Knight Life

Someone called out, "Here it is! Here it is again."

Most people reacted only casually. They had, after all, seen it before. Still, Percy put down his work momentarily to watch. Arthur's commercial had been shot in an empty studio, the only prop on the set being a stool. Arthur was leaning against it, gazing out at the viewer with that easy familiarity of his.

"Hello," he said pleasantly. "I'm Arthur Penn. I want to be the next mayor of New York City.

Vote for me. Thank you."

The screen then went to black, and Gwen's voice, sounding very sultry, said "Paid for by the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee.' *

Percy smiled and returned to his work. He remembered when Arthur had first presented the script for the commercial to all and sundry. There had been a long moment of skeptical silence, but Arthur had remained firm, despite the swell of subsequent protest and disbelief.

As the primaries had approached, Arthur had studied the commercials of other candidates very carefully. His decision was to try and find a different angle. Once he had eliminated the Meet the People Approach, the Photographed in Front of a Recognizable Monument approach, the Meet My Family Aren't We Wholesome approach, the Hard Hitting Tough Talker approach, and the My Opponent is a Cheating Son-of-a-Bitch approach, that had left him with exactly one option.

"But Arthur," Percy remembered himself complaining. "All that's going to happen is that people will see your commercial and wonder,' Yeah, but why should I vote for him?' "

"Precisely!" Arthur had said delightedly. "The beauty of this commercial is that it's only ten seconds long. So we can afford-what is it called? Saturation, that's it. And we'll get people curious. People like to be tested, to be challenged. Every politician sounds like every other politician. As far as I'm concerned, people are no different now than they were centuries ago. Before you can accomplish anything, you have to get their attention. And frequently the best way to get their attention is to hit them on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper." He grinned. "My entire campaign is directed toward hitting them with that newspaper. To a large extent what I say is irrelevant, as long as it's making people"-he tapped his temple with his forefinger,-"think! No one thinks anymore. Well, my friends, this campaign is not going to lay things out in nice easy packages."

That's for sure, Percy thought to himself. He shook his head. This whole campaign was hardly an easy package. As the treasurer of the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee, he had his work cut out for him.

Merlin had certainly done his groundwork, paving the way for Arthur's return. That much was certain. An entire fictive history of Arthur being silent partner in a number of wealthy businesses had given credence to Arthur's personal fortune. The actual origin of the fortune was unknown to Percy, although he had a suspicion that if someone happened to stumble over the pot at the end of the rainbow, they might now find it empty. Merlin had a knack for making things happen. That same fictive history had supported Arthur's bid for the mayoralty. Coming from outside of politics, he could claim no prior party obligations. Coming (ostensibly) from a background in business, he could claim that he had a businessman's sense of running things, and that was what New York City needed. Someone who knew how to eliminate waste, to maximize profits. In short, to run New York City like the profit-making center it should and could be.

It all sounded great. Percy just hoped that Arthur could pull it off. And he hoped that no one tumbled wise to the whole setup. Percy wasn't sure, but he had a feeling you could go to jail for being the treasurer of an organization backing a candidate for mayor who had supposedly died over a dozen centuries ago.

Moe Dredd, his middle swathed in a white towel, sat back in the steam room of his favorite health club. He could feel his pores opening, his skin breathing in the healthful mists around him. Sweat beaded his forehead, slicked his back and upper arms. His hands rested comfortably on his lap.

The door to the steam room opened. Moe looked over with half-closed eyes and dimly made out a figure through the steam. "Is that you, Cordoba?" he called out.

There was a pause, and then a voice called back, "No. It's me, Arthur."

Moe shrunk back against the wall as Arthur stepped out of the fog, smiling pleasantly. He wore a towel as well, except that it was wrapped around him like a toga. And it was purple.

"You wouldn't by any chance be referring to Ronnie Cordoba, would you, Moe?" asked Arthur with what sounded like only mild interest. "The old racquetball companion of your leash holder, Bernie Bittberg? You might be interested to know that, with the primary only a month away, old Ronnie has joined my team. Seems he has a flair for public relations and Bernie was attempting to funnel it into the standard channels. So Ronnie came over to us.

We're a good deal more flexible."

He sat down next to Moe and patted him on the back. Moe recoiled from his touch.

"So," said Arthur, "this is our first opportunity to reall) talk. So tell me-how are you doing, you little bastard?"

"Mister, um, Mr. Penn, I don't see-"

Arthur raised a preemptory hand. "Don't. Don't even try to lie to me. It's foolishness. I know who you really are. Honestly, with the perversity with which fate names the players in our little drama, it would be a minor miracle if I didn't know you." He sighed and shook his head. "I thought we'd seen the last of each other on the field of battle, Modred, those many centuries ago. And before you try to protest again, I must re-emphasize that I know who you are, and I know that you know who you are. I have every confidence that my half sister, your mother, discovered you reincarnated in this"-he glanced down,-"less than impressive form."

"Well, I like that," huffed Moe Dredd.

"Just as I," continued Arthur, as if Moe had not said anything, "rediscovered Jenny, and Merlin found Percival."

"Ah, yes," said Moe Dredd disdainfully. "Gwen DeVere, the president of your reelection committee-an appointment that came as no surprise to anyone, I assume."

"Not to anyone who knows Gwen and knows what she's capable of."

Moe wiped the sweat from his eyebrows as they began to drip into his eyes. "That's not half as funny as putting an alcoholic in as your treasurer."

"Percy is not an alcoholic anymore," said Arthur evenly.

"Once a drunk, always a drunk," said Moe. "Even a drunk will tell you that."

"Perhaps. But I'm willing to give people a chance, despite their character flaws. Just as I'm willing to give you a chance."

"What?"

"You may not recall, Modred, but on that last day, when I received the wound that nearly killed me-and indeed, the day you were killed-you claimed you were willing to make a peaceful settlement with me. Suddenly, at the last moment, a poison adder appeared from nowhere and laid me low. My men, not seeing the snake, thought you had betrayed me, so they attacked. And that was the finish of us all."

He leaned toward Moe. "The thing I've always puzzled over, and the thing to which I doubt I'll ever get an answer, is my question of whether you arranged for that poisoned snake yourself, or whether you were actually willing to negotiate for peace. On that basis, Modred, my reincarnated bastard son, I offer you a place within my organization. Because I want to be able to trust you.'*

Modred stared at him. Then he stood, said, "I'm sorry, I can't. I just can't," and left quickly.

Arthur could have gone after him. If he had, things might have turned out differently. If he had, he might have actually become allies with Modred, instead of ending up facing his son in battle several months later. But he didn't. He let Modred go, electing to stare into the steam, and so the future was allowed to run its course, which was remarkably similar to the past.

Gwen stood in front of the door to her former apartment, listening carefully for some sound of movement. There was none.

It had been a rainy summer day, and Gwen pulled her raincoat more tightly around her. She tossed her head, smoothing out the damp strawberry-blond hair which she had permitted to grow to shoulder length because that was the way He liked it. She smiled mirthlessly to herself. Lance had always insisted that she keep it short. She wondered what he would say now.

She wondered for the umpteenth time if she should have told Arthur she was coming back to her former home to finally reclaim items she'd abandoned when he'd carried her away. How long had it been? she wondered. She couldn't quite recall, for the past months had been idyllic. Although Arthur had been residing in his more traditional-style apartment, he and Gwen had found many an evening to sneak off to the castle and have, as Arthur referred to it, a dalliance.

In addition her self-respect had shot up a hundredfold when she'd been voted president of Arthur's election committee. Merlin had pitched a holy fit on that score, but it had been fair and square. Everyone who worked with Arthur had come to genuinely like Gwen, and she'd blossomed under the appreciation to become a hard-working, quick thinking, aggressive woman-the woman she'd always had the potential to be, until Lance had smothered it. But he could only smother it for as long as he was an influence on her. And now that influence had been broken.

And yet... and yet...

She was back. Because she'd left behind books, clothing, and other personal possessions.

But mostly because she had left behind a part of herself. And she wanted to reclaim it, clear up the "unfinished business" between herself and Lance. Last time she'd left, she had been swept up and saved by her shining knight (and what a warm feeling just thinking of that moment gave her). This time she wanted to walk out on her own, head held high. It was what she knew she needed.

So why, with all that, did she feel a mixture of disappointment and relief that Lance might not be home? That her big confrontation would not occur? She didn't know, but rather than stand in the hallway and procrastinate any longer, she reached into her purse and pulled out her keys.

It didn't occur to her until that moment that Lance might have changed the lock. Fortunately he hadn't. She opened the door and stepped into the apartment.

A woman was lying on the couch, waiting for her.

Gwen's breath caught in surprise, and she glanced at the door to make sure that she had the right apartment.

"Oh, yes," said the woman. "You have the right place. Come in, Gwen, come in."

Gwen walked in slowly, cautiously, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the hazy glow of the television set which faced the couch. "Do I, urn, know you?"

The glare from the television played odd light images off the woman's angular face,-flickering, giving her a look of non-substance. She was wearing a long black gown with a low-cut front which displayed a generous amount of cleavage. Again Gwen said slowly, "I don't know you ... do I?"

"From another time," said the woman slowly. "Another life. However, I won't take it as a personal affront that you don't recall me. My name is Morgan."

Gwen blinked. "Morgan. Morgan ... Le Fey?"

Morgan inclined her head graciously.

"Arthur's sister?"

"Half sister, if you please, my child."

"I ... I thought you were dead. A long time ago." Gwen felt a weakening in her knees, and she rested one hand against the wall to support herself. She saw the look in Morgan's eye when Arthur was mentioned, and for the first time that she could ever recall, she actually feared for her life. She wanted to run screaming from the apartment, but some instinct warned her that backing down from Morgan now would most certainly mean her end.

Morgan shrugged. "That is what was believed. Of me. Of Arthur. Of Merlin. But it's difficult to extinguish pure good ... or pure evil." She laughed. "Tell me, Gwen ... do I look evil?"

"I'm not... no. That is... I'm not sure."

"Looks can be deceiving," said Morgan pleasantly. "I'll tell you a secret, my child-good, evil, it's all subjective. No one really knows what good and evil is, except that those in charge invariably judge themselves good, and those who are not are judged evil by those who have judged themselves good. Do you see? And if I were in charge, I would be able to label as evil the actions of those whom I did not like, and I would be considered good. And who would there be to say me nay?" She gestured for Gwen to come toward her. "I have something to show you."

But Gwen didn't move from the wall. "Why haven't you then? Tried to put yourself in charge, I mean?"

Morgan smiled. "Oh, my darling, if you could only have seen what I've seen all these centuries. When Arthur was first locked away in that cavern, after his near-fatal wound in battle, I could scarcely believe my good fortune. Arthur was gone. Merlin was already long gone. The world was easy pickings for me, or so I thought.

"The problem was, I had spent much of my life's work on Arthur's destruction. It had become such an obsession for me that, once he was out of the way, I found myself then facing the rest of the world. It was, to put it mildly, daunting."

She sat up, tucking her long legs under her. She patted the couch next to her, but Gwen still kept her distance. Morgan shrugged. "Oh, I had my followers. I had demons upon whom I could call for assistance. But many of these were susceptible to cold steel-very susceptible.

In any sort of pitched battle my forces would have been slaughtered, and not all my mag-icics could have prevented it. So I appeared at courts, but my name and image were already well-known. Many kings and landowners would not even let me in to their homes, and those who did, did so only under feeling of obligation to their departed liege, Arthur. And they kept quite a close eye on me, I can assure you.

"So I became a wanderer, plotting as I wandered how I could possibly, as you said, assume the power that I sought. My wanderings led me to some incredible discoveries . . . the infinite prolongation of life, for one. Astral projection, a feat that had been beyond me during Arthur's lifetime. And the most depressing discovery of all-that time was against me. The world was growing, my pet. Beyond my meager ability to control it.''

She got up from the sofa, then, with a little huff of impatience, and walked over to Gwen. She stroked Gwen's cheek gently, and Gwen shivered with horror at the coldness of the woman's touch.

"Oh, I kept my hand in, of course. At the time I was very embittered, you see. I had been given a world that was free of Arthur and Merlin, and yet that world had not become the easy pickings I thought it would be. I admit I had considered no further than what would happen once those two blights were gone. Once they were, I had nothing. So I vented my frustration.

I like to think I cut my own swath through history. A plague here, a disaster there. A normal man who inexplicably begins slaughtering helpless innocents. A demon cult arising, performing ritual sacrifices. Fortunes lost, lives destroyed." She shook her head. "But one can only have random fun for so long before it begins to pall on you.

"And finally, after uncounted years, my anger began to turn to a sense of helplessness.

Inflicting misery on others can only bring happiness for a time. And the unspeakable happened-I started to reminisce for the good old days. The days when my goals were clear-cut. Destroy Arthur. Destroy Merlin. Thwart their horrendously humanitarian intentions, bollix their plans at every turn. Bring about the downfall of everything my accursed half brother held dear. Those were pleasant times, and I wanted them back.

"So I waited. Oh, I could have set Merlin or Arthur free, I suppose. But that would have destroyed the spontaneity. Besides, knowing those two, they would have gone back into seclusion, contending that they would come out when they were damned ready."

"So I became a sentinel. Keeping vigil. Waiting for the time when they would leave or escape their imprisonment, and the battle for supremacy could begin anew. But century after century passed, and I began to despair of their ever returning."

She turned away from Gwen and folded her arms. "A year ago, my sweet, you could not have recognized me. I shudder when I think of what I became. But it's all behind me now."

There was a long silence, and Gwen swallowed. "Where's Lance?"

Morgan faced her, a wolfish smile on her face. My God, she looks like Arthur, thought Gwen.

"I was wondering when you would ask that. Come here, my sweet. Come and see."

Slowly, haltingly, Gwen walked to the television set and looked on the screen. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle a scream.

Lance was on the TV. He was naked, chained and spread-eagled against what appeared to be the wall of a dungeon. His head lolled against his chest.

The image was there for a moment only, before the screen abruptly went blank, but it had seared itself into Gwen's mind. She spun on Morgan, her fists clenched. "Why?"

"Because," said Morgan easily, "I want Excalibur."

Gwen stepped back, aghast. "I... I don't know what-"

Morgan raised a cautioning finger. "Now, now, love- don't try lying to someone who is infinitely your superior when it comes to lying. You know Excalibur. Where does Arthur keep it?"

"With him. All the time."

"All the time?"

Gwen blinked a moment, not understanding, and then she colored. "You mean, like when we're-"

"That's right."

"Oh, no. No, I couldn't."

Morgan crossed to her quickly and grabbed her by the wrist. Her pleasant demeanor disappeared as she spat out, "Then your precious Lance dies."

Their gazes locked, and then Gwen said as levelly as she could, "So kill him."

Morgan released her in surprise. "What?"

Gwen flounced across the room, her stomach churning as she said, "Kill the bastard if you want. It doesn't matter to me."

Morgan smiled then, that same wolfish smile. "Very good. Oh, that's very good. I wasn't expecting that." She started to walk toward the door. "Very well, my queen. As you wish. Lance is as good as dead."

She got to the door, opened it, and then Gwen came up behind her and slammed it shut before she could exit. Morgan turned, and the two women faced each other, glaring.

"You kill him," said Gwen slowly, "and Arthur will hunt you down and kill you."

"Are you sure?" said Morgan quietly. "There's no love lost between Arthur and your former beau. Are you willing to gamble Lance's life that that threat will keep me in line-particularly since I believe it to be without substance?"

They stood there for a long moment, neither moving, neither willing to bend an inch in will or spirit. Then Morgan said, "Lance has spoken of you recently. I must say he's taking being chained up very well." Morgan walked back into the room with a jaunty little bounce to her step. "When I told him I'd be seeing you, he asked me to ask you for forgiveness. If you must know, his exact words were, Tell her not to worry about me. Whatever happens, I deserve it.'

"

Gwen's features crumbled momentarily, but she managed to quickly compose herself.

"Look, Morgan," she said, trying to sound reasonable, "even if I waited until after Arthur and I had . . . you know . . . and tried to get away with his sword, it would never work. He's so attuned to it that the moment I lay a finger on Excalibur he'd snap awake and want to know what the hell I was doing."

Morgan regarded her, her eyebrows arched, and said, "You may be right, my love. Very well then. I believe we can hit upon a compromise, if you are amenable. Provide a minor distraction for me, and I in turn will release your precious Lance as soon as the deed is done."

"He's not my precious Lance," said Gwen tautly. "I have no feeling left for him. I-I can't allow an innocent to be injured as a result of all this. And I want you to know that what you're doing is despicable."

"Yes," agreed Morgan. "It's nice to know I haven't lost my touch. Now here, my darling, is what I want you to do____"

Lance slowly raised his head as he sensed her nearness. Morgan smiled at him, standing several feet away. Lance pulled against his chains, then, his hands flexing frantically as he said, "Morgan! Oh, please, no, not again!"

She nodded slowly, smiling. She reached behind her back as she said, "I just saw a friend of yours."

"Friend?"

"Yes. Barely an hour ago." Her hand made some motion and her black gown dropped to the floor. She stood naked before him. "Your friend was very concerned about you."

"Morgan, please! I'm telling you, I can't...."

She pressed her body against his. The smell of her was intoxicating to him, and he trembled even as, much to his shock, he felt himself becoming aroused again.

"Didn't think you could again, eh?" said Morgan, nibbling at the base of his neck. "You might be interested to know, your friend wants me to let you go."

Lance moaned. "No! Please don't! Please don't let me go. Morgan, please ..."

"Hush, my love." She placed a finger against his lips. "No need to worry. Morgan is going to take care of everything." She ran her fingers along the length of his body, and drifted toward his groin. "Everything ..." she said languorously.

Chaptre the Fourteenth

The renovated storefront now had a huge banner draped across it, reading Arthur penn for mayor headquarters. Situated several blocks away from Arthur's main office in the Camelot Building, the move had been made due to space needs, not to mention higher visibility.

Arthur and company now had 1200 square feet, and although at first that seemed like a staggeringly large amount of room, it had become filled up pretty quickly.

Arthur had laughed the first time he saw campaign posters with his picture plastered on them at bigger-than-life size. Below his picture was the tag line, Arthur Penn-Common Sense. Over the months Arthur's prevailing attitude of "Don't bother me with countless facts, they only get in the way of making decisions" had become fashionable. Arthur had rapidly become a candidate with broad appeal. His no-nonsense attitude was refreshing, and his self-possession came across superbly both in person and on camera.

It was eight a.m. now, and he sat hunched with Ronnie Cordoba, a list of meetings and appearances between them. Arthur was shaking his head in despair. "Are these all really necessary, Ronnie?" he was asking. "Why can't I just continue as I have been?"

"Because you need more concentrated media exposure," Ronnie was saying. He leaned back in the creaking wooden chair. "Your earlier tactics were fine, Arthur, in terms of basic introduction. But the Democratic and Republican primaries are just around the corner, and the election only two months after that. We're just kicking into high gear now."

