Bring Me the Head of Prince Charming

Chapter 10

Azzie had been working in his laboratory when he felt the familiar psychic tug which tells you that you are being conjured. It is a sort of pull that starts from the inside of your stomach. Not unpleasant, but always an unwelcome signal of what lies ahead. It would be all right, perhaps, to be conjured when you were just sitting around without anything much to do. But people tend to call you up just when you are most heavily engaged in something delicate.

"Damnation!" he said. Everything was off schedule, and there was no way of telling how long the castle would stand unattended, its obsolescent spells running down. And his young people, the Prince and Princess, had to be animated as soon as possible, before they could deteriorate.

And here he was flying through the air, unable to recite his counterveillance in time to prevent what was happening. Not that it necessarily would. These general spells often fail in specific situations.

Azzie passed out during this transition. When he re­covered, he had an ache in his head. He tried to stand up, but he seemed to be on some slippery surface. Every time he rose, he fell down again. He was also a little sick to his stomach.

He was lying inside a pentagram. You can't get any more conjured than that.

This was not the first time he had been conjured, of course. Every demon who wishes to lead an active life among mankind must become accustomed to being conjured many times, since mankind plays tricks on demons just as demons do on people. There never has been a time when men and women did not conjure up demons. There are many folktales to that effect, telling of the triumphs and failures of the humans who have trod such a path. What is not told is how often sensible ar­rangements are arrived at, since even souls are commodities that can be purchased fairly. It is an ancient arrangement: the demon furnishing various kinds of work in return for a soul. Kings are good favor granters and many of them have had demon servants. But it is not a one-sided situation. Many de­mons have had kings as servants.

"See, Father, I told you he'd come!"

That was the voice of Brigitte. A triumphant voice. And there she was standing in front and above him, a dirty-faced little girl who had used the promise she had wrung from him to call him up now.

"Looks like you did, all right," a man's heavy voice said. It was her father, Thomas Scrivener. The fellow seemed to have regained his senses. But, of course, he lacked his memory of the Pit and of his meeting with Azzie. Azzie was thankful for that. Once humans got too much knowledge, they became dan­gerous.

"Oh, it's you," Azzie said, remembering the little girl who had caught him with a spirit-catcher back when he was shep­herding her father. "What do you want?"

"My promise!" Brigitte said.

Yes, it was true; Azzie owed her a promise. He would have dearly loved to forget it. But the world of magic registers promises between humans and supernatural creatures as facts of physical import. It was impossible for Azzie not to deal with this.

"Well," Azzie said, "open one of the sides of the pentagram and let me come out and we'll discuss it."

Brigitte leaned forward to rub out a line, but her father seized her and pulled her back. "Don't let him out! You'll lose all power over him!"

Azzie shrugged. It had been worth a try. "Master Scriv­ener," he said, "tell your little girl to be reasonable. We can clear this up quickly and I can be on my way."

"Don't listen to him!" Scrivener said to his daughter. "De­mons are rich. You can ask for anything you want! Anything at all!"

"I'd better explain about that," Azzie said. "That is the popular superstition, but I can assure you it is not true. Demons can only fulfill wishes within their individual powers. Only a very high demon, for example, could grant you great wealth. I, however, am a poor demon working on a government grant."

"I'd like a new doll," Brigitte said to her father. Azzie tensed and leaned forward. It didn't quite constitute a wish, since it hadn't been directed to him. But if she would say it again...

"A doll, Brigitte?" he asked. "I can get you the most won­derful doll in the world. You've heard of the Queen of the North, haven't you? She has a special little toy house with tiny figures that do the work, and pet mice that run in and out, and other things besides, I don't quite remember what. Shall I fetch it for you?"

"Wait!" Scrivener shouted, still drawing Brigitte back. "He's trying to cheat us, daughter. This demon has wonders at his fingertips. He can make you rich, can make you a princess-"

"No, nothing like that," Azzie said.

"Ask for something big!" Scrivener said. "Or better yet, give your wish to me, and I'll wish for enough to make us both rich, and then I'll get you all the dollhouses you could ever dream of."

"Will I still have to clean up after meals?" Brigitte asked.

"No, we'll hire a servant," Scrivener said.

"And will I have to milk the cows and feed the chickens and the rest of the household chores?"

"Of course not!" Scrivener said.

"Don't trust him, Brigitte!" Azzie warned. "I'll tell you what would be better. Just ask me to bring you something nice and I'll surprise you. What about that, eh?"

"Don't listen to him," Scrivener said. "You must wish for a large estate at the very least."

"Don't listen to him," Azzie said. "He always bullies you, doesn't he? But I remember when he was mighty glad to have my help."

"What are you talking about?" Scrivener asked. "I never saw you before."

"That's what you think," Azzie said. "Brigitte, what color do you want your dollhouse?"

"Where did we meet?" Scrivener asked.

"What I really want," Brigitte said, "is - "

"Wait!" Scrivener cried. "If you ask for something insig­nificant, I'll tan your hide, young lady."

"I wish you'd stop shouting at me!" Brigitte cried.

"I can take care of that for you," Azzie said, and made a gesture.

Thomas Scrivener opened his mouth but no words came out. He strained, his tongue waggled, his cheeks puffed in and out, but he could form no sound.

"What have you done?" Brigitte asked.

"Fulfilled your wish," Azzie said. "He'll not shout at you again. You or anyone."

"That wasn't fair!" Brigitte said. "I was talking to my daddy, not to you! You still owe me a wish!"

"Come on, Brigitte," Azzie said. "Make a wish, then. I have to get out of here."

Thomas Scrivener tried to speak. His face was purple, and his eyes bulged like hard-boiled eggs. He was one hell of a looking sight, and Brigitte started to laugh, then stopped ab­ruptly. Something had appeared in the air.

It solidified.

And there was Ylith, appearing from nowhere, looking disheveled, with smoke coming out of the end of her broom.

"Azzie!" she cried. "Good thing you told me of this wish situation - and I remembered. Is there a problem?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Azzie asked. "I'm still trying to get this kid to name a wish so I can grant it and get out of here. But she and her father keep arguing about what it should be."

Thomas Scrivener made pleading gestures to Ylith.

"What have you done to him?" Ylith asked.

"Well," Azzie said, "Brigitte here said she wanted him to shut up, so I shut him up for her."

"Oh, Azzie, stop playing around. Little girl, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Brigitte considered. "When I was little I wanted to be a princess."

"I don't know whether Azzie can handle that," Ylith said.

"I don't want that now," Brigitte said. "Now I want to be a witch!"

"Why do you want that?"

"Because you're a witch," Brigitte said. "I want to be like you and ride a broomstick and enchant people."

Ylith smiled. "Azzie, what do you think?"

"One more witch, what does it matter?" Azzie asked. "Is that it, kid? You want to be a witch?"

"Yes!" said Brigitte.

Azzie turned to Ylith. "What do you think?"

"Well, I do take on apprentices from time to time. Brigitte is a little young, but in a few years ..."

"Oh, yes, please!" Brigitte said.

"All right," Ylith said.

"Okay," Azzie said. "You got it, kid. Now let me out of here."

"First give my father his voice again."

Azzie did as was requested of him. Thomas Scrivener went to give Brigitte a good slap alongside the head. He found his arm held by an invisible force.

"What did you do?" Brigitte asked Ylith.

"It's simple enough magic," Ylith said. Turning to Scriv­ener, she said, "Be good to your little girl. In a few years she will be able to make mince pies of you. And you'll have me to reckon with, too."