the magically concocted vintage and shook his head. What possible advantage could the North have gained that was worth the death of their most powerful wizard?
Assuming Patrius was dead, of course. . . . Too many possibilities! He needed more information and quickly. He motioned toward the door and the curtain of fire vanished as suddenly as it had come. He struck a tiny gong and instantly one of his goblin guards was in the doorway.
“Atros, to me,” he commanded. “At once!” The guard bowed and vanished in a single movement and Toth-Set-Ra scowled into the bottom of his wine. He would have an answer. If it took every wizard, every spell and every creature at his command, he would have an answer. And quickly!
They raised a mound over Patrius where he lay. Moira set Wiz to finding rocks while she used her silver knife to cut the green sward into turfs. The profanation rendered the knife useless for magical purposes, but she didn’t care. She placed the turfs about the charred hulk who had been the greatest and best of wizards. From time to time she stopped to wipe away her tears with the sleeve of her blouse, unmindful of the dirt that it left streaked upon her cheeks. There was no proper shroud to be had, so Moira covered Patrius’s face with her apron, tucking it in carefully around the body and murmuring a goodbye before she gently laid the bright green sod over him. The tiny flowers nodding in the grass made a fitting funeral bouquet.