"Just kicking into high gear? Ronnie, look at this schedule." He slapped the piece of paper.

"Appearing in front of groups I've never heard of to discuss subjects I know nothing about."

"It would help if you had a speech writer and standardized talks," said Ronnie reasonably.

Arthur stood and hooked his thumbs into his vest. "Now we've been all through this. I don't want to hire somebody to write for me what I'm going to say."

"But everyone else does!" complained Ronnie.

"Yes, and they all sound homogenized-that's the word, isn't it? Gwen used it the other day."

"Where is Gwen anyway?" asked Ronnie.

Arthur shrugged. "She's had something on her mind the past few days. I've tried not to pressure her about it. I've generally discovered with women that it's not a good idea to try to make them talk when they don't want to. They'll generally come around."

Merlin walked in, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt. "Morning all," he said. "Percy's right behind me-he's stopping to get a bagel." He shook his head. "Fascinating thing, a bagel."

"Merlin, what do your folks think about your involvement in politics?" asked Ronnie. "I mean, are they going to make you cut back on your time when school starts?"

Merlin glanced at Ronnie, then back at Arthur. "Oh. That's right. We haven't told him, have we?"

Ronnie glanced around curiously. "Told me what?"

"About Merlin," said Arthur. "He's lived-"

"Alone," said Merlin quickly, shooting a poisonous look at Arthur. "Alone, for quite some time."

"Really? Merlin, do the authorities know?"

"Not if we don't tell them. Right, Ronnie?"

Ronnie looked at Arthur in confusion. "Arthur, are you sure we should have . . . well, a minor, as a part of this campaign?"

"I'd be lost without him," said Arthur simply.

"Besides, don't get yourself in an uproar, Ronnie," said Merlin. "I'm living with someone now. Percy's moved in with me."

"What, there's room in your apartment?"

"Apartment? Oh, no. I have a house out on the Island. I commute."

"Oh," said Ronnie, nodding in understanding. "Long Island?"

"No. Bermuda."

Percy walked in carrying a small brown bag. "Morning, everyone." He cocked his head.

"Ronnie, man, you okay? You look pale."

"Me? Naaah," said Ronnie. "Merlin, he was just kidding around with me, that's all."

"Oh, I see. You know, Ronnie, you've been workin' real hard. You should come out to Bermuda. Get some rest."

Ronnie nodded slowly, then leaned over the agenda for the day. "Ooookay. Arthur, most of this stuff is routine. You've got a women's group in the morning, senior citizens lunch, a citizen's watch group in the early afternoon, and then you're meeting with a group of Jewish community leaders in late afternoon. Then we've got the fund-raiser tonight-"

"Oh, right! I'm very upset about that, and I'm not going."

Merlin turned in surprise. "What are you talking about? Our money is starting to run low . . .

you have to get more for your campaign fund. I can't continue to be the main funder for this race...."

"There he goes again," said Ronnie. "Where did you get the money to back Arthur, eh, Merlin?"

"Stock market investments. I bought into IBM and Xerox back when they were still using abacuses and carbon paper, respectively. But Arthur, I don't understand. Why-"

"There are limits as to what I will do, Merlin. Gwen told me about this dinner tonight. She said I'd have to wear a monkey suit. Now if you think for one minute I'm going to dress like an ape simply to get votes, then, my little wizard, you have quite another think coming."

He sat there, arms folded resolutely, eyes smoldering. Ronnie and Percy looked at each other, trying not to snicker. Merlin rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

"Someone is going to have to talk to you, long and hard, about slang," he said.

* * *

The banquet hall was filled with men and women dressed formally, seated at large round tables, finishing their Chicken Kiev and assorted vegetables. And although the conversation at the tables was lively, attention kept returning to the long dais at the front of the room.

There were seated Arthur, Gwen, Percy, and several known and respected celebrities in New York. For all of them it was their first lengthy meeting, and they found themselves, as always, charmed by Arthur's openness and frank manner of discussing issues.

Merlin was seated at a table close to the front. Arthur had wanted him to be at the dais but Merlin had deferred, observing that they didn't want or need endless speculation as to who the young boy seated with all the dignitaries was.

Seated in the middle was a former head of the United Nations General Assembly--a distinguished looking man who now stood and rapped his fork briskly on the side of his glass. Slowly, conversation throughout the room quieted. In the back of the room TV news cameras focussed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you all for coming this evening," he said. "I hope that you all enjoyed your dinners- usually these things seem to have meals made from Styrofoam."

There was agreeing laughter. "However, trust to our host to be more concerned about the welfare of his patrons than that. As have many of you, I have been fascinated by Mr. Penn's rapid rise to the public awareness in the past months. As have you, I have found myself impressed by his straightforward thinking, his unflinching addressing of any problem. While other politicians seem to delight in straddling both sides of the fence, Arthur Penn is unafraid to speak his mind. To those people who agree with him, he is a sound ally. To those who disagree with him-well they respect him nevertheless and know, at least, that if Arthur Penn tells them something, it comes from the heart, and it's not going to be changed to cater to whims or political expediencies.

"Let me give you a little background on the Independent candidate for mayor of New York City..."

As he spoke, the waiters in the room, who had been scattered at random points throughout, slowly began to work their way forward. No one noticed it. Who pays attention to the movements of waiters?

Merlin felt a faint warning. He wasn't sure what it was- some bothersome feeling in the back of his head, like an angry gnat, letting him know that something was not quite right.

He looked around his table. The eleven other people seated with him seemed harmless enough, attentive enough. He looked at the other tables, but saw no cause there for alarm.

So what was it? Where was it?

I have not, thought Merlin, lived this long without learning to trust to my instincts.

A movement caught the corner of his eye. One of the waiters had an odd look on his face, a look of great intentness. Merlin pursed his lips. He looked around and saw a half dozen other waiters, all with the same determined expression. No, something was definitely not right.

Merlin quietly slid the ashtray off the table. Miraculously, no one had smoked at his table-the glass of the ashtray was clear. Merlin reached into the pocket of his black jacket-his monkey-suit jacket, he thought grimly-and pulled out a small flask with blue liquid inside.

With one small hand he uncorked it and poured the liquid into the ashtray. It spread rapidly, like a thing alive, coating the surface with blue. Moments later he held the ashtray up to his eye, peering through the blue filter of the liquid.

He gasped as he looked at the waiter nearby.

"And so, ladies and gentlemen, I give to you, Arthur Penn!"

Merlin's head snapped around. Arthur had risen behind the dais and was smiling out at this supporters. Merlin started to stand, to jump and shout to Arthur exactly what was surrounding them. Then he slowly sat again, unsure of how to warn Arthur without setting off a general panic. Or how not to sound insane.

Arthur leaned forward and said, "My friends..."

There was a low moan from his left. He looked around just in time to see Gwen, hand on forehead, eyes closed in a swoon, topple over backward.

"Gwen!" he shouted, and immediately moved to her. At the end of the table a noted attorney asked loudly, "Is there a doctor here?"

Eighteen doctors glanced at their watches and wondered if this might be a good time to leave.

Arthur knelt at Gwen's side, having already dabbed a napkin into a glass of ice water. He dabbed it across her face, saying urgently, "Gwen? Gwen, what's wrong?"

She opened her eyes. He saw no illness in them. Only fear.

"Gwen, what-"

There was a sudden tug at his hip.

He looked around to see a waiter behind him. The man's face was narrow, almost satanic, as with a fierce certainty he grabbed the invisible scabbard that hung at Arthur's side and yanked. There was a rip as the scabbard came free and the waiter leaped back, the invisible prize in his hands.

Arthur completely forgot about Gwen as he leaped toward the waiter, who backpedaled furiously. The entire room was now in an uproar. Everyone was demanding from each other what the hell was going on, and no one knew. Men grabbed for their wives, wives grabbed for their pocketbooks.

The waiter who'd grabbed Excalibur jumped down from the dais and darted past Merlin's table. Hard on his heels came the former King of the Britons.

"Arthur!" shouted Merlin, and he tossed the blue-stained ashtray. Arthur caught it without breaking stride and shoved it in his pocket, not having the faintest idea why Merlin had blessed him with such an odd gift at this particular moment. Just before he was out of earshot, Merlin shouted, "Look through it!"

The half-dozen waiters had regrouped, and as one they ran out the back of the room, through the swinging doors. Arthur was right after them, and right behind them came the TV

camera crews, excited by the thought that what had seemed a standard money-raising dinner had suddenly blossomed into a potential lead item for the eleven o'clock news.

The waiters smashed through the kitchen, the holder of Excalibur in the lead. Cooks were pushed roughly out of the way and kitchen utensils clattered onto the floor. Arthur did not even take the time to mutter "Excuse me" as he shoved past.

There was a rolling cart of dishes off to the right. One of the waiters paused momentarily, grabbed it, and toppled it. A resounding crash rang through the kitchen as miles of dishes spilled out and shattered in Arthur's path. He vaulted, skidding slightly when he alighted but recovering and continuing the pursuit. The camera crews, on the other hand, were not so lucky. They slid headlong into the mess of dirty dishes and leftover food on the previously spotless floor and with a yell went down, one atop the other.

Arthur burst out into the open air of the back alley. It took a moment for his eyes to readjust to the gloom of the night, and then he saw the bright red jackets of the waiters only yards away, dashing down the alley toward the street. Arthur gave chase, shucking his four-hundred-dollar dinner jacket and tossing it aside.

The waiters made it to the sidewalk and then did exactly what Arthur feared they would do-split up. Arthur felt a surge of panic. How was he supposed to follow the one with the invisible sword? Which one had it?

He felt a bulge in his pants pocket and remembered the ashtray. What had Merlin said?

Look through it. He pulled out the ashtray and peered through the blueness.

He made an awful sound deep in his throat. He had spotted the waiter bearing Excalibur immediately-through the blue lens the sword became visible, even though it had not been drawn from its scabbard. But what horrified Arthur was the thing holding it.

It was covered completely with brown scales, its torso elongated so that it was hunched over. Its hands ended in three long, tapering claws. Its head was similar to an alligator's, except the snout was not quite as long. It turned its malevolent green eyes on Arthur and snarled a guttural warning through a double row of pointed teeth. However, it did look snappy in its red waiter's jacket and pressed black slacks.

It turned and faced Arthur, drawing Excalibur from the sheath. Arthur saw his sword glowing dimly in the evening light, and rather than fear, he felt rage that this. . . this thing was soiling his beloved sword with its foul hands.

Passersby who saw only an angry waiter, incensed perhaps because he'd been stiffed on a tip, nevertheless drew back in fright when they saw the immense sword he wielded.

Arthur approached cautiously, arms spread out, legs flexed, never taking his eyes from his opponent. He growled low in his throat as he inched closer and closer to the demon. Cars slammed to a halt on nearby Forty-seventh. Two small children, who lived in an apartment above a deli that had closed for the night, leaned out their window and watched in fascination.

The demon swung Excalibur in an arc and hissed, "Morgan Le Fey sends her regards, King of Nothing!" The demon slashed Excalibur down and Arthur dove to one side, rolling and quickly getting to his feet. The demon closed on him, swinging the blade back and forth.

It whizzed through the air like an angry hornet, and Arthur could do nothing except stay the hell out of the way. He stumbled once and the demon almost caught him flatfooted. The demon swung Excalibur around, and Arthur leaped out of its path. The blade sliced through a parking meter, cutting it neatly in half at the middle of the pole.

Arthur backed up, looking around desperately for something to intervene. He heard a police car's siren, but it was a long way off, and besides, there was a chance that police would not be able to aid him against this nightmare creature.

"Afraid, Arthur?" crowed the demon. "You have a good head on your shoulders. Let's see if you can keep it there."

Arthur retreated farther, thankful at least that the bystanders had had the good sense to get away. Then his retreat was momentarily halted as he bumped into a large iron object behind him. His questing fingers immediately informed him he'd run up against a fire hydrant.

The demon was barely a yard away, and this time Arthur didn't flinch. "All right, you bastard," he snarled. "Give it your best shot."

With unearthly glee the demon brought Excalibur back over its head and then brought the blade swinging downward.

Arthur waited until the last possible instant, waited until the weight of Excalibur would make the sword's trajectory unalterable. And when it was bare inches from the top of his head, Arthur sprang catlike to one side. Excalibur sliced deep into the fire hydrant.

In a rage the demon yanked Excalibur to one side. The blade effortlessly cut through the rest of the hydrant, and with a sudden gush water blew forth from the broken hydrant. It sprayed upward and sideways. The demon was caught in the face and chest by the full impact of the water. With a howl it went down, clawing at the clean water that to the demon was like acid.

Excalibur flew from its grasp and clattered to the ground.

Arthur was on the sword in an instant, and within the next was upon the demon. He held the sword at the creature's neck and snarled, "Give Morgan my thanks... should you see her on the way to hell."

Then he drew Excalibur back and rammed the point through the inhuman thing's throat. Its angry howl of anguish was cut short, and it clawed at the blade even as the life fled from it.

A hole appeared in the demon's chest. Arthur looked down in surprise as a small creature darted forth from the already disintegrating body of the demon. It flittered this way and that, leaving a trail of flame behind it. Arthur stared at it in wonder and muttered, "A fire elemental.

Upon my sword, I thought I'd seen the last of--"

The elemental gingerly danced around the water droplets which sprayed from the fountain.

Then it caught sight of Arthur, and it flared in alarm and anger. Arthur frowned, suddenly aware that this small creature intended no good at all. He yanked Excalibur from the demon's throat and in one smooth movement sliced upward at the fire creature. The little ball of flame avoided him, spun around his head so close that it singed his eyebrows, then headed straight for the building that housed the closed deli.

"No!" shouted Arthur, but it was too late. The elemental hit the building at full steam. There was a loud fwoosh, and it was as if the two-story building had been firebombed. The downstairs windows exploded as fire leaped out from them, illuminating the street in a nightmarish glow of orange. Smoke poured out from the shattered windows, both downstairs and upstairs.

And as Arthur's gaze took in the second floor, he was horrified to see two children in one of the windows. Moments ago they had been witnesses to Arthur's struggle with the demon.

Now their eyes were riveted elsewhere-behind them, as they saw the room they were in engulfed in flame. The air crackled, became acrid with the biting sting of the smoke. The children screamed.

The police car was pulling up, but how long now before a fire truck could be summoned?

And, Arthur looked around the area in horror, what would they hook up to? The hydrant had been slashed in half, thanks to his brilliant tactic.

Without hesitation Arthur stepped into the stream of water that gushed from the hydrant. The water soaked his clothes, his body, his hair. He glanced over to where the demon lay, and was pleased to see nothing but a small pile of soot where the creature had once been. That was convenient-he hadn't relished the thought of explaining the presence of a recently slain corpse to the authorities.

Arthur stepped out of the water, then, grabbed up Excalibur's scabbard, and slid the weapon back into his sheath, buckling the now-unseeable blade back onto his belt even as he raced toward the burning building.

The TV crews arrived just as the police cars did. Seeing the fire, the newsmen automatically trained their minicams on the blaze. It took them a few seconds to realize that there were children trapped inside, and even a few seconds more before they saw that the would-be next mayor of New York was risking his life in a mad dash into the inferno.

Arthur took one glance upward, saw that the children were hysterical, saw that there was no way he was going to be able to talk them into trying to jump down. However, he did not relish the idea of entering the building-the intensity of the heat was almost overwhelming.

Then, as he studied the wall, he had an idea. He removed his shoes and began to scale the side of the building.

It was easier than he'd dared hope. The building front was brick, and the windows and doors had been built with so many outcroppings that it had been practically designed for handholds. From the corner of his eye Arthur saw that residents of the buildings to either side were clearing out, and he was thankful for that.

He went higher, higher. Flame flared out from the window beneath him, licking at his pants cuff, and he had to reach down to pat it out. The wall was heating up under his touch. In moments it would be too hot for him to hold on. Bracing himself, he thrust himself higher, and his desperate reach grabbed the outcropping of a narrow ledge. It was all that he needed to pull himself up and away from the window. He scrabbled apelike (and he thought for a moment of Gwen's reference to a monkey suit-how right she had been) with his hands holding the ledge and his feet braced on the wall directly below.

He heard the sound of the children before he saw them. Hundreds of sparks flew at him and dissipated on the fabric of his wet clothing. He thanked his common sense for the move he'd made earlier for protection, or otherwise he'd have had a lot more to worry about than that one singed pants cuff.

He looked up through the smoke at the crying children.

"Hold on," he called. 'Til be right there!" His heart pumping furiously, Arthur pulled himself up so that his face was right even with the bottom of the window. He saw the frightened, smoke-smeared faces of the children, and it was all the incentive he needed to hoist himself upward and into the room with them.

The features of both of them were obscured by soot, but they clutched at his legs and cried hysterically for their parents.

Arthur scooped up the two children, one in each arm. The little boy, despite his fright, still took the opportunity to stroke Arthur's beard in wonderment. "Are you Santa Claus?" he sniffled out.

Arthur climbed up into the frame of the window, balanced there for a moment, and reviewed his options. The review came to an abrupt end when the ceiling behind him started to collapse and flames leaped at the three people. Breathing a silent prayer, Arthur Pendragon hurled himself and the children to the ground below.

The children shrieked into his ears, almost shattering his concentration. The ground arrived with dizzying speed as Arthur landed on his feet. Pain stabbed up through his legs, and he rolled, bringing the children in close to his chest and taking the impact on his shoulder. In the window where he'd just been, a ball of flame roared out, as if the fire were angry that he'd escaped and was venting its fury.

Arthur rolled off the curbside and into the street, even as police officers pushed through the crowds of people starting to ring them. Now there were more sirens coming-fire engines and ambulances. Two policemen wrestled momentarily with the TV cameras, who also wanted to push through the crowd to get close-ups. "Move it or lose it!" snapped one of the cops, and the cameramen chose to move it.

Arthur lay in the center of the circle, moaning softly but sitting up, massaging his bruised shoulders. The children stood on either side, no longer crying, almost forgetting Arthur completely as they watched their home burn.

"Wow," murmured the little girl, "when Mommy and Daddy come back from the movie, they're gonna be mad."

"Would you tell them we didn't start it, mister?" said the boy.

Arthur forced a smile. "Certainly. Right after I give them a long talk about leaving children without baby-sitters.'*

"If we'd have had a baby-sitter, you'd have had to rescue her too."

Arthur stared at the boy. "You have a point," he admitted.

The cops broke through to the center. "Okay, no one move. You're all gonna be all right, an ambulance is on its way!"

"Ambulance?" said Arthur.

"To take you to the hospital. Geez, mister, you shouldn't try stunts like that," said the cop, a young blond-haired rookie. "You should wait for the fire trucks to show up."

And as the fire trucks rounded the corner, the roof of the building collapsed in on itself with a heart-rending crash. Arthur looked up at the officer and said, with as little sarcasm as he could manage, "I'll remember that next time. I can't go to the hospital-I have a speech to make. People will be disappointed____"

He started to get to his feet, and immediately pain shot through his right leg. He crumbled, cursing, and muttered under his breath, "I'm getting a few centuries too old for this sort of thing."

"Arthur!"

He turned and saw Gwen shoving her way through the crowd. "Oh, thank the Lord, Gwen. It's good to see you." He winced as he touched his leg. "Help me get back to the hall. People paid good money to hear me babble about some nonsense or other____"

An ambulance had pulled up, and paramedics were already leaping out of the back. "Arthur, don't be crazy!" Gwen was saying. She shouted to the paramedics, "Over here!"

The paramedics turned in their direction, but Arthur gestured toward the two frightened children. The paramedics nodded their understanding and headed over to the youngsters.

Arthur lay his head back in Gwen's lap. "I'll wait for the next one. Gwen, where's Merlin?"

There was a pause, and Arthur looked up into Gwen's eyes. "Gwen?"

She turned away. Arthur sat upright and his voice was harsh. "Gwen! Where the hell is Merlin?"

It had happened with incredible swiftness. Merlin watched, uncertain of what he should do, as Arthur dashed out the door after the creatures who had stolen Excalibur. He looked back at the dais, saw that Gwen was on her feet, and frowned. That was damned quick recovery for someone who had fainted dead away. And the expression on her face-it looked like the expression of a woman who had just done something frightful beyond imagining.

Merlin started toward her, questions forming on his lips, when someone blocked the way.

The young wizard glanced up. It was another waiter, with a very unpleasant look. Merlin stepped back, but the waiter drew back his fist and sent a roundhouse punch sailing toward Merlin's chin. Merlin went down as if he'd been poleaxed, the floor spinning around him. He tried to stagger to his feet even as the waiter/demon grabbed up a chair and brought it slamming down on the magician's head. Stars exploded in Merlin's skull and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Everyone from Merlin's table had already moved away, and so did not see the incident. But Percy saw, and he leaped over the head table, shouting, "Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing? Put him down, right now!"

He closed in on the demon, but the monster swept its arm around, knocking Percy back like a rag doll. Percy fell over the table, knocking over the centerpiece and catching up the tablecloth. He hit the ground and lay still.

"What are you doing?" shrieked Gwen. "You only wanted the sword! Morgan said all you wanted was the sword!"

The waiter grinned at her in an unearthly way. "Morgan lied," it hissed. "She does that sometimes."

"Merlin's gone?"

She tried to restrain him. "Now Arthur, try to stay calm."

He lurched to his feet, staggering desperately toward the convention hall. But Gwen's plaintive cry of "Arthur, it's too late!" brought him up short.

He turned and demanded, "How could you stand there while someone dragged Merlin off?

How-"

"What was I supposed to do?" wailed Gwen. "I couldn't fight a demon. I've never fought anyone in my life, much less some creature."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right." He smiled sadly and shook his head. Encouraged, Gwen came to him and supported him.

The camera crews were closing on him rapidly. They all had tape of Arthur's rescuing the children and now wanted some footage of the Hero. Arthur grinned wanly at them, and then a thought sliced through him like a dagger. Gwen yelped in startled pain as Arthur's grip tightened convulsively on her shoulder.

"Arthur, not so hard. You'll hurt me. That's no way to treat your crutch."

His voice was a sick whisper. "How did you know?"

"W-what? What do you-"

He turned to confront her, and Gwen's body shook with fear from the look in his eyes. "How did you know they were creatures from hell and not human beings?"

"You told me."

"No."

"Yes. Just now. You-"

"Don't make it worse!" he shouted at her. "Don't lie to me!"

Tears streamed down her face as she tried to shrink from him. "Arthur, please don't-"

"How did you know?"

"Morgan told me!" she screamed. "She told me they would be. She arranged for everything." She was speaking desperately, words tumbling one over the other. "But she just told me she wanted the sword. That's all. She swore no one would be hurt. I thought-"

"And you provided the distraction." His words were cold, burning with an icy flame that blazed in his eyes.

"Yes. But-"

He shoved her away roughly and stood there, fists clenched as he trembled with repressed fury. "Damn you! How could you betray me again!"

She staggered toward him, her body racked with sobs. "Arthur, please. I had no choice.

Lance-"

"Don't talk to me. Don't even look at me." His voice was pure venom. "You're not fit for human company!"

He staggered away from her as the cameramen descended. "Mr. Penn, what does it feel like being the man of the hour?" the newsmen were shouting. "What were you thinking when you were hanging from the side of that burning building? Did you think you were going to die? How did you feel about-"

Arthur grabbed the first newsman who came within arm's length and shoved him roughly out of the way. He spun and shouted, "Get away from me!

Just ... leave me . . ." His voice caught as he looked at Gwen's tear-stained face. "Leave me alone."

He limped away into the darkness, illuminated briefly in the flickering of the rapidly dying fire.

It was late at night in Central Park. The moon was obscured by clouds, and there were no sounds other than a young woman pounding on the uncaring stones of Belvedere Castle.

The sides of her hands were abraded from the stone as she continued to smash her hands against the wall in supplication. "Arthur, please let me in," sobbed Gwen. "You've got to let me explain!"

There was a tap on her shoulder and she whirled around. "Oh, Arthur, I-"

"No, my sweet," said Morgan quietly. "It's not Arthur."

"You! You . . . bitch!" She leaped at Morgan, fingernails bared like claws. Morgan caught her flailing wrists and tossed her roughly to the ground. She stood over Gwen and laughed harshly. "What a pathetic little fool you are." She nodded toward the castle. "Arthur's not in there."

"How do you-"

"I know a great deal about a great deal. Arthur's wandering the streets right now," said Morgan easily. "Angry. Confused. Hurt. I could attack him now, and probably defeat him utterly. But I've waited far too long to dispose of him so quickly. No, we'll let him stew. You, on the other hand, little queen," and she smiled menacingly, "you have served your purpose."

In a pure, white-hot fury, Gwen hiked up the hem of her evening dress and swept out with her legs. She knocked Morgan's legs out from under her, sending the sorceress toppling to the ground with her. Within moments she was upon Morgan, tearing at her hair, her eyes, her face. Morgan shrieked in anger and indignation.

Gwen felt herself abruptly being hauled off of Morgan's writhing body. She flailed at the men who stood on either side of them.

"Whoa! Hey! C'mon, slugger," said Chico, struggling to hold onto the infuriated Gwen. "This is, whattaya call, undignified."

Gwen stopped, looking from Chico to Groucho and back again. "What are you guys doing here?" she demanded.

"We live here," said Chico simply. "That's how we first met the king. And now we see you and this nice lady who you were tryin' to kill. I tell ya, y'meet the best people in the park."

Morgan staggered to her feet. "You'll regret that," she said, gingerly touching the scratches where Gwen had raked her face. "You'll regret that most dearly."

"What are you going to do?" demanded Gwen. "Kill me? I feel dead already. You couldn't hurt me any more than I've already hurt myself. Damn you! I should have gone straight to Arthur-"

"Yes. You should have," said Morgan with a twisted smile. "Are you wondering where your precious Lance is? I still have him. And you know why? Because he doesn't want to leave. It seems he's developed a fondness for bondage. Isn't that interesting?"

Chico raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's certainly got my interest."

"You're lying," snarled Gwen. "You lie about everything."

"Not about this," said Morgan. "I don't need to lie about this. Tell me-does Arthur ask you to talk dirty, the way Lance does with me?"

Gwen stared at her in shock. "My God. It was all for nothing."

"Yes." Morgan laughed. "All for nothing. That's all it ever was. That's all it ever will be."

Groucho took a step forward. There was a switchblade in his hand and a distracted tone in his voice. "You know, I don't like you."

Morgan stared at him for a time, and then she turned in an abrupt swirl of her long black cape. She strode off into the darkness and merged with the shadows.

Chico shook his head. "She must be zero fun at parties." He turned to Gwen and shook his shaggy head. "You look so sad."

"I had it," said Gwen. "I had it all. And I lost it. And I can blame Morgan, or Lance, or anybody I want."

Groucho stepped forward. "You can blame me if you'd like."

She smiled unevenly and patted his thick beard. She then unconsciously wiped her hand on her dress as she said, 'That's sweet. But what I'm trying to say is that there's really nobody to blame but myself. That's the part that's tough to take."

Chico nodded, not understanding in the least, but determined to be helpful. "Gwen, if you'd like, you can stay with us tonight."

"What, under a tree? Gee, that's nice, but"-she wiped her nose-"I don't think that would be, well, right."

"Oh. You wanna, y'know, get married first?"

Gwen stared at him, and then, to her surprise, laughed. "You know, Groucho-"

"I'm Chico."

"I'm sorry. Chico. That's the first marriage proposal I've ever had in my life."

"You gonna turn it down?"

She nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Don't worry. You'll get lots of others."

"I hope so. God, I hope so." She patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks anyway. I hope you're not too broken up."

"I'll live," said Chico.

"Okay," smiled Gwen. "Good night, then, boys." She turned and walked off into the night.

Groucho slammed Chico in the shoulder. "That was close! Idiot! What if she'd taken you up on it?"

Chico shrugged, massaging his hurt shoulder. "She never would have. Pm Jewish. She's not." He sighed. "It'd never have worked."

Chaptre the Fifteenth

Bernie Bittberg had been made the official Democratic candidate for mayor of New York City. The decision from the primary voting had been overwhelmingly in his favor, due to endorsements from the two New York newspapers, namely the Times and the Daily News-no one counted the Post-and from a concentrated media blitz that had effectively destroyed the credibility of his opponents' records.

So now, several weeks after that primary, and several weeks before the election, Bernie should have been happy. He was, in fact, anything but.

It was past midnight as he huddled with his staff in a classic smoke-filled room. Bernie sat forward, rubbing his eyes, his still-knotted necktie draped over the back of his chair, his vest open to allow for his considerable girth. Moe Dredd sat to his immediate right. The various officials who ran his campaign were also there, in varying degrees of wakefulness.

Bernie looked around and slammed his open hand on the table, effectively rousing everyone. "What the hell are we going to do about this Arthur Penn character?" he demanded.

Effecting a gangland tone, his treasurer said, "You want we should rub him out, boss? I'll go round up Rico and the boys and-"

"Shut up, Charlie," said Bernie tiredly. "Now dammit, Pm serious. You know my philosophy about political opponents." He paused expectantly,

Moe filled the void, reluctantly. "Stick it to 'em."

"Stick it to 'em. That's right. Except what the hell are we supposed to do about this Penn guy? He's got no political record to speak of. For most people that would be a detriment, but he makes it work to his advantage. The voters see him as a fresh face in a jaded political arena, and it gives us absolutely zilch to work with. His business practices? Squeaky clean.

Hell, the man's never been investigated. All of his investments are sound and aboveboard.

He's hardly been involved in running the day-to-day business of anything, so although there's virtually no one to vouch for him, there's no one to say anything bad against him either.

"And if that's not enough for you," said Bernie with genuine indignation, "the guy has to go and save kids from a flaming building. Kids! Isn't that just friggin' fabulous! With TV news crews there to tape him." A sudden thought struck him. "Hey, maybe he started it. Stan, you're the press liaison. You have the contacts. Anyone looking into that possibility?"

Stan shook his head. "Police looked into it for weeks and still aren't sure what caused it. It seems like some sort of spontaneous combustion. Either way, certainly no sign of any incendiary device."

The head of clerical, Marcia, put in, "That whole thing gets bigger with every retelling. The children were telling reporters that our Mr. Penn, before the fire started, was fighting a man with a sword, and the man supposedly turned into some sort of creature and then crumbled away once Penn defeated him."

Bernie moaned. "Just what we need. Folk legends arising from this clown. So where does this leave us?"

Moe shook his head. "In a couple of days there's that televised debate. It's going to be you, the Republican candidate, and Arthur Penn. Now-"

Bernie hauled his carcass to his feet. "Penn's in the debate? Since when?"

"Since the TV stations became interested in ratings," said Moe sourly. "Since Penn won that citation from the Fire Department for gallantry. Since New York magazine put him on their Most Eligible Bachelor Politician List. Penn was amassing a following before, but that whole fire business made him really hot, so to speak. They decided that a debate would not really reflect the voters' interest in the candidates unless Penn was present. Frankly I can't blame them."

"Well, that's just wonderful, Moe," retorted Bernie. "And you won't blame the voters when they elect Arthur Penn instead of me or even the Republican candidate . . . uh, what's his name anyway?"

Everyone at the table looked at each other. Stan shrugged. "Who cares?"

"Yeah, you're right. Look, what it boils down to is this-I don't want to lose this race. I really don't. But the key to this is, I suspect, bringing down Arthur Penn."

"For what it's worth," said Marcia, "I think Penn's worst enemy right now is himself."

"Come again?"

"He was on a local news interview program the other day. He was snappish, irritable. Short with the interviewer. It's as if his mind is a million miles away."

"You know," said Stan, "come to think of it, he's been like that ever since the whole fire thing.

Maybe it shook him more than he lets on. He could hurt his image if he keeps it up. Because it's starting to look as if he can't stand pressure."

"Yeah, well, it's looking that way to us, but not to the general public. Not yet at any rate. So we're going to have to bring it to their attention."

He looked around the table. "We're going to have to start playing hardball, ladies and gentlemen. I hope that we have a clear understanding of this. Because if we don't win . . ."

his voice rose dramatically, and then he paused.

"Then we lose?" suggested Marcia helpfully.

Bernie covered his face and said quietly, "Meeting adjourned. Go home. Get some sleep.

See you all tomorrow." He glanced at his watch. "Sorry, make that later this morning."

Bernie himself started to rise, but he felt the gentle pressure of Moe's hand on his arm. He looked at Moe Dredd with curiosity, but Moe said nothing, didn't even look his way. Bernie lowered himself back into his seat, and they waited until the rest of the room had cleared out amidst tired choruses of "Good-byes" and "See you later."

"Nu?" said Bernie, once the room was empty. "What is it?" His voice dropped to a confidential level. "You got something on Penn? Please, say you've got something on him."

"Oh, I've got something on him, all right," said Mae slowly. "But you're not going to like it."

"How can I not like it?" He frowned. "Is he a fag? Don't tell me he's a fag. Not that I wouldn't use it," he added quickly, "it's just that I find that whole thing so, I don't know ... yuucchh."

"No. It's nothing like that." Moe took a deep breath. "You're going to have to be prepared to do something a little unorthodox. At the debate this Friday I want you to ask Mr. Penn something-''

"But we're not supposed to be talking directly to each other. Questions are being posed by moderators, and we're supposed to answer them."

Moe laughed curtly. He leaned back in his chair and said, "You telling me you're reluctant to start breaking rules?"

"Only if it's going to net me something big."

"It should."

"Only should?"

"All right, will, then. I want you to ask Arthur Penn who he is."

Bernie looked at him blankly. "What?"

Moe repeated it, and Bernie paused a moment, stroking his chin. "Moe, you know what the first rule is that a lawyer learns in the study of cross-examination? Never ask a question to which you do not already know the answer. So am I correct in assuming that the answer is going to be something other than the obvious?"

"Arthur Penn," said Moe, "is not his real name. At least, so he believes."

"What, he changed his name? Look, they made a big deal of that with Gary Hart, but I never thought much of it." He shook his head. "I'm not following you, Moe."

"Arthur Penn," said Moe, "is short for Arthur Pen-dragon."

"Pendragon? What the hell kind of name is that?"

"Medieval. Bernie, your opponent believes himself to be the original King Arthur."

The portly man stared at Moe. "Moe, let's cut the crap, okay?"

"I'm not kidding, Bernie. The man believes that he is King Arthur, Lord of the Round Table, ruler of Camelot, King of all the Britons____"

Bernie heaved himself to his feet, knocking his chair back. "Moe, this is just too ridiculous!

You're telling me that my main obstacle to being mayor of this city is as mad as a hatter?"

'Tm saying that the man thinks he's the original Arthur, son of Uther, Lord of-"

Bernie put up a beefy hand. "Please, spare me the litany, okay? You got any proof of this?"

"I've got one Lance Benson. He's ready to swear that Arthur attacked him with a sword in

'rescuing' Benson's girl friend from the supposedly vile clutches of Benson himself."

Bittberg's mouth dropped open. "Are you serious?" he whispered. "I want to meet this Benson guy."

"He's tied up at the moment," said Moe dryly. "But I'm sure he'd be happy to come forward when you needed him."

Bernie was silent for a long moment, trying to assimilate this new information. "He really, honest to God thinks he's King Arthur?"

"That's right."

"This is too much. But wait-" He turned on Moe. "How do I know that, if I ask him point-blank, he won't just lie about it?"

"Not Arthur," said Moe with absolute certainty. "He prides himself on telling the truth. It would be totally against his dementia to lie about who he thinks he is."

"Too much. Just too much." He stabbed a finger at Moe. "But I better not come out looking like an idiot on this."

"You can't possibly. You ask him point-blank what his real name is. Even if he maintains that it's Arthur Penn-which he won't-then you just cover yourself by saying that you'd heard he'd changed it, and you just wanted to make sure the record was straight. At worst it'll get you a raised eyebrow or two that will be quickly forgotten. At best," and he smiled unpleasantly, "it will get you the election in your hip pocket."

Moe stepped outside of the tall gray building that housed Bernard Bittberg's office. He glanced up at the moon and pulled his coat tightly around him against the stiff breeze. You could tell that winter was on its way.

He started walking, scanning the streets for a passing cab, when he suddenly felt an arm around his throat in a choke-hold. Moe tried to scream for help but his wind had been effectively and precisely cut off. His assailant dragged him into a nearby alleyway, pulling Moe as if his weight were nothing. Moe clawed at the arm around him, pounded on it, to no avail.

Once in the alley Moe was swung around and hurled against a wall. He slammed into it with bone-jarring impact, and with a moan sank to the ground. Distantly he heard the shikt of a bladed weapon being drawn from its sheath, and he tried to draw air into his lungs to shout for help.

The tip of a glowing sword hovered at his chest.

"I wouldn't, Modred," said Arthur quietly.

"You ..." He swallowed. "You wouldn't kill an unarmed man."

"Perhaps," said Arthur. "Perhaps not. Are you willing to bet your life on it?"

He prodded Moe gently in the ribs with Excalibur. Moe shook his head frantically.

"Now then," continued the king, "where is your god-cursed mother? Because wherever she is, it's certain that's where Merlin is. So all you have to do is tell me where I can find them and I'll be on my way. And you'll have your skin intact."

Moe's mouth moved several times but nothing came out. Arthur sighed and said, "Oh, do try to get on with it, won't you?"

"I... I don't know where she is."

"You're lying," said Arthur tightly.

"I'm not! As God is my witness, I'm not! She said ..." He swallowed. "She said she thought you might try something like this. So she deliberately didn't tell me where she was going to be hiding. Because she was afraid that I'd crack and bring you to her."

Arthur shook his head. "Ah, Morgan. Always the judge of character. All right, puppy, get up.

Up, I said." He waved with his sword, and Moe staggered to his feet. But Arthur kept the point of Excalibur only an inch from Moe's chest.

"Tell her," said Arthur, "that when next we meet--no mercy from me. Is that understood? No mercy."

"Yes. Absolutely, no mercy. I'll tell her."

"You do that." Arthur stepped back and loudly sheathed Excalibur. Moe winced at the finality of the sound.

The sword and scabbard vanished from Arthur's hip and he stood there nattily attired in a gray Brooks Brothers suit and overcoat. He backed out of the alley, a sardonic look on his face, and Moe realized that Arthur wasn't turning his back on him for a moment. Moe took a degree of satisfaction from that.

Arthur didn't come in to his campaign headquarters until ten a.m. the next day, startlingly late. The moment he walked in, Ronnie was all over him. "Arthur, where the hell have you been? We're already late for-"

"Have you heard from him?" Arthur said urgently, just as he had every day for the past month and a half.

Ronnie shook his head and looked down. "Arthur, this is insane. You at least have to file a missing persons report or something."

He put a hand on Ronnie's shoulder. "Trust me, my friend. It would do no good at all." He looked around and frowned. "I assume Gwen isn't here yet."

"She called in, said she would be a little late. Said she had an errand to run. Arthur, look, it's none of my business but-"

"You're right, it's none of your business. Where's Percy?"

"He's floating around. He's been holding up pretty well-finding that furnished apartment for rent certainly helped. Was that really all on the level, that he and Merlin were commuting from Bermuda?"

Percy seemed to materialize behind them. "Hard to believe, isn't it?" he said cheerily. Then he turned serious as he said, "Arthur, we have to talk about you and Gwen."

"No, we don't," said Arthur, "and I wish that all of you would feel less constrained to meddle in my private affairs."

"Private affairs!" said Percy. "Arthur, the woman is the head of your campaign, and it's obvious that she is number one on your personal hit list. And none of us understands why.

But it's starting to get on everyone's nerves, and frankly, it's hurting morale."

Arthur looked at the two men grimly and said, "Gentlemen, what has gone on between myself and Ms. DeVere is between the two of us. I do not consider her trustworthy-however, she seems to be doing a competent job as campaign head, and the staff likes her. So she is still here, but I do not have to be pleased by it. And that is all I have to say on the matter.

Ronnie, kindly cancel the rest of my plans for today."

"What?"

"I want to discuss the debate this Friday. It's important that I have all the facts at my fingertips. I'm quite concerned about the entire affair, and the more prepared I am, the better I'll feel."

He stalked through the headquarters toward his office in the back. Workers greeted him, and were surprised when he did not do much more than grunt, if that. Percy shook his head.

"It's nerves. That's all."

"Well, it wasn't a problem when Merlin was here," said Ronnie. "I never understood the relation between those two, but I never questioned it. And now he doesn't have Merlin, and it looks like he doesn't have Gwen. Still, he's got himself, and that should be enough."

"Uh-huh, except that I know what he's thinking. The last time he had only himself to depend on, everything fell apart."

"Really?" asked Ronnie. "When was that?"

Percy Vale sighed. "Long time ago," he said. "Before your time. Before my time, in a way.

But for Arthur, it might as well have been yesterday."

The owner of the occult-supplies store down on MacDougal Street opened his doors and was surprised to find a young woman standing there, waiting for him. The owner was a big man. His head was shaven, but he sported a large handlebar moustache. "Yes?" he rumbled. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," said Gwen, walking past him into the cool darkness of the store. Once she would have been frightened to set foot in such a place. But that was a lifetime ago. Her eyes scanned the various accoutrements, the horoscopes, the tarot cards, the small bottled and carefully labeled ingredients for witches brews, and then she saw what she was looking for.

She stepped over to a rack of ornate daggers and pulled one down from the display. It was small, in a black leather sheath. The thing that attracted her was on the pommel-a carved skull with red eyes, as large as her thumbnail.

"The lady would like a knife?"

"The lady would like this knife," said Gwen. She slid it out of the sheath and admired the sharpness of the edge.

"Are you purchasing this knife, may I ask, for protection?" asked the proprietor. "Or perhaps you had a certain ritual in mind?" He smiled. "If a sacrifice is intended, that knife might not be appropriate." He pointed to a large curved dagger on the wall. "Now that, on the other hand-"

"No," said Gwen, sliding the dagger back into its sheath. "This is just what I'll need. Small enough for easy concealment, yet large enough to effect damage.''

"I would say kill, if at close quarters," said the owner. "I think 1 can thank my lucky stars that I am not the one who the lady is after."

"Yes," said Gwen pleasantly. "You can." She tucked the knife in her handbag. "How much do I owe you?"

Chaptre the Sixteenth

They had cleared out the Reeves Teletape theater for the event. The television facility, situated on Eighty-sixth Street and usually home to sitcoms and the like, was now decorated inside with three podiums at which the three principal candidates would stand, a center podium where the moderator would be stationed, and on one side of this trianglular arrangement, a table where three local journalists would be seated.

Arthur's earlier nervousness had been replaced by quiet calculation as he surveyed the setup the same way he would have looked over a battlefield before engaging the enemy. He stared at the TV cameras in awe; despite all his assimilation, there were certain aspects of modern-day society that continued to boggle his mind, and instantaneous communication was definitely one of those aspects.

There was a tug at his shoulder and he glanced around. Percy smiled encouragingly at him.

'Turn around. Let's see you."

Arthur turned around obediently, and Percy straightened the collar of his suit jacket. He looked down and said, "Unbutton the bottom vest button."

"Why?" asked Arthur.

"I dunno, man. Because you're supposed to." He held out his hand and pointed proudly at the steadiness of it. "Congratulate me, Arthur. Ten months of sobriety. Haven't touched a drop."

"Not even raised a flagon of mead?"

"Not a one."

Arthur smiled broadly. "Good for you. Urn . . ." He looked around. "Gwen isn't here, is she?"

Percy stroked his chin. "For someone who doesn't care whether he ever sees a certain person again or not, you're aw^ ful interested in her whereabouts."

"Morbid curiosity. Nothing more."

"Uh-huh."

Ronnie came trotting over, a clipboard in his hands. "Arthur, you're here! Good. I was getting worried."

"Heavy traffic daunts even the best of us, Ronnie," said Arthur stridently. "Where am I supposed to be?"

"We've got an hour before the debate starts. They want to get you into makeup first."

Arthur took a step back. "Makeup?" he said cautiously.

"Yeah. Sure."

"Women wear makeup. I have put up with a great deal, but I will not look like a woman."

Ronnie stuttered, "B-but Arthur, you have to! You'll look washed out without it. I don't understand. You must have worn makeup when you did your commercials."

Arthur frowned. "Wait. They put something on my face__»

"That was it!"

"Oh. Merlin told me that was protectant salve, to prevent my being severely burned by the intense lights of the cameras."

Percy nodded, amused. "That Merlin was a smart little bugger."

Arthur turned on him with unexpected fierceness. "Don't talk about Merlin that way. In the past tense, as if he's dead."

Percy stepped back involuntarily. "Arthur," he whispered harshly, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed Arthur's sudden flare of temper, "I didn't mean anything by it."

"He's all right." Arthur paused, and then added fiercely, "He has to be." He turned to Percy.

"Come, let's get this 'makeup' done. I have an urge to be quit of this whole debate. It's..

.unseemly."

From the opposite corner of the studio Bernard Bittberg and Moe Dredd watched Arthur, Percy, and Ronnie stride toward makeup. "He's distracted," muttered Bernie. "Distracted real bad. That's gonna cost him." He turned to Moe and waved a finger in his face. "You better be right about this fantasy of his. I don't want to come across looking like some kind of schmuck." Moe patted him on the arm. "Trust me

... Mr. Mayor." Bernie grinned, and looked up at the monitor overhead, with the podiums for the candidates on its screen. "Mr. Mayor. I like the sound of that. I could get used to that real easy." "I knew that you could," said Moe.

If there were the equivalent of hell on earth, then it was in New Jersey. Verona, New Jersey, to be specific-named after the town in Italy where the star-crossed lovers of Romeo and Juliet had met their end. A small, unassuming jock town where, interestingly enough, creatures of evil were residing. But only in the not-so-nice sections.

It was a run-down two-story house, whose elderly owner had died ages ago, and it had sat vacant for years as courts tried to figure out who owned it. It finally reverted to distant family, who didn't even care enough to sell it themselves and so left it to a real estate agent, who went out of business a month later. Since then the house had fallen between the cracks in the attentions of all concerned. Ivy ran wild over the sides, and grass was supplanted by weeds stretching several feet high.

It was a dump, but Morgan called it home.

The insides had been done up superbly-exotic drapes and tapestries hung everywhere, illuminated entirely by candles.

Morgan strode through the house, her long black gown swirling around her bare feet. Trailing behind her was Lance, dressed in black leather and grinning like an imbecile. "Where are we going, Morgan? What's up? I adore you, Morgan-"

"Shut up," she said tiredly.

"Yes, Morgan."

She turned and stroked his chin fondly. "I don't need you, you know."

"Yes, Morgan. I know."

"You're a pathetic creature."

"Yes. But I'm your pathetic creature."

"Come. We're going to watch television."

"Wonderful! Uncle FloydV

"No, not Uncle Floyd'," she grated. "There's going to be a debate starting in a few minutes.

And I think it's going to be quite, quite interesting."

She walked into her inner sanctum. Pillows were scattered about for easy lounging. A television, the modern-day crystal ball, was set up on a small pedestal at one end of the room. Tonight, however, it would be used for something less arcane than spying on the movements of others. Tonight it would be used for something as pedestrian as watching a television program, broadcast live on WNYW, Channel 5, with the other local stations in attendance for taped highlights to be played later on their news broadcasts.

At the other end of the room was a life-size cylinder made of solid crystal. Encased inside the crystal, like a butterfly in amber, was Merlin. His eyes were open, burning with fury even after all this time. Morgan went to him and stroked the crystal lovingly. "Ah, Merlin. Your incarceration hasn't dimmed your anger, I see. But then, I suppose lengthy prisons are nothing new to you." She smiled, showing white, slightly pointed teeth. "You're in luck, however. Tonight I've arranged some special entertainment for you."

"It's UncleFloydl" said Lance cheerfully.

Despair welled in Merlin's eyes. If he could have moved any other part of his body, he would have screamed and beat his breast in fury.

"No it's not Uncle FloydV Morgan fairly shrieked. "Will you be quiet with your moronic Uncle Floyd." Her voice recaptured its sultry purr. "I know you have quite an interest in politics, Merlin. We're going to watch a debate. It's going to feature someone who's a friend of yours.

You remember Arthur, don't you?"

Then she laughed at the look of hope in his eyes. "You still hope for my fool of a half brother to rescue you! Never! Never, little magician. You're mine, do you hear? Mine, body and soul, forever." She continued in a singsong voice as she went to turn on the television. "Forever and ever and ever and ever..."

Merlin closed his eyes. Encased, helpless, immobile in crystal. Unable to send for help. Astral projection not even possible. Unable to help his king cope with a world that could be confusing and terrifying.

It could be worse, he mused. They could be making him watch Uncle Floyd again.

The floor director, earphones solidly in place, was calling, "Five minutes, everyone." He turned to the audience and said, "People, please. On air in five minutes. Please refrain from talking from this point on. If cameras are blocking your way, feel free to watch the proceedings in the overhead monitors. I appreciate your cooperation. Thank you."

Gwen sat in the front row, looking demure in a simple white blouse and denim skirt. Her purse was on her lap. The dagger she had purchased several days ago was still in it.

Arthur, stepping up to his station, looked out at the audience, and his gaze locked with Gwen's. She smiled encouragingly at him. He did not smile back. She bit her lower lip, but that was all, and then she looked up at the monitor, not being able to bear looking directly at him.

"Mr.Penn."

Arthur turned and saw the blond-haired, corpulent man standing next to him. There was a smile on his lips that went nowhere near his eyes. Nevertheless he stuck out a hand and said, "Bernard Bittberg. Your worthy opponent. I've heard a great deal about you, sir. It's a pleasure to meet at last."

Arthur nodded graciously, taking Bernie's hand and shaking it once firmly. "I've watched your campaign with great interest."

"Same here, Mr. Penn. Same here." He studied Arthur's handsome face carefully, trying to see some evidence of self-delusion there. What was he looking for? He wasn't altogether sure.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Bittberg?"

"What?"

"The way you're staring at me ..."

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all."

Arthur's podium was at the far right when facing the audience. Bernie was dead center.

Arthur glanced down at the end. "There's another candidate, isn't there?"

"Yes, certainly. The Republican candidate."

"And what's his name?"

Bernie opened his mouth and then closed it again. "You know, I don't recall."

The three reporters came over and introduced themselves, greeting the candidates and wishing them luck. Arthur smiled wanly and cast his gaze toward the audience once more.

He was able to pick out Percy and Ronnie, who both raised clenched fists in encouragement. Arthur blinked, at first thinking they were signaling that he should punch his opponent. But their expressions didn't seem to jibe with that intent. So he chanced it and raised a clenched fist back. They seemed pleased, so Arthur presumed he had given the right response.

He did not see Gwen. He did not look for her.

There was an expectant hush as the reporters went to their side of the room and as the floor director counted down. "And five... four ... three... two... one..."

An announcer intoned, "Mayoral debate, live, from the Reeves Teletape Studio." Arthur glanced up at the monitor and blinked in surprise as the words Mayoral Debate appeared on the screen, superimposed over the image of the candidates. He looked around, trying to figure out where the words had come from, for they certainly weren't visible to him. He shook his head. And he had thought the things that Merlin had done were magic.

Merlin...

Arthur looked down toward the end of the row and saw that the Republican candidate had arrived. He was a sturdy-looking fellow, with thinning hair, thick glasses, and a determined, albeit slightly confused, air-confused because he didn't quite know where he was supposed to look.

"Good evening," said the moderator. "Thank you for tuning in. I'm your moderator, Edward Shukin. Debates are not always possible in every campaign, so I feel we should be appreciative that the three major candidates have seen fit to engage in this evening's forum.

I'd like to introduce them to you now. On the far right, running as an Independent, Mr. Arthur Penn. In the center, the Democratic candidate and City Council head, Mr. Bernard Bittberg.

And on the extreme left, the Republican candidate ..." Shukin hesitated a moment, then glanced down at his notes. "Former Staten Island Borough President, Mr. Archibald Goodwin."

Goodwin bobbed his head slightly.

Shukin then turned to face the three journalists. "At the far left I have the first of the three journalists who will be posing questions to the candidates tonight. From the Amsterdam News, Mr. James Owsley-"

Owsley, black and proud of it, raised a fist midway in the air. Arthur immediately returned the gesture. Percy, in the audience, covered his eyes.

Shukin rolled merrily on, oblivious. "Next, from WNBC News, Ms. Sandra Schechter. . . ."

Schechter, a no-nonsense redhead, allowed a quick smile. "And, from the Village Voice, Mr.

Fred Baumann." Baumann tossed a wave at the audience and smiled lopsidedly.

"The rules for this debate have been agreed upon as follows,'* Shukin continued. "Our panelists will pose a question to a candidate on a rotating basis. The candidate will be given three minutes to answer. The reporter will be permitted one follow-up question, to which the candidate will have one minute to reply. The other two candidates will then each be permitted two minutes to respond to or rebut the candidate's response. With that understood, Mr. Owsley, I believe you won the coin toss backstage."

"Damned straight. Used my coin," muttered Owsley, provoking mild laughter. "Mr. Bittberg,"

he said, glancing down at his notes, "incidents of police violence, particularly in the course of arrests, seem to be on the rise. These incidents occur particularly in the apprehension of blacks, I have noticed. Yet in the overwhelming number of instances, subsequent investigations by the police have exonerated the officers who have committed the violence.

Are you satisfied with the manner in which these internal investigations are being performed, or do you intend to try and have stricter procedures implemented?"

Bernie paused a moment. His eye caught Moe in the corner, who gave him a thumbs-up and a slow nod. Taking a deep breath, Bernie turned slowly to face Arthur and said, "Before we go any further, I'd like to clear up something, Mr. Penn."

Quick off the mark, Shukin jumped in and said, "Mr. Bittberg, you are supposed to be addressing the questioners, not the other candidates."

"Oh, this is just something very minor. Mr. Penn, who are you, really?"

There was a confused silence as the three reporters looked at each other. Shukin cleared his throat loudly. "Mr. Bittberg, I don't understand. Are you claiming this is not Arthur Penn?"

"No no no," said Bernie quickly. "I am asking him to answer a simple question ... is your name Arthur Penn?"

Arthur smiled ingratiatingly. "Don't you like my name, Mr.Bittberg?"

But Bernie would not be dissuaded. "No, that's not the question. Is your name really Arthur Penn?"

Percy and Gwen were sitting riveted in their seats, Gwen chewing on her fist. Percy felt a cold sweat breaking on his forehead.

And Arthur did not flinch. "Is that really of interest?"

And now Shukin, an anchor for WNYW for twelve years, sensed that there was something brewing. "Mr. Penn," he said carefully, "you're not required to answer that. You're certainly not on any sort of trial here. But if it will," he chuckled pleasantly, "keep peace in the family..."

"Oh, very well. If you must uncover my deep, dark secret," said Arthur, "No. That is not my real name. It's shortened. My full name is Arthur Pendragon."

There was a mild laugh from the audience as Arthur said easily, "There, Mr. Bittburg. Are you quite satisfied?"

Baumann from the Voice, who had majored in English Literature, said, "Whoa! Great name!

Any relation to the Arthur Pendragon?" When he received blank stares from all around, he said helpfully, "You know. King Arthur. Cam-elot. That stuff."

Trying to avoid having his debate degenerate into a friendly chat, Shukin said, "If we could get back to the issue at hand-"

But Bernie's voice rang out. "Why don't you answer him, Arthur? Why don't you tell him? You are King Arthur, aren't you? You believe yourself to be the original Arthur Pendragon, King of the Britons, son of Luther-"

"Uther," corrected Arthur.

"Thank you. Uther. You are him, aren't you? Aren't you?"

Shukin rapped with his knuckles on the podium and wished that he had brought a gavel. "Mr.

Bittberg, you can't be serious-"

But Bernie, sensing victory, wouldn't ease up. He took a step forward, his voice lowering in intensity, and said, "He's the one who's serious. Go ahead. Look me straight in the eye 146

and deny that you are the one, the only, the original King Arthur of Camelot. That you're fifteen centuries old. That you've been in a cave all this time and that you've returned to us because 'you're needed.' Deny it!"

There was a long silence. Arthur and Bernie stared at each other, each refusing to lower their gaze. Each trying to stare down the other. And Bernard Bittberg felt the full intensity of the man who was King Arthur Pendragon, felt the strength of his anger, the power of his spirit and grim determination. And he lowered his gaze.

And slowly Arthur looked straight into the camera, and in a tone as reasonable as if he were announcing the weather, he said, "It's true."

Gwen gave a small gasp. Percy closed his eyes, and Ronnie muttered to himself, "It figures."

"Yes," said Arthur. "I am everything Mr. Bittberg says. I was trying to keep it quiet because, frankly, I didn't want to use unfair advantage." He stepped to the side of the podium, interlaced his fingers and leaned on one elbow as if he were standing next to a fireplace mantle in his study. "I mean, after all... a cheap politician is a cheap politician. But a king . . .

good Lord! How could anyone possibly fight competition like that? And a legendary king to boot! No, my friends. I felt it best to keep my true identity a low profile, so as to give Messrs.

Bittberg and Goodwin a sporting chance."

The audience members looked at each other, unsure yet of exactly how they were supposed to react. A generation raised on canned laughter and applause signs occasionally has difficulty when it comes to spontaneity.

"But the word is out," said Arthur morosely. "Mr. Bittberg, for whatever reason, has decided to slit his own throat at this late date by guaranteeing the election for me. Ladies and gentlemen, it is I, King Arthur who stand before you." His mood shifted and he smiled broadly. "But perhaps it's better this way, for now I do not have to make pretense of being a man from this day and age. I can speak to you as a man from the past. A man who has seen what the world was, and who has watched what the world has grown into." There was genuine wonderment in his voice. "Good Lord, when I think what life was like in the old days.

Only a few piddling centuries ago, my friends! A mere droplet in the great flood that is time, and yet look how far that droplet called humanity has gone! It's incredible. Look at yourselves! By and large you're better fed than my people were. Better dressed. Healthier. Longer lived. Smarter. Taller," he said, with some regret.

"Yes. I have returned. Some of you, such as Mr. Baumann here, might be familiar with the legends. That I would return when the world needed me. But you've taken that to mean that it would be in your world's darkest hours. Well I'm here, my friends, to tell you that is not the case. I am here to tell you that you stand on the brink of a golden age. A time of potential learning and growth that could make all your previous achievements look like mud on an anthill by comparison. And I think that perhaps you're all afraid of what you can accomplish.

It's more than you can believe. And so you toy with the concept of self-destruction on a global scale. But I am here to lead you away from that. You have all the answers you need, right within your grasp. And I'm here to bring a fresh perspective, and a fresh understanding, and the knowledge to help you pick and choose the right way to go. And together, my friends, together... we can make it work. No, I recant that. Because I've seen what was, and I've seen what is, and I tell you that it is working. We can make it work better."

The words had not been delivered in a bible-thumping style. Instead they had been said with the quiet conviction of a man who sincerely believed every syllable of what he was saying.

Someone started to clap. Arthur didn't see who, but within seconds the entire studio was filled with the thunderous sound of applause. It lasted for a solid minute, and Arthur smiled through it. He didn't look at Bernie, or Archibald, or anyone at all in particular. He was looking at his mind's eye image of Merlin and thinking, Bloody hell, I should have done this months ago, eh, Merlin?

The director cut from the camera on Arthur to the camera on the audience, taking in the rousing and solid response.

Miles away, in New Jersey, Morgan Le Fey fumed as she stared at the TV screen. "I don't understand. It was perfect. My ploy of stealing Excalibur, that useless hunk of steel, succeeded in netting me my true goal, Merlin. Then with Merlin gone, Arthur should have become dispirited, demoralized. There was even my glorious fantasy that he would simply throw himself on his thrice-damned sword and end it all. Then the truth of his identity would be revealed on television before his precious voters, and he would be laughed out of politics as a total lunatic." She screamed at the television, "Stop your damned clapping! You're supposed to think he's crackers!"

Unsurprisingly, they paid no attention to Morgan. And then her eyes narrowed as she spied Gwen sitting there, her hands tight on her purse.

"All right, Arthur," she said in a low, angry voice. "If I can't take your ambition from you, I'll take your beloved Guinevere from you. Oh, you can't fool me. You may be angry with her now, but sooner or later you'll forgive her, like the moronic fool that you are. But I will take her from you, Arthur. On the eve of your would-be triumph, I will take her from you. And then I will use every sorcerous means at my disposal to bring your world crashing down!"

Sitting amidst the audience that applauded around her, Gwen watched Arthur and held her purse tightly to her. Concerned about what she was afraid would happen. Concerned about what she had to do.

Chaptre the Seventeenth

Rabbi Robert Kasman opened his door and saw an extremely scruffy-looking individual standing there.

"Yes?" he said cautiously, keeping care to have the chain lock in place on the door.

"Hi," said Chico. "I'm here to make sure you're registered to vote tomorrow. I'm with Arthur Penn, and-"

"Oh, the king!" said the Rabbi. "Yes, yes, I saw your fellow. Oh, not on the actual day, because they had the poor judgment to have the debate on shabbos. But it was rerun enough, you can be sure."

"I can be sure," Chico said agreeably.

"I don't know what that crazy Bittberg fellow hoped to accomplish by trying to embarrass that nice man, particularly after he saved those two children. Imagine, trying to convince everyone that your man actually thought he was King Arthur. Imagine!"

"Imagine," echoed Chico.

"Of course, just between you, me, and the hole in the wall," said the rabbi, "it wouldn't matter to me if he really did think he were King Arthur."

Chico blinked. "You know, that's what lots of people have said to me."

"Well, Fm not surprised," said the rabbi. "I mean, we all have our own mishugas, right? New York has certainly had some genuine nuts for mayor. It would only be appropriate if we had a sincere nut for once. You know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean."

"So." The rabbi leaned against the inside of the door frame. "What did you want to know again?"

Chico stared at him, then scratched his head. "I can't remember."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure when you remember you'll come by again."

"You bet."

The rabbi closed his door and went on about his business. Five minutes later there was another knock at his door. He peered through the peephole, frowned, and opened the door.

"Hi," said Chico. "I'm here to make sure you're registered to vote tomorrow...."

The political commentator for PBS was saying, "You can see from Penn's presentation that he is using the King Arthur/ Camelot scenario as a metaphor for all that he intends to achieve. He has locked on to this entire 'view from another era' to help clarify and lend a certain degree of validity to his unorthodox approach to politics and the issues at hand."

"This being so," the commentator was asked, "it comes down to the question of what Bittberg's motives could possibly have been in giving Penn such an opening? Did he really believe that Penn was actually the Arthur of legend?"

"Whatever Bittberg had in mind, I can only surmise that it backfired spectacularly. It's hard to say what sort of response he expected, but it could hardly have been what he got- namely, what observers are already referring to as the Camelot speech."

The commentator was on tape. It was now being viewed, for the hundredth time, by a fuming Bernie Bittberg. He sat in front of the VCR in his office, feeling his innards broil as he watched tape after frustrating tape. The rest of the debate, Bernie thought, including most of his exceptional observations and responses, had been totally overshadowed by Penn's performance in the first five minutes. A performance that he, Bernie, had helped to cue.

There was a knock at his door, and Bernie called unenthusiastically, "Come in."

Moe entered and looked around in distaste. Crumbled memos and newspapers were scattered everywhere, as were half-drunk cups of coffee and several stale doughnuts. When Bernie saw who it was, his mouth assumed the frown that came to it so naturally these days.

"So. It's the turncoat. I haven't seen you since the night of the debacle-oh, pardon me, the debate."

"Now, Bernie-"

"You can save the 'Now, Bernie' bullshit! You're outta here, Mr. Brilliance. You and your genius idea."

"You went a little far," said Moe reasonably. "When it became clear that he wasn't going to crack immediately, you should have backed off."

"Backed off? Now you're giving me backed off! I go in there with guns blazing, and you leave me with no ammo. You said he'd come out and say he was some long-dead king."

"Well, he did," said Moe reasonably.

"Yeah, but he came off smelling like a rose! He wasn't supposed to do that!"

"Obviously he didn't read the script."

Bernie sighed and sagged back in his chair. "So where does this leave us?"

"You're asking me? I thought I was through."

"Oh, come on. How could I do that to one of the top seven P.R. hacks I ever knew?"

"I thought I was one of the top three."

"You're sinking fast."

"Wonderful." Moe circled the table slowly. "Where we stand now is in the hands of the voters. But I've been reading the polls pretty carefully, and everyone who's predicting a landslide for Penn is off base, as far as I'm concerned."

"You think so? You're not just bullshittin' now?"

"No, I'm very serious. A lot of people were suspicious of the Camelot speech. The more perceptive voters sense that Arthur really does have a screw loose. Add to that that there are a hell of a lot of people out there who vote along a party line. Asking a Democrat to vote for an Independent can be like asking them to switch toothpastes."

"Maybe," said Bernie. "Still, I wish that Penn were the Republican candidate. I think people would be even less likely to cross party lines to vote for him. Why don't you think that Penn tried for the Democratic nomination? If it were just him and Goodwin, they could be putting his monogram on the welcome mat to Grade Mansion right now."

"Because Arthur's an independent thinker. There's no way in hell that you'd convince him to go along any party line on earth."

"That might be his fatal flaw. If he allied himself more, he could have had it iced before the polls opened."

Moe shook his head. "Men like Arthur Penn always have to carve their own way in life."

"I've never understood that sort of thinking." Bernie leaned back too far in his chair. It crashed over backward, sending him tumbling to the floor with loud curses and bruised dignity.

"No, Bernie," said Moe, "I don't suppose you would."

It was several minutes before midnight.

Arthur sat in his dressing gown, staring out the window of his modest apartment, staring up at the moon. It was a cloudless night, and only a sliver of the new moon was visible, but there were many stars to make up for it.

Arthur chose a star and wished fervently on it, so fervently that he stood there for a full minute with eyes tightly shut. When he opened them he half hoped that his wish would be granted.

But Merlin had not materialized in his living room.

He paced like a caged panther. It was an incredible feeling of helplessness, not even knowing where to start looking for the kidnapped seer. Was he in New York? New Jersey?

The East Coast, the West Coast? Was he even in the United States? Arthur moaned and rubbed his temples. Merely contemplating the possibilities made his head hurt.

He turned and looked at the telephone. It sat there, inviting, so tempting. To talk to her for just a moment... That would be all he needed to patch together the relationship that had once meant so much to him. But obviously it hadn't meant anything to her, or she would not have made a mockery of it. But still...

He stood over the phone, the man decisive in all matters except those of the heart-a failing many men share.

In Queens a demon entered the apartment that Gwen De-Vere shared with an old college friend, Wendy Goldstein.

Wendy, fortunately enough, did not encounter the demon. She was off visiting her parents for a week. She did not know that a demon was going to come this night to attack her old friend. If she had, she might have stayed around to help out. Either that or she might have gone farther than to visit her parents in Pennsylvania-say, for example, her maiden aunt in Portland, Oregon. Either way, she was not home when the demon, clinging to a wall outside a window seven stories up in an apartment complex in Queens, paid his visit.

It was a different demon than the one that had abortedly stolen Excalibur. This one was about average height, with more humanoid features. It had several distinguishing characteristics however, such as dark green skin and fur, which covered its bottom half and back. It was baldheaded, with pointed ears and small twin horns projecting from its temples.

And it had a grimly determined expression on its face as it pried its fingertips into the small space between the bottom of the window and the sill. The demon got a firm grip and pulled upward. The window slid up, rattling and shaking, and the demon winced at the noise.

It was embarrassing, breaking and entering like some sort of human. Transportation through time and space was within the demon's powers, but Morgan had been unsure of the exact physical location of the apartment where Gwen was staying. The demon could only transport to where it had already once physically been, and even that could be difficult. So skulking around was the only alternative.

But it had found her now. It could see Gwen lying asleep on the bed in the small spare bedroom. Her blanket was pulled tightly up to her chin; she was curled in a fetal position. Her breathing appeared ragged to the demon-clearly she was not sleeping well. It grinned and clicked its long fingernails together. Soon she would be sleeping forever.

It pulled its torso through the window, then one leg, then the other. It paused there inside the apartment, relishing the expected moment of the kill.

There was a single light cast from the hallway as it approached Gwen. Her lovely face looked drawn and harsh in the stark light. The demon crept toward here, careful to make not the slightest noise. As it passed the nightstand with the telephone, it thought eagerly of the blood that would soon be on its hands. It grinned, and the grin looked all the more hideous on that inhuman face.

The phone rang.

It froze. One eye was riveted on the phone, the other on Gwen. It was unsure whether to disappear or leap to the attack. That damnable phone!

The phone rang once again.

Miles away, Arthur paused. He'd changed his mind. He slammed the receiver back into its cradle, turned and looked outside at the moon again, wondering if he would ever understand (a) women, and (b) himself.

There was no further noise from the telephone. Slowly, bit by bit, the demon started to relax.

The phone had rung twice, stopped, and not resumed. Probably it had been someone who realized abruptly that they'd dialed a wrong number and hung up quickly to avoid embarrassment. It was, after all, midnight. Midnight, when the powers of creatures such as it were at their strongest. Midnight, when Gwen DeVere, lover of Arthur Pendragon, would cease to exist. For she had not stirred in the slightest when the phone rang, which meant that she was definitely easy pickings.

It leaned over her bed, grabbed her shoulder, and roiled her roughly onto her back.

It had thought she was asleep. But she was staring at it with eyes wide open and bright with fury.

The demon's first thought was, Drat, this may be a little tougher than I thought. Just how tough, it was soon to realize.

Gwen's right arm shot up, grabbing the demon by the left horn. She pulled down quickly, and unsurprisingly, the demon's head and body went with it.

Her left hand appeared. It had the skull-shaped knife. The tip was at the throat of the demon.

"Want to whistle when you breathe?" asked Gwen.

The demon gulped. It had a large Adam's apple which bobbed up and down and bumped against the point of the knife.

"Please," whispered the demon urgently. "Don't kill me. Don't-"

Gwen's voice was hoarse with strain and tension. "If I wanted to kill you, I could have done that already."

"Then why haven't you?"

"Because, you ugly spud, I need you. I need you to take me to Morgan.'*

"Ohhhh, you don't want to go to Morgan," said the demon. The back of its head was pressed against Gwen's lap, its body twisted around. Its arms, however, were free. Gwen felt the tension in its body begin to build and she pressed the knife ever-so-more gently against its throat. A small trickle of greenish blood appeared. The demon gasped.

"Oh, yes," purred Gwen. "I do. I do want to go to Morgan. And you'll take me there."

"But she'll kill me! And then she'll kill you." The demon tried to strike a conversational tone.

"Let's talk about this sensibly. We're both caught in circumstances here. No sense both of us dying, right? So let me kill you quickly and painlessly, and at least one of us can go on living."

"And what advantage would that be to me?" said Gwen.

The demon paused a moment, its thick eyebrows furrowing. "I'd ... I'd never forget you." But even the demon didn't sound completely convinced by that. And Gwen certainly wasn't.

"Nice try," said Gwen. "Take me to her. Now!"

"All right! All right!" The demon suddenly started to breathe rapidly. Gwen looked down at it frantically. "What the hell is it now?"

"I'm-" The demon gasped repeatedly. "I'm hyperventilating."

"Oh, Christ."

The demon's chest continued to rise and fall rapidly. "A-hunh! A-hunh! A-hunh!"

"Oh, Jesus Christ in the foothills. Wait here."

Gwen rolled out of the bed, dashed into the bathroom, and came back moments later with some Valium and a cup of water. She leaned over the demon and proferred them, her hands trembling but her face a mask of intensity. The demon took the offerings, swallowed the tranquilizers and washed them down quickly. Then it lay back full on the bed and tried to calm down. "I'm ... I'm sorry--"

"Be quiet. Just get yourself together." She shook her head. "All the demons in the world and she has to send me one who goes hyper in tense situations."

"Look!" said the demon. "There's demons and there's J 56

demons. We're all pretty much alike to you mortals, like you're pretty much all alike to us.

Some of us just handle tension better than others. If you'd just had the common decency to stay asleep and let me gut you like I'd planned, none of this would have happened.''

"Gee, I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you," she said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

"You're not exactly Miss Tough-as-Nails either. Look at you. Your hands are shaking. Your eyes are glazed."

"Of course they are," snapped Gwen. "I haven't slept for four days now. I was certain Morgan would want to make some sort of attack on me prior to the election, to demoralize Arthur.

But I didn't know exactly when. I'm so loaded with uppers, I have to wear lead weights on my belt to keep my feet on the floor."

"Oh, dear."

"How do you think it feels, lying there at night, staring at the ceiling, waiting for someone or something-no offense- to come after me? I'd hoped it would be Morgan. So she sent a flunky. Okay, that's cool. As long as the end result is the same."

The demon regarded her with open curiosity. Gwen had pulled her strawberry-blond hair back in a tight bun. She wore a tight-fitting black sweater, black slacks, and black shoes.

"You're not at all the way Morgan described you. She made you sound like .. . like ..."

"Like a wimp?" She nodded. "Circumstances change people." She waved her knife. "Come on, up. Let's go. Let's move it."

The demon nodded slowly. "My name's Morty," it said. "You performed a service for me, helping me out when I was having my ... my problem a moment ago. The rules say that means I have to serve you now."

"Great. Fine. Let's go."

Morty stood and weaved slightly from side to side. "Ohhhh boy," it muttered.

"What is it now?"

"That tranquilizer is reacting more powerfully than I expected. I'm feeling really woozy."

"Well, let's get moving before you get too woozy to do anything useful. Where's your car, or whatever?"

"We transport. Just give me a second." It squinted at her. "You got a compact?"

"In the nightstand. Why, you planning to freshen up?" she asked incredulously.

It went over to the nightstand, rummaged through the drawer, pulled out the round compact and tossed it to Gwen. She caught it and looked uncomprehendingly.

"I'll explain on the way," said Morty. "I'll fill you in on a little trick I taught a guy named Pericles.

You'll love it."

The demon walked over to her, raised his arms and said, "Hold me around the waist."

Gwen complied. Her face against the demon's back, she said, "Is this necessary for me to be transported with you?"

"Not at all," said the demon. "But I get off on it."

Before Gwen could reply, they vanished in a puff of black smoke.

As they reappeared outside Morgan's New Jersey home, Morty had just finished filling Gwen in on the little trick it had taught Pericles.

Gwen looked up, saw the ominous house and shuddered. But something else took her attention more immediately. It was pouring rain. She hugged herself tightly and wiped the water from her face.

Morty was looking up in dismay. "Aw, nuts. It was so nice out earlier."

Gwen frowned. "Yeah. Yeah, it was. In fact..." Her eyes widened even as her clothes started to become plastered to her skin. "I heard a weather report earlier. It was great weather tonight in New York and New Jersey! They weren't expecting heavy rain until-"

She turned on him, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. "You idiot!" she shrieked into his face. "It was supposed to rain like this tomorrow! Not today. You jumped us through time!"

"Impossible!" bleated Morty. "If I had, your watch would have been automatically recalibrated through the nature of the spell I use. Look at your watch."

She looked at her watch. It was a digital. It read eight-ten P.M., November seventh.

"It is! You moron! The polls just closed. The election's already over. It's only a matter of counting the votes now." 'Then what's the problem?" shouted Morty over the sound

of thunder rumbling in the storm. "Even setting Merlin free-" "I don't know," Gwen shouted back. "But Morgan's going to try something. I just feel it. And the only one who could stop her is Merlin."

Chaptre the Eighteenth

The Colonial Room at the Roosevelt Hotel, near Grand Central Station, had been made over completely in preparation for election night. The walls and ceilings had been festooned with balloons and crepe paper. Three televisions had been set up to monitor the election returns on the local news stations and network affiliates. Tables had been laid with several tons of food, including chicken legs, meatballs, and countless other munchies. The room was already packed with supporters, apprehensive campaign workers, news people, and whoever else had even a near-legitimate reason for being there.

Arthur was not present, however. Up on the third floor, in a suite with a fully stocked bar, he was pacing like a caged panther. He looked at his watch: 8:15. He turned to Percy, who was sitting there with infinite patience, and demanded, *'Where the hell is she? She can't have vanished into thin air."

"With all due respect, Arthur, you've made it more than clear to her that she is not your favorite person and you are just as happy when she's not around."

"Yes, but . . ." Arthur waved his hands in meaningless circles and then let his arms fall limply to his sides. "You're right, I suppose. Still, it's damned odd."

"Maybe."

"The polls are closed," said Ronnie, who was reclining on a sofa. "Early word is that this is going to be a tough election to call."

Arthur turned to him. "To call what?"

"It's a bizarre phenomenon, Arthur," said Ronnie be-musedly. "All the stations want to be the first to announce a winner. So over the years they've started predicting who the winner will be earlier and earlier in the evening. Sometimes with as little as one percent of the vote tabulated."

"Really?" asked Arthur, fascinated. "One percent? But that sounds so insane. I mean . . .

isn't that the equivalent of going up to a crowd of a hundred people, picking one person, getting his opinion, and assuming that the rest of the crowd can have their opinions guessed at from this one chap?"

Percy smiled. "It's more scientific than that, Arthur."

"Oh." Arthur nodded. "Science. Incomprehensible. Give me magic any day."

Morty walked quietly in front of Gwen, taking several steps, pausing and listening, then gesturing for her to follow. It was nervewracking, slow progress. Yet with this method they had managed to penetrate into the hallways of Morgan's house without detection. The demon had maneuvered itself and Gwen past the detection wards placed around the house, and now, as they crept through hallways dimly lit by candles along the wall, Gwen started to feel as if the corridor were closing in on her. "Oh, God," she moaned softly.

Morty turned to face her. "What?" it asked anxiously.

Her lips tight, Gwen hissed back, "I don't know. I'm starting to feel clammy. I'm sweating like the devil. My hands are trembling___"

It nodded, its inhuman face etched with very human concern. "We have to get you out of here."

"No. Arthur needs Merlin. So that's who I came here to get. Which way?"

The demon paused, for they had reached a corridor with a fork. It looked off to the right and to the left, then pointed left and said, "This way."

They padded noiselessly down the hallway. At the end of the hall Gwen saw that it opened out and there was brighter light at the end. Morty drew up short and she bumped into it. Her hand brushed against its furred rump. It grinned maliciously. "I didn't know you cared."

"Startup."

"Fine." It pointed toward the end of the corridor. 'That's Morgan's inner sanctum. That's where she was keeping Merlin, I assume. She's never let me in there."

She nodded, and the knife was in her hand. Its tip glittered in the dim light. She only wished that she could have wielded Excalibur. Even so, she still felt herself an enemy to conjure with.

They got to the end of the corridor, Gwen straining her ears for some sound that Morgan was in the vicinity. And she did hear something. It was a television, and it was tuned to the election returns.

Gwen pushed past the demon now, and bold as brass, walked into the inner sanctum of Morgan Le Fey.

Morgan wasn't there. Morty came in behind Gwen and peeked over her shoulder. Its sigh of relief was audible.

Gwen's glance took in the large pillows, the black walls and tables, and then over on one side, as if it were a trophy, the column of crystal with Merlin embedded inside.

Gwen's breath caught. "Oh, God," she murmured, her fingers interlacing as if in prayer. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry."

She started across the room to Merlin, caution thrown aside. Morty was right behind her.

"Gwen," it started to say, "I don't think we-"

Suddenly there was a dazzling flash of light and Gwen felt as if something had exploded behind her with concussive force. She rolled forward, the strength of the blast carrying her, and her left shoulder impacted with the crystal column that held Merlin prisoner. She rolled over and looked behind her, where the blast had originated, and squinted against the fading light.

Where Morty had been there was now a small pile of steaming ashes. Gwen moaned, deep in her throat. Then, her jaw set, she looked past the remains of the demon to see Morgan standing on the other side of the room. Her left hand rested affectionately on Lance's shoulder. Her right hand was still smoldering from the force of the spell she'd just unleashed.

Morgan looked at the mound of ashes and shook her head. "It's so hard," she lamented, "to get good help nowadays."

The desk clerk looked with great distaste at Chico and Groucho. "Sirs, I am afraid that Mr.

Penn does not wish to be disturbed. I am not going to tell you what room he's in. My understanding is that he will be coming down to greet his constituents-"

"Look," said Chico reasonably. "We knew this was gonna be a fancy hotel and everything.

Percy said we should have ties and everything, and we did." He rummaged in the pocket of his beat-up duffel jacket and pulled out a wrinkled brown tie. He waved it in the desk clerk's face. "See?"

"Yes. I see." His brow clouded. "And I also see that I'm going to have to call the police unless you-"

Groucho leaned forward. "Now listen," he said intensely. "We're not, what you said before, constituents. We're knights. We're the first ones. Arthur said so. Arthur wouldn't bullshit us, the way you are. Now either you ring his room and tell him we're here"-and his voice lowered as he delivered the most horrendous threat he could pull to mind-"or we're gonna go into the middle of your lobby and take our clothes off."

The desk clerk picked up the phone immediately, his eyes never leaving the two unsavory characters. The phone up in Arthur's suite was picked up on the second ring, and the desk clerk said, "Sir, I hate to bother you, but two rather disreputable looking characters have-"

He stopped talking as he heard something on the other end that he clearly had trouble believing. Then he nodded slowly and put the phone down. "Room three twelve," he said without looking at them.

"Thanks, man," said Chico. He headed over toward the elevator, but Groucho remained there, glowering at the desk clerk. Chico took him by the elbow and dragged him over to the elevator. One showed up almost immediately. They stepped in, and as the doors started to close, the desk clerk shouted, "I'm glad I didn't vote for him!"

Groucho lunged as the doors closed on him. The desk clerk grinned and went back to his work.

Minutes later Groucho and Chico were in the Royal Suite, helping themselves to the bar. The television was already on in the corner. Ronnie was saying, "Now in presidential elections, the polls were closing three hours earlier on the east coast than on the west coast. Then the networks started doing their predicting thing, saying that one candidate had won before thousands of people in the west had gone to the polls. So they didn't bother voting. Quite a brouhaha."

"I've had enough of this," said Arthur abruptly, heading for the door. "A true leader doesn't hide from his men when the final campaign begins. He's at their side. Why am I hiding up here?"

"Drama, Arthur!" said Percy. He sipped his seltzer. "The people expect it. They want it. They need to look forward to your appearance if the evening's going to build to any sort of climax for them. That's your one problem, Arthur." He finished his seltzer and poured another glass.

"No sense of drama."

Ronnie suddenly said, "Arthur. First returns are in. Only one percent of the vote in-----"

Arthur looked at Ronnie, hunched in front of the set, and turned away. He stared at the drink in his hands. "Have they predicted a winner?"

"No. Not yet. Too early."

Arthur sensed the unspoken but hanging in the air, and voiced it. "But...?"

"But at the moment-only at the moment, mind you-"

"Out with it, Ronnie."

"Bittberg'sinthelead."

It's going to be close," said Morgan. "Make no mistake, little queen. It will be close. But Arthur shall lose."

Gwen's eyes never left Morgan. The sorceress had not moved from the spot where Gwen had first seen her. But Lance, dressed like something out of the Road Warrior, was already starting to creep in her direction. "You're wrong, Morgan. You're going to lose. Everything."

"My, oh my." Morgan looked down her nose at Gwen. "The little queen has become quite the bold one. I haven't forgiven you, you know, for that attack in the park." Her fingers drifted to her cheek.

"I figured you wouldn't. I banked on that being my eventual ticket here." Her gaze and the point of her knife momentarily flicked in the direction of Lance, who froze. "Don't try it, Lance.

I swear Til kill you."

"Why, Gwen," said Morgan. "You're positively a woman warrior, aren't you?"

"Not a wimp?" Gwen replied. "You don't understand, do you, Morgan. All my life I felt like a nothing. Like everyone always stepped on me. Then along came Arthur, and he made me feel like someone. And now I've lost him. Lost him thanks to you. Without Arthur I don't care what happens to mt. I don't care if I live or die. And when you stop caring, it means you can become reckless. That, and I've been using my brains a bit. I've watched what happens. I'm figuring out the limits of your power."

"Are you now?"

Lance was creeping up on Gwen's right. Taking small, careful steps, Gwen sidled to her left, keeping a large table between herself and Lance. Still she continued to watch Morgan, Morgan the unmoving. "Yes. For example, I've figured out that when you are attacked mystically, you defend and counterattack mystically. But when you're attacked physically, the only way to ward it off is by physical means. That's why they burned witches, isn't it?"

"Hanging was also popular," said Morgan dryly.

"That's why that demon could take Merlin with his bare hands. That is why I could take you in the park. And that is why," and her voice rose suddenly, "I'm going to take you now!"

She drew her hand back, the skull-shaped dagger in her hand now held by the point, and she hurled the dagger straight at Morgan's chest. The dagger flew unerringly and plunged deep into Morgan's breast, piercing her evil heart and putting an end to her forever.

At least that's what Gwen had hoped would happen.

Actually she missed by a country mile. The dagger, weighted completely improperly for throwing, spun erratically in its flight and hit the wall behind Morgan a good three feet to her right. It thudded to the ground, way out of Gwen's reach.

"Uh-oh," muttered Gwen.

Morgan raised her hand. "Oh, little queen," she said, "you who are not afraid to die. Who are reckless. I'm going to show you that there are worse things than death. Now ..."

Back at the Roosevelt Hotel Arthur was watching the set intensely now. A mask of gloom had spread over his face. "I don't understand," he murmured. "Don't they know what's best for them? Look at that."

At that moment, with two percent of the voting in, Bittberg was at forty-six percent and Arthur was at forty-two percent with Archibald Goodwin and all the others left far behind. The newscasters were already intimating that Bernard Bittberg was the new mayor of New York City.

The phone rang. Arthur leaned over and picked it up while the others in the suite looked on.

"Yes?" said Arthur.

"Bernie Bittberg here, Art!" said Bittberg on the other end. Audible over the phone were noisemakers, party music, and the like. Bittberg was shouting to be heard. "Ready to concede yet?"

"Concede?"

"Yeah. You know, quit. There's no need to be a sore loser, Art."

"I wouldn't know," said Arthur evenly. "I don't make a habit of losing."

He dropped the phone back into the cradle.

But he was not happy. Not happy at all.

It happened with incredible swiftness.

Gwen pivoted and leaped in the direction of Lance Benson.

Lance, thinking she was trying to escape, shouted, "Don't worry, Morgan! I got her!" And so saying, he grabbed for Gwen. He got a grip on her shoulders and made as if to hold her in place. It looked to all intents and purposes that he had a really solid grasp on her.

Morgan's hands were glowing. The power of the spell was already in existence, and once called into the world, the power had to be unleashed lest it backlash against the wielder.

Morgan passed her hands through the air, the gestures shaping the nature of the spelt, and the power was aimed right at Gwen.

At the last second Gwen suddenly twisted away from Lance, breaking his grip easily, fear pumping adrenaline through her body. She dropped to the ground, shielding her eyes.

Lance only had the chance to open his mouth and start to frame a question before he was bathed in the light of the spell. There was a sudden sound, like a vacuum being sucked into a bottle instead of being allowed out. One instant Lance was there, the next he wasn't.

Actually, that was not quite true. There was a large, gray rodent skittering around on the floor, squeaking angrily.

Morgan looked down in dismay. She said, "Rats."

Her smoldering eyes turned to Gwen, and without saying another word, she gestured and a blast of eldritch energy blew from her hand. Gwen leaped out of the way, sure-footed in her black tennis sneakers. She felt the air sizzle around her, and looked around. Where the energy bolt had missed her, several large pillows and a good chunk of the floor were gone.

Her heart pounding like a trip-hammer, Gwen moved quickly in Merlin's direction, praying that somehow the trapped magician would be able to aid her. She reached the crystal column and clung to it like a life preserver, looking defiantly at Morgan.

"You think he can help you?" said Morgan disdainfully. "Don't kid yourself, my queenlette.

But let's fine tune the spell, just for you, to make sure I don't accidentally release the little bastard."

She pointed and a single beam of lambent energy shot forth. Gwen threw her back against the crystal column, and the energy beam passed within a hair's breadth of her breasts.

"You can't win!" crowed Morgan.

"Get stuffed!" Gwen screamed back. She circled behind Merlin's prison, keeping the crystal column between the two of them. She felt terrible about putting Merlin in the middle of all this, yet what choice did she have? But she couldn't keep it up all day___

Her hand trailed over the small bulge in her hip pocket, and she remembered what the demon had said. It was worth a try, because she sure as hell couldn't keep dodging all night.

Morgan advanced on her slowly. "Come out, little queen. I promise you it will be painless...."

"Everyone is so concerned about my welfare," muttered Gwen.

Compact firmly in hand, Gwen suddenly leaped out from behind Merlin. Morgan shouted her triumph and let fly a bolt of energy.

Gwen flipped open the compact and held it between her and Morgan. The pencil-thin beam of light hit the mirror and bounced off. Gwen had hoped that it would bounce back and hit Morgan herself. Instead the beam shot off to the left and struck the crystal column in which Merlin was trapped.

"No!" screamed Morgan, but it was too late. Like a laser cracking a diamond, the spell of disintegration pierced the crystal. A weblike pattern of lines appeared on the crystal surface, and Merlin's small body began to glow with power. Again Morgan cried "No!" but that was a split second before the crystal shattered into a million shards. Gwen shielded her eyes, but miraculously, or perhaps magically, not so much as a single piece cut her. Morgan, on the other hand, was unable to fend off what seemed like thousands of angry hornets ripping at her. She went down, pieces of crystal embedded in her dress and skin.

Merlin stood there. His eyes were smoldering with anger and power. His fists were clenched and glowing. "Morgan," he said in a dangerous voice, "you've kept bound forces with which you should not have tampered."

"You little fiend!" Morgan cried. "That's the second time you've done that. First you nearly get me cut to ribbons with my own television set, and now this. Well no more, I tell you. No more!"

Her body glowed. "You're in my place now, Merlin! You cannot win!"

"Gwen! Behind me!" ordered Merlin. Gwen barely had time to comply before Morgan's mystical attack was launched.

"And in a sudden reversal," the newscaster was saying, "returns from the upper Manhattan voting districts have tilted the balloting more toward Arthur Penn...."

Arthur, up in his suite, could swear that he heard a roar of approval go up from the gathering room downstairs. He smiled as the newscaster said, "Once again this race has become so close that it has become impossible to call."

"Gentlemen," said Percy, "it looks like we're going to be putting in a long night."

Merlin had erected his mystical defenses barely in time. A sphere of pure energy surrounded Merlin and Gwen as Morgan's powerful spells bounced off the shields. Pillows imploded into nothingness. Walls began to melt into puddles. And Morgan's wrath grew.

Merlin, his face frozen in concentration, worked on maintaining the shields that were preserving their lives. Gwen crawled to him and demanded, "Now what?"

"You're asking me?" said Merlin desperately. "You're the one who came to the rescue. I assumed you'd figured a way out."

"I did," said Gwen. "You're it."

"Wonderful," replied Merlin.

Energy cascaded around them, dancing in little sparks. "I can't hold her back much longer,"

grated Merlin. "I'm too weak. I've been cooped up for too long."

"Then what are we going to do?"

"Will you stop asking me that?"

"All right," said Gwen angrily. "All right!" She started to stand. "Cover me."

Merlin looked at her, aghast. "What do you think this is, Gunfight at the OK Corrall What do you mean, cover you?"

"I'm going to get her."

"You're insane! There are forces being unleashed here you know nothing about."

"Good," said Gwen. "If I knew about them, I'd probably be more terrified than I am right now.

See you next lifetime, Merlin."

"Gwen-"

Gwen DeVere leaped out from behind the protection of Merlin's shields. She rolled across the smoldering carpet as Morgan, blind with fury, directed her attack at Gwen's quick-moving form. Gwen, heart pounding with excitement, mind racing thanks to the uppers, moved with a speed that defied description. And Morgan, caught up in her anger, used her power wildly, recklessly. She did not take time to aim, or plan, or think. She was reacting on the most primal level-utter rage. Gwen broke right, broke left, leaped forward, then pivoted and dodged again to the right. Explosions of primal force bracketed her. A chunk of floor tilted wildly under her and she jumped off it, rolling that much closer to Morgan.

A sudden instinct warned her, and she ducked to one side as a huge piece of plaster from the ceiling fell and shattered right where she'd been.

Morgan was grinning wildly. "You're going to die, Guinevere, you slut!" she shrieked. "My brother's whore! There'll be less than nothing left of you when I'm through."

Still two yards away, Gwen grated, "All talking, bitch queen, but no action. Hiding behind your spells and your pretty lights! When it comes down to the crunch, you just don't have what it takes."

"You . . . you ..." Raw energy flew between Morgan's palms and arced outward at Gwen. She leaped in the one direction Morgan had not anticipated-straight at her. Gwen came in low in a flying tackle, her arms wrapped around Morgan's legs, and the two of them went down in a tumble of arms and legs.

Merlin shouted from across the room, "Gwen! Don't look in her eyes! Not at such close quarters!" And Gwen, hearing his words, shut her eyes tightly, even as she and Morgan rolled, struggling hand to hand.

Then Gwen was on*her back, Morgan straddling her. There was a triumphant gleam in Morgan's eyes that Gwen didn't see. "I don't need my magic to finish you, little queen." She brought her hand down, open, slapping it across Gwen's cheek. "That's just the beginning of paying you back for what you've done to me."

The pain raced through Gwen's face even as she brought her legs up from behind and wrapped her knees around Morgan's neck. The sorceress gagged, gasping for air, as Gwen turned and slammed her down on the ground. The impact stunned Morgan momentarily, and also caused Gwen to involuntarily open her eyes. Her gaze fell on the skull-headed knife with which she had missed her mark earlier. It was just out of her reach.

Quick as lightning she released her hold on Morgan and hurled herself at the knife. Her desperate fingers curled around the hilt, and before Morgan could regain her senses, Gwen had thrown herself across Morgan's prostrate form.

She held the knife over Morgan's rapidly rising breasts.

"Finish her!" shouted Merlin.

Morgan, petrified, made no move. Her gaze shifted from the knife to Gwen, but Gwen was careful not to look at her directly. Her entire concentration was on the point of the knife, poised directly over her fallen foe's heart. Gwen's hand trembled. She bit her lip.

"Dammit, woman! What are you waiting for? Kill her!" Merlin screamed.

"I-" Gwen half sobbed, exhaustion overtaking her. "I can't! I can't just kill someone. We've beaten her. Isn't that enough?"

The air crackled around them. Gwen's head flew back, her mouth open in a silent scream. And then, like a marionette, Gwen was hurled back, soaring through the air, her body twisted. She hit a wall with a sickening crunch and slid to the floor like a broken doll. A small trickle of blood ran down the side of her mouth. She did not move again.

"No," said Morgan, getting slowly to her feet. "It wasn't enough, little queen. Not nearly enough.''

Arthur was in the men's room. Percy watched dismally as the latest tallies were reported. He turned to Ronnie, Groucho, and Chico and said simply, "The gap is widening. We may lose her.''

Morgan started to laugh. She tilted her head back, her mouth opened wide, and she started to laugh. Then a mystic bolt hit her with full impact. Her instincts warned her barely in time to raise a most minimal shield. She fell back, terror in her eyes.

Merlin was standing there. His fists were glowing, smoke rising from them. His eyes were little more than white, pupil-less spots with energy crackling from them. Lance the Rat cowered in a corner.

"All right, Morgan." The voice of an old man rose from the throat of a young boy. "This ends here. Now."

The air exploded.

Ed Shukin on WNYW looked surprised. "And with new returns coming in, we see another swing in the direction of Arthur Penn. With ten percent of the votes tallied, it now appears that the Independent candidate and Bernard Bittberg, the Democratic candidate, are even at forty-six percent each. To be honest, I have covered many a political race and I cannot recall in recent history one that seesawed quite as much as this one has. But I would have to say that, at this point, it is far too early to call Arthur Penn out of the race."

Arthur stood up and slapped his knees. "I'm going downstairs."

"But Arthur-"

"Protocol be damned, Percy," said Arthur good-naturedly. "Those are my people down there. We started this together and by Uther we're going to finish it together. All of us."

"Not all of us," Chico piped up. "Where's Gwen?" "Yeah. And the kid?" added Groucho.

Arthur sighed. "I'm quite certain," he said, "that if they could be here, they would."

Time lost its meaning, warped and twisted back on itself as the battle raged between Morgan and Merlin.

Neighbors of Morgan's in Verona looked out their windows, turning from their televisions in shock as unleashed elemental forces erupted from the old house. The ground started to rumble, narrow crevices opening in the weed-covered grounds. Windows glowed with wild, unearthly fires. And those who were of a more imaginative bent thought that bizarre black shapes, twisted and reeking of evil, emerged from the cracks and sideboards, from the chimney and the gutters, dissipating into the rainy night-dozens of them, creatures that had been Morgan's slaves, on whose energy Morgan had fed. Poltergeists, near-formless creatures that on their own created minor mischief but which, under the control of a master necromancer, could alter probabilities on a wide scale -and even effect election returns-vanished into the night. Morgan's control of them slipped through her fingers as she utilized every iota of mystical energy she possessed in her battle against Merlin.

Arcane shields hovered before her, cracking and splintering. She blocked Merlin's thrusts the way a fencer would, but more and more began to slip through. She began to weaken mystically. Her energy slipped away from her. Only her hate grew and grew, but hate is destructive force rather than constructive.

Merlin advanced on her, his face set. Morgan battered at his defenses, but he had had time to recuperate. The edge was his, and he was not for one moment permitting Morgan to recapture it. His lips were constantly moving, chanting, invoking the power of the gods, drawing strength from bands of mystic energy that hovered before him.

"Damn you, Merlin Satan-Spawn!" Morgan cried. She raised her hands above her head and abruptly dropped her defenses, pulling all her mystic reserves together. A solid black bolt of power sizzled through the air like a thing alive. And Merlin brushed it aside as if she'd tossed a feather at him. It angled upward, blasting through the roof of the old house. Sparks flew from it as it passed, caught on the shingle roof. The roof began to blaze.

Neighbors on the sidewalk pointed at the fire and hurried to call the fire department.

* 'Merlin.'' Morgan raised a hand. "We could rule together- "

"Go to hell," said Merlin. His hands formed the horns of Satan, and eldritch power flowed from them. Morgan hastily tried to create more shields, but Merlin's spell passed through them as if they were not there. The power surrounded Morgan, bathing her in an unearthly light, and she clenched her fists, beating at air as she screamed her fury. "You haven't won yet! I still hate!"

Her body turned black, then pale blue. And then, with a rush of air, Morgan's body exploded outward.

Merlin turned away as a wave of light and heat rushed at him, and a foul stench that made him gag. When he looked back, in the space where Morgan had been, there was nothing.

No, not quite nothing. A black cloud was there, hovering, fuming. Merlin rushed to create a spell of containment, but before it was fully formed, the black cloud slipped away and vanished through the walls.

The ceiling overhead burst into flames. The fire had worked its way downward, and the house was going quickly. Merlin dashed over to the side of the fallen Gwen, fully expecting to find a corpse. He knelt beside her, lifted her wrist and checked her pulse. To his surprise he found one, strong and steady.

He took her face in his hands even as the room began to fill with smoke. "Gwen!" he shouted. "Get up! I don't know if I have enough power to get us both out of here! Gwen, speak to me!"

Gwen snored.

"Oh, bloody wonderful," said Merlin. A sharp cracking overhead alerted him, and he saw a flaming timber break off and fall toward them. He spoke then, spellcasting faster than he ever had in his life.

The timber crashed down.

"Repeat," said Edward Shukin to his viewing audience, "we are projecting Arthur Penn as the winner of this year's mayoral election-"

The repeat was not heard, for the cheer that had gone up when the announcement was first made totally drowned it out.

In the midst of the crowd Arthur was laughing, cheering, being pounded joyfully on the back.

Nubile young women hugged and kissed him, and every man wanted to shake his hand. He was alternately pushed and pulled to the podium up front, and within moments he found himself facing a mob of cheering, enthusiastic fans and workers. He smiled and put up his hands to indicate that they should quiet down, which only provoked further cheering.

Laughing, he just stood there and allowed the adulation of the crowd to wash over him, wave after wave of love. It filled his soul to bursting.

Finally the crowd started to calm down enough for Arthur to begin to say, "My friends- "

At that moment Ronnie ran up onto the stage and shouted, "Bittberg just conceded!" And that set off another round of cheering and applause. By the time Arthur finally got to say anything, it was past midnight.

"My friends," he said. "My dear, dear friends. It's been a long fight. It's been a difficult fight.

We've had small victories along the way. We've had . . . small losses." He paused, searching for words. "The trust that this city-that you-have in me, a humble visitor from the past"-and this provoked some cheering-"has certainly been gratifying. I swear that I will uphold the trust that you have placed in me, and do the best job for New York City that any mayor has ever done."

Someone in the audience shouted, "When are you running for president?"

Arthur grinned as people applauded. "Well, let's give me a few years to get my feet wet.

After all, it's a lot easier being king than being mayor or president. I have a lot to learn first."

He waited for the laughter to subside. "When you're a king," he continued, "and you tell people to do something, and by God they do it. When you're a mayor, they ask you why. And when you're a president they bring it over to some house or somesuch where a group of men who don't give a damn what you say get together and decide that they're not going to do it at all."

"Arthur for king!" someone shouted.

Arthur raised a clenched fist in appreciation. "Now that's the kind of forward-looking backward thinking that I intend to make the hallmark of my career!"

The applause was thunderous.

Meanwhile in Verona, New Jersey, the house of Morgan Le Fey burned to ashes.

It was the early hours of the morning when Arthur finally arrived home and stepped into his modest apartment. He looked around and sighed. Merlin had advised that he keep the place, even after he moved into Gracie Mansion. He sighed. No matter where he lived, it would seem pale in comparison to Belvedere Castle. And yet, the castle itself would seem empty now that Gwen wasn't there.

"Congratulations, Mayor Wart."

Arthur spun. There, at his bedroom door, was Merlin. His hair and eyebrows were singed.

He had removed his jacket and tie, but his shirt and slacks were blackened from smoke.

And to Arthur he had never looked so good.

"Merlin?" He walked slowly toward him, not daring to believe it. "Merlin is it really you?"

"Yes, Wart," he said tiredly. "It's me."

Arthur touched his shoulder gently, tentatively, and then a grin split his face. "You got away, didn't you? You little fox. I should have known." Then his voice hardened. "Where's Morgan, Merlin? Where is she hiding? Tell me, because by Ex-calibur there'll be a reckoning-"

Merlin raised a hand. "No need, Arthur. There's already been a reckoning. Morgan is dead."

Arthur paused in disbelief. "Dead?"

"Yes. Her body, at any rate. It's hard to destroy her utterly. At the moment all that remains of her is a little discorporated cloud of hate. And I'll get that eventually too. I'd like to put it in a bottle on my mantel. Make a nice conversation piece."

Merlin sauntered across the room and threw himself full length on Arthur's sofa. Arthur followed him, shaking his head wonderingly. "You did it. You really did it. Morgan is gone."

"Well, I had some help...."

"Help? How do you mean?"

Merlin told him. He told him everything-everything Gwen had said, everything that he'd done.

And Arthur stood there, trying to take it all in.

"You're saying . . . you're saying that she really saved your life."

"No," said Merlin, positioning the throw pillow under his head. "I'm not saying that. I'll be double damned if I'd ever admit that I needed anyone's help to fight my battles. However, if you say it, I won't contradict it." He stared up at the ceiling. "I was wrong about her, Arthur."

"No, Merlin." Arthur sat across from him. "You were right. You said she wasn't trustworthy, and you were right."

Merlin shook his head. "Her actions were not dishonorable, Arthur. Merely unfortunate.

Mistakes, if you prefer. But I've known you to pull one or two boners in your time. Everything that your precious Gwen DeVere did, she did out of a sense of loyalty to someone to whom she had once sworn loyalty. She was certain no lasting harm would come to you. She was betrayed by Morgan in that respect. As I recall, Morgan pulled the wool over your eyes more than one time. As a matter of fact, Modred would never have existed if-"

"I . . . gather your point, Merlin," said Arthur sheepishly. "So that horrid Lance of hers is gone?"

"Not at all. He's over there."

Arthur turned. A small rat was in a corner of the room, sitting under the television set. He was watching the two of them intently, his little nose quivering.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked Arthur. "Feed him to a cobra?" His eyes narrowed. "You're not going to restore him, are you?"

"Oh, Arthur, even if I could, I don't know if I would. But I have no idea what spell Morgan used to change him into a rat. It could take years to find." He sighed. "No, I'm going to keep him in a little cage. He'll be comfortable enough. He'll even have company-Gladys."

"What, the former receptionist?" Arthur looked surprised. "I thought you'd fed her to our new receptionist."

"What, and waste a perfectly good shrew? Phawgh. You never know when she's going to come in handy. No, she's safe and sound at home. And I'm certain she's going to adore her new little friend."

They were silent for a time, and then Arthur said, "Merlin? How can I trust her loyalty to me now?"

Merlin snorted. "Good God, Arthur, that woman went through all manner of hell, on the remote chance that she'd win your favor back. Even though her motives were, in a way, honorable, she was still remorseful over what she'd done. She risked life and limb to win you back by undoing the results of her handiwork."

Arthur shook his head. "I can't believe some of the things she was capable of."

"Neither can I," admitted Merlin. "Frankly, I suspect she couldn't either. I never thought, Wart, that I would be trying to talk you into taking that woman back. But I owe you my honest opinion, and I will tell you this, Arthur-I would stake my immortal soul on the loyalty of Gwen DeVere."

Arthur sat there, square jawed, and then said, "Can I see her?"

"Of course. She's in your bedroom."

Arthur got up and went into the bedroom. There, stretched out on the bed, was Gwen. There was an ugly bruise on her forehead, and her clothes had the same smoke discoloration as Merlin's. But she was there, and she was sound and whole. Arthur went to her side and took her hand. Her chest rose and fell steadily in sleep. "Gwen?" he said gently, shaking her shoulder.

From the doorway Merlin said, "You're wasting your time, Arthur. As near as I can tell, she was taking some sort of pills to keep herself going. You can only do that to yourself for so long before your body just says, 'Enough.' She's going to sleep for quite some time, I would say. There's not a single thing that you could say or do that would bring her around."

Arthur glanced at Merlin and then back at Gwen. Then he sat next to her on the bed, squeezed her hand and said, in a voice full of love and affection, "Gwen, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Gwen's eyes fluttered open. "Yes."

Merlin sighed and shook his head. "Women!"

Chaptre the Nineteenth

The horses thundered toward each other, hooves kicking up clods of dirt. On their backs the two armored knights, lances firmly in place, were intent on each other's approach. The sun glinted down on their shields, and the crowd roared as they met. The lance of the knight with the blue plume in his helm shattered against the shield of the other jouster, and a cheer went up. The other knight, in the red plume, was the good guy.

The horses reached the opposite ends of the field, and the blue-plumed knight was handed a new lance. He spun his horse, shook a fist at his opponent, and the crowd booed the unsportsmanlike gesture.

It was a beautiful day for a joust on the fields of the Cloisters. Standing within a mile of the jousting field was a castle that housed tapestries and pieces of lovely artwork. Stretched out around the Cloisters was parkland bordered by the Henry Hudson Parkway, and 183rd Street up to 210th Street. It was a little bit of another century staking a claim against the encroachment of this century.

The knights were members of a performing troupe that produced medieval fairs on a regular basis around the country. But this particular medieval fair was for a very special occasion-a celebration, a party to which all of New York City had been invited. And it was to celebrate the election of Arthur Penn to the high office of mayor of New York City.

A reviewing stand erected on the edge of the jousting field had been deliberately designed to look like something out of an ancient tournament. There was a box down front in which the royalty was supposed to sit, and Arthur had very cheerfully and willingly taken his place there, Gwen at his side. Gwen was stunning in a long white gown and a small crown with sparkling jewels on her head. Next to her sat Arthur, looking as if he'd stepped from another time. He was dressed in full chain mail. The main garment was called a hauberk, sort of a nightshirt made out of chain mail that hung to his knees, the skirt slit up the middle almost to the waist. Underneath the hauberk was a padded tunic to prevent the mail from digging into his chest. His leggings were mail tights called chaussures, tied just below his knee with a wide strip of cloth. Over the hauberk Arthur wore a white surcoat-a sleeveless white garment that had no collar or sleeves. It was split up the sides and laced up from the waist to the armpit. The long skirts fell free and were split up the middle the same as the hauberk. A roaring dragon was pictured on his chest.

Around his waist was Excalibur, visible thanks to Merlin, even though Arthur had not drawn it.

Nor did he have any intention of drawing it. Of course, even the best of intentions are lost sometimes to the flow of events.

Gwen leaned over. *'Arthur, aren't you hot in that outfit?"

"More than you'd believe. Eut look at them." He gestured to the excited crowds. "They love the entire concept of me as an ancient king. So occasionally I feel that we really have to give the people what they want, no matter how personally uncomfortable I might be. Let's just be thankful it's the end of November rather than the middle of July. Though it is warm for this time of year."

The two knights thundered toward each other once more, and this time in a beautifully choreographed move, they knocked each other off of their respective horses.

The knights, who were dressed in plate armor, turned toward Arthur expectantly. An announcer clad in a jerkin and possessing a considerable set of lungs, shouted, "The combatants request permission from the king to continue the joust on foot." It was the current mayor, all set to embark on his career, and more than willing to play a part in Arthur's show.

Arthur smiled and gave a thumbs-up gesture. The crowd chewed, as they knew they should, as the two knights drew their swords and began hacking at each other's heavy wooden shields. They took turns whacking at each other, wood chips flying from the shields as they moved back and forth, up and down the field. At one point the red-plumed knight went down to one knee and the blue-plumed knight came in for the kill. The red-plumed knight came in low, swung his sword, and caught the blue-plumed knight across the middle. The air rang with the impact of the blow, and the blue-plumed knight went down. The red-plumed knight was up in a flash and held the blade of his sword over the fallen knight. The crowd went wild as the downed fighter put up a hand in supplication and the announcer shouted, "The blue knight yields!"

Arthur applauded the outcome along with the rest of the crowd. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned. Percy was there, smiling. Arthur looked at him reproachfully. "Percy, you're supposed to have dressed for the occasion."

"But Arthur, I did."

"I hardly think that a Dragon's Lair sweatshirt qualifies as knightly attire."

"Best I could do." He clapped Arthur on the shoulder affectionately and said, "I've seen Merlin wandering around. He looks suspicious."

"Merlin always looks suspicious. That's what he does best-be suspicious. Don't worry about it."

"Okay. You're the king. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"Yes. Something to drink. Anything liquid, short of motor oil."

Percy nodded and left.

Costumed actors wandered about, mixed in with the crowd. Young maidens shrunk in fear as amused tourists snapped their photographs-the lasses were concerned that pieces of their souls were being taken. Knights in armor looked gallant, assassins stalked, and a good time was being had by all.

Percy found a booth where cider was being served, and got a large mug of it for Arthur. He turned and bumped into a knight clothed similarly to Arthur, except that his surcoat was solid black. Not a spot of any other design on it. He held a barrel helmet under his arm.

"Excuse me," said Percy, trying to get around the knight.

But the knight took him forcefully by the arm. Percy looked up in surprise and said, "What do you think you're-" Then his eyes widened. "Moe!"

Modred's eyes smoldered with fury, and he said in a low voice, "Listen to me carefully. Are you listening, Percival?"

Percy stared deep into those angry eyes, and his own glassed over. Modred did not smile at his easy success. He held up a small packet with a green powder in it and said, "You will take this. You will empty the contents into the drink. You will give the drink to Arthur, and you will say nothing about it to him." Modred paused to allow the words to sink in. "Is that understood, Percy?"

Percy nodded, turned and left. He took several steps, then lifted the packet up, tore open the top with his teeth, and spilled the powder into the drink. The cider bubbled momentarily, and a thin wisp of steam rose from it. Then it settled down, changing to a slightly darker hue.

Percy stared at it blankly and went on his way.

Modred smiled and turned, only to bump into two scruffy-looking individuals dressed as village idiots.

"Do I know you?" Chico asked him. Groucho, his fellow village idiot, inclined his head slightly and looked at Modred with passing curiosity.

"No," said Modred tightly. "I don't think so." He placed his helmet on his head and stalked away, patting the hilt of his sword eagerly. Chico and Groucho watched him and scratched their heads in thought.

Back in the reviewing stand Gwen was looking at a printed list of activities. "Arthur," she said, "that joust was the last thing. You think we can go soon? I love the gown, but I'd really like to get out of it." She smiled mischievously. "Would you care to help me?"

He laughed. "Ma'am, I'll have you know I'm betrothed."

Gwen rested her head on his shoulder, wrapping her hands around his arm. "It can't be soon enough for me, Arthur," she said.

"Nor for me," he said.

A cup was thrust under Arthur's nose. He looked up and saw Percy there. Percy was smiling, yet something about his expression seemed a little ... he wasn't sure . . . off, somehow.

"Percy, is something wrong?''

"No, Arthur. Not at all. Here. Here is your cider."

Arthur shrugged and took the mug. He stared at it for a moment. There was something vaguely wrong. Something he could not put his finger on. But he could not for the life of him figure out what it was.

He shrugged and downed the poisoned cider.

It had a faintly acid taste and he frowned. "Needs more sugar," he said.

"Arthur, please," said Gwen. "Can we go now?"

"Yes. Absolutely, we'll-"

"Arthur! Arthur Pendragon the Coward, son of Uther Pendragon the Murderer! I challenge you!"

Arthur had half risen out of his seat, and now he sat down slowly, his gaze held by the knight in the black surcoat who stood before him. His loud words had attracted the notice of everyone within earshot. Crowds that had started to disperse began to gather once again.

And Gwen, completely befuddled, paged through her program. This wasn't on the schedule.

Even though the other knight was helmed, Arthur recognized him. He smiled unpleasantly.

"Hello, Modred. Come to wish me success in my new career?"

I have come to put an end to you, Pendragon. You, and your damned notions of a New Camelot."

There was no doubt in the crowd's collective mind who the bad guy was in this little scenario.

Modred was roundly booed.

It made no impression on him as he drew his sword and pointed it at Arthur. "Well, Pendragon? Do you dare fight me? Or will you be revealed to all here as the coward that you are?"

There were yells and catcalls as someone shouted out, "Teach him a lesson, Arthur! Clean his clock for him!" And the crowd, which thought it was watching another staged event, took up the encouragement.

Arthur started to rise and Gwen put a hand on his arm. "Arthur, please. Don't do this. You don't have to do this."

"Yes," said Arthur simply. "Yes, I do."

He reached down and picked up his helmet-similar to Modred's, but with a more rounded top. As he began to put it on, the crowd roared its approval.

Merlin, on the other side of the field, froze in horror as he saw Arthur descend from the royal box, Excalibur already drawn from its sheath. "Oh, no," he breathed. "The great fool. We can put all of that nonsense behind us, and he still insists on playing the warrior king/' He started to make his way through the crowd, urgently.

Arthur carried a shield on his left arm, as did Modred. It was wood covered with leather, and it was formidable. Under the helmet his face was set in grim lines of determination. In his right hand he held Excalibur with such ease that you'd never expect it would take an exceptionally strong man to wield it at all with two hands, much less one.

They faced each other. The sun was overhead. Arthur circled slowly while speaking in a conversational tone of voice. "Modred, you haven't a prayer against me. You're a puppy. You were a puppy in your earlier life and you're a puppy now. You were probably a puppy in every other incarnation you've had in between. Please don't take offense. It's just the way you are. But I can live with it if you can."

"The only thing I can't live with is you!" snarled Modred, and he charged.

He took three steps forward and immediately staggered back, blinded by the glare of the sun. Arthur, who hadn't moved, grinned and said, "I could have killed you just then, son. First rule of battle-make certain that your opponent's eyes are in the sun, not yours."

Modred attacked again, barreling forward and swinging his sword. Arthur sidestepped the charge completely, and as Modred went past, swatted him on the rump with the flat of Excalibur's blade. The crowd roared. "Come now, Modred. Let's end this nonsense," said Arthur reasonably. "You don't have a prayer."

"No, Arthur. It's you who has no prayer. But you're too stupid to know it yet."

Modred came forward, sword swinging like a windmill. It bit deep into Arthur's shield. Arthur cut across with Excalibur, fully expecting to slice Modred's shield completely in half. Instead Excalibur glanced off the shield without even so much as making an impression.

Arthur was clearly taken aback by it. Modred enjoyed the small victory. "Found something your precious blade can't cut through? Here's something else." Modred's sword flashed and Arthur parried the blow directly, rather than taking the force of it on his shield. The two blades clanged together. Excalibur should have cut the other sword off at the hilt. It did not.

They separated and stepped back from each other. Arthur was now a bit more wary. His superiority to Modred in fighting skills was not at issue in his mind. But these weapons were on a par with his own, and that bore further investigation.

"You like my toys?" crowed Modred. "They're presents, Arthur. A legacy if you will. The last artifacts from Morgan Le Fey. She passed them on to me so that I could lay you low for all time."

His own armor was beginning to feel heavy on him as Arthur grated, "Come on. Are you planning on talking me to death or are you going to fight?" Fiercely, summoning all the power at his command, Arthur attacked.

Meanwhile Merlin made it to the reviewing stand, climbing in next to Gwen, who was wringing her hands. Percy was standing there, watching the proceedings as well. "Gwen,"

demanded Merlin, "what in hell is going on? How could you let Arthur get himself mixed up in some stupid fight?"

"How do you propose I stop him?" asked Gwen reasonably. "You think I want him out there?

When Arthur gets an idea in his head, nothing can dissuade him."

"Tell me about it," said Merlin mournfully. "Still, I don't like this one bit. ..." His voice trailed off, and Gwen turned to him in alarm. "Merlin, what's wrong?"

"There's magic in this box. I can sense it. Hell, it's Morgan, I can smell it." He turned slowly and faced Percy. Quickly he leaped up onto the seat of Arthur's chair, putting himself on eye level with Percy. Gwen looked on in surprise as Merlin grabbed Percy by the face and peered deeply into his eye. "Good God, no! He's been hypnotized."

The sudden clanging on the field alerted Merlin. He turned and watched in horror as the battle was truly joined.

Arthur was fully on the offensive now. He drove down hard on Modred, Excalibur pounding on Modred's shield again and again. Wunk! Wunk! Wunk! Huge chunks of the shield flew as Modred was not even able to mount a defense to slow Arthur for a moment. Back, back down the field Arthur sent Modred. And then he drew back Excalibur for another blow, brought down the sword, and totally misjudged the distance. Modred dodged and Arthur swung at empty air. The miss sent him off balance and he stumbled and almost fell. Only his warrior's reflexes saved him from tripping and hitting the ground, but by the time he recovered Modred was upon him. Modred swung hard and Arthur took the brunt of the blow on his shield. He felt the impact far more than he should have, the blow sending vibrations of pain along his left arm. Surprised, he wheeled back, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He was sweating so heavily it was pouring into his eyes. His vision was starting to fuzz over and he felt a ringing in his ears. He couldn't understand it. Lord knew the armor was heavy, but certainly he wasn't this out of shape.

Modred attacked and they alternated now. Modred slammed at Arthur's shield, Arthur hacked at Modred's. And this time, step by step as they exchanged blow after blow, it was Arthur who was beginning to retreat. The crowd shouted encouragement, roared its approval for Arthur's bravery and catcalled their disapproval for Modred. They were having the time of their lives, because after all, they knew the whole thing was rigged ahead of time and that Arthur would triumph.

It was knowledge that Merlin did not share. Staring into Percy's eyes, he spoke in low tones, then shook Percy's face once and said, "Percy! Come out of it, man!"

Percy Vale blinked slowly, the fog lifting from his mind. His eyes widened. "Modred! Where did he. . . ?" Then slow horror started to register on Percy's face. "Oh, God. Don't tell me."

He looked out on the field and saw the two combatants, heard the ringing of metal on metal and the thud of metal on wood. "Tell me that Arthur didn't drink anything I gave him."

Gwen wasn't sure what was wrong, but she saw true fear in Percy's eyes, and she said,

"Yes. You gave him some cider."

"It was poison," said Percy.

Gwen's mouth flew to her hands. "Percy, how . . . how could you-"

"It's not his fault," said Merlin quickly. "He was hypnotized. It was against his will-hell, I suspect that Modred didn't even tell you that you were putting poison in. You only realize now that you're fully conscious what it must have been." Merlin shook his head. "This is all my fault. I was the one who was so concerned about history repeating itself, and here I set us up for it and didn't even think of it."

"Merlin, what are you talking about?" asked Gwen.

Merlin chucked a thumb at Percy. "The fates can have a sick sense of humor. I know, I've met them. Percy here is an accountant/'

"Yeah? So?"

"So ... in his final battle Arthur lost because he was poisoned by an adder."

"Merlin, you can't be serious. You mean by a snake, right? Not by a person who adds."

"What can I say? Obviously Morgan decided to implement a little poetic justice."

"You mean Modred," Percy said.

"No. Modred's personality has been supplanted, locked away somewhere deep within him.

Modred couldn't hypnotize you like that. Modred wouldn't be out there fighting like that. That cloud of hatred, that essence of Morgan that escaped me, has found a host in the body of Modred. Make no mistake, for things are not as they seem." Merlin leaned forward. "Arthur's battling Morgan Le Fey out there. And he's dying while he's doing it."

Arthur's right arm was starting to feel heavy. Lifting Ex-calibur became more and more of a burden. His legs were like two lead weights. Each blow from Modred's sword felt stronger than the one before. And then Arthur stumbled, falling back on one knee. Modred came in fast, swinging hard, and his sword sheered Arthur's shield in two. Quickly Arthur dropped the crumbling remains of his shield, gripped Ex-calibur with both hands, and using it as a crutch, drew himself to his feet. He swung Excalibur back and around with all the force he could muster. Modred parried the blow with his sword and it glanced off and struck Modred's shield, which shattered. Modred tossed it aside, gripping his sword with two hands as well.

They stood there facing each other, a moment frozen from time.

Modred feinted to the left, then brought his sword swinging in low to the right. Arthur tried to block the blow and failed. Modred's sword bit deep into Arthur's ribs. Arthur moaned and went down to one knee, and Modred stepped back, his blade tinted red. Gasping, Arthur clutched at the wound, his face deathly white beneath his helmet.

Instead of pressing the attack, Modred stood there, admiring the damage. "How does it feel, Arthur?" he crowed. "How does it feel to take the pain instead of inflicting it for once?"

Gasping for breath, Arthur looked up. His voice was a harsh whisper as he said, "Morgan?"

"My, we are the perceptive one. Gaze on the face of the one who hates you beyond death itself." Modred yanked off his helmet, and it was Modred's face underneath, but the eyes, the expression, was that of Morgan Le Fey.

"And I wonder," Modred continued, "if you've figured this out. I wonder if you've realized that you've been poisoned."

Arthur grunted, the blood in his veins turning to fire. "Now that you mention it, I do feel a little off."

"You're going to die, Arthur. The only question is whether it's going to be from the blade or from the blood."

Modred gripped his sword firmly and swung at Arthur's head.

Arthur blocked it.

Modred was visibly surprised. "I didn't think you had enough strength left in you for that."

"You'll find I'm full of surprises," said Arthur, a grim smile on his lips. And he rose. Slowly, agonizingly, he got to his feet, holding onto his sword. Holding on to his life, not allowing the release of either. His mouth curled back in a sneer. "You're pathetic. You couldn't even beat me fairly, you had to try and poison me. Well it didn't work."

"I-I saw you drink the poison," stammered Modred.

"Perhaps you did," Arthur said. "And perhaps I switched the mugs." And without giving Modred a chance to think, Arthur attacked.

Merlin watched in shock as Gwen said, "Do something!"

"I don't know what," said Merlin. "And I couldn't anyway. This is Arthur's battle. He wouldn't forgive me if I interfered in something as personal as this."

"Forgive you!" she shrieked. "He's going to die!"

"You haven't known him for as long as I have," said Merlin.

Arthur pressed the attack. He did not allow himself to feel the pain. He refused to acknowledge that his arms were dead weight, that Excalibur had become unwieldly. He refused to acknowledge that he was dying. He drove Modred back, back. The great sword Excalibur came faster instead of slower. The speed of Arthur's blows increased. The crowd went wild as Modred retreated farther and farther before Arthur's savage onslaught. Blood pumped furiously from Arthur's wound. The left side of Arthur's surcoat was stained red. And Arthur grew stronger.

"It's impossible!" screamed Modred.

"This is all impossible!" said Arthur. "We all are! And you'll never defeat me, Morgan. Even if you kill me, you'll never defeat me."

They spun in a semicircle and Modred squinted.

"Now what did I tell you about the sun?" said Arthur, and brought Excalibur down with every bit of strength he had left.

Modred's sword went flying from his hand.

The crowd went wild.

Modred made a desperate grab for his sword as Arthur swung Excalibur around. Modred dodged, and the weight of Excalibur pulled Arthur to the ground. He lay there, gasping, clutching at his wound. Under his helmet his features were twisted in pain. The poison running through his system, weighted down by his armor, his wound an agonizing pain in his side, Arthur could not rise.

Modred stood there for a moment, unable to believe his good fortune. "You . . . you lied to me! You did drink the poison. You are dying!" He laughed Morgan's laugh. "This is turning into a good day after all."

He turned to where his sword had fallen.

Groucho was holding it. Chico was standing next to him.

Their expressions were unreadable.

Slowly Groucho advanced on Modred. He held the sword with the same ease that he held knives. Slowly Modred started to back up. "Give ... give that back to me, you hairy goon."

Chico darted around to the side. Modred didn't take his eyes off Groucho, and seconds later could retreat no farther because Chico was directly behind him. Before he could move, Chico had pinned his arms behind him.

"What are you doing?" bleated Modred. "What are you doing? Get off me!" He struggled in Chico's grip but was unable to break free.

Still Groucho said nothing as he walked right up to the terrified Modred. He brought the sword right up to Modred's throat and then, with a quick motion, wrapped one arm around Modred's head while Chico kept Modred's arms pinned back.

And the soul of Morgan Le Fey screamed, "No! I can't die again! Not againV And with a scream of horror she leaped free of her host body.

And it was Moe Dredd who now screamed "No! Don't! D- "

Groucho dropped the sword and began rapping his knuckles repeatedly and furiously on Modred's skull. "Noogies!" he shouted. Chico laughed joyously.

A black cloud leaped skyward, and from across the field Merlin worked a spell of containment. This time he was fast enough off the mark, and a ball of energy formed around the pure hate that made up the remains of Morgan Le Fey. It enveloped her completely, and then in a bright flash was gone.

' 'What was that?" asked Percy.

"I transported her," replied Merlin. "She's back at my sanctum. And there she'll stay until I have time to attend to her. Right now I have something more pressing."

He was leaping out of the box, but Gwen was already out and halfway across the field. The crowd's cheering had been reduced to a confused buzz of conversation, because of the strange black cloud, the flash of light that made it disappear, and because Arthur was lying there, and boy, it sure looked like he was bleeding to death. It had to be part of the act, didn't it? But it seemed kind of tasteless....

Modred blinked furiously. "Noogies?"

"Don't'cha remember us, man?" said Chico excitedly. "Remember the old days, the three of us? Chico, Groucho, and you, Harpo. We were a team, man. Don't you remember?"

"The sixties," said Groucho helpfully. "Remember the sixties?"

"Vaguely," said Moe, still trying to shake off the abrupt departure of Morgan. "I was doing some real weird shit back then . . . wait." He looked at them and frowned. And then he said,

"Oh, my God. Wait. Chico and Groucho?"

They nodded eagerly. "You do remember!"

"I thought ... I thought all of that was just some drug-induced hallucination."

"You disappeared one day, man. We never knew where you went."

"I'm not sure myself. I woke up in Thirtieth Street Station in Philadelphia. To this day I don't know how I got there. And that's when I decided to pull my act together."

"Geez." Chico looked at Groucho. "You think if the same thing happened to us, we'd have gotten our act together too?"

Groucho shrugged. "Could be. Philadelphia does weird shit to your head, man."

They pulled their newly-found third member of their group away even as a crowd started to gather around Arthur's fallen form. Gwen came to Arthur's side and dropped down next to him. She ripped off a piece from his surcoat and held it against the wound, and she looked up at the people standing around. "For God's sake, call an ambulance."

They stared at her. "You mean he's really hurt?"

"Get an ambulance, dammit!"

Three people ran off and one man stepped forward. He was a doctor and at that moment he didn't give a damn about malpractice suits. "I'm a doctor, miss. Maybe I can help."

He knelt at Arthur's side as Gwen pulled his helmet off. She gasped at the whiteness of his skin.

"Oh, God, Arthur."

He lifted a mailed hand to her cheek and stroked it, smiling sickly. "Gwen. Don't cry, my lovely Gwen. We gave them a real run for their money this time."

"Them? Who's them?"

"The fates. They have it out for me, you know. They hate happy endings, you know." He winced. "Now don't go crying for me, Gwen. It's unseemly."

Tears streamed down her face. "I don't want to lose you, Arthur," she sobbed. "I don't think I could go through waiting for you again for another fifteen centuries."

"You're not going to lose me," said Arthur. "I'll always be with you."

"I don't want poetic bullshit! I want you!"

He laughed. "That's my Gwen. Never could pull anything on her."

Merlin knelt down next to them. Gwen turned and said, "Merlin! Do something!"

And he said softly, "I'm a sorceror, child, not a doctor. A J 90

curse on him I could handle. Poison and blood wounds, that's something else again. It's out of my reach."

She stroked Arthur's cheek as the doctor worked furiously on the gash in Arthur's side.

"Merlin," said Arthur, and his voice sounded ghastly. "Promise you'll look after her."

Merlin nodded. There were no tears in his eyes, but they were glistening every so slightly.

"It's not fair, you know."

"Life isn't fair, Merlin. You taught me that."

"I know," sighed Merlin. "Just once I'd like to be wrong."

Moments later the ambulance pulled up, driving straight across the green. The crowd melted from its path as the paramedics came rushing out. Plasma had already been prepared.

And the paramedics ran into a problem, as it took three of them to lift the armored king onto the stretcher.

"My God," murmured one. "How the hell are we going to get this stuff off him?"

Merlin handed one of the paramedics a pair of wire cutters. "This'll do it. They're special.

Take the armor right off."

"Are you serious?"

"Trust me."

The paramedic shouted back to Merlin as he leaped into the ambulance. "You must be a Boy Scout, right?"

"Right," said Merlin.

Gwen started toward the ambulance. "I want to be with him!" she cried. But Merlin held her back. "It's going to be busy enough back there without another body to interfere."

She dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Merlin, sobbing piteously on his shoulder. "Oh, Merlin, I want to be with him!"

Uncertainly, he stroked her back gently. "You are, Gwen. You are."

"But you at least had him for one lifetime. I can't lose him after barely a year. I can't."

He held her close to him and let her cry. A single tear ran down his face as the ambulance roared off, siren screeching.

Directly outside the emergency ward of Lenox Hill Hospital, Arthur Pendragon, Son of Uther, King of the Britons, and mayor-elect of New York City, died.

Chaptre the Twentieth

Gwen DeVere sat out on the stretch of private beach outside the rented cottage. Getting a beachside cottage at this time of year in Avalon had been a snap. Avalon, a small resort community near Atlantic City, didn't get all that many people looking for that sort of accommodation in the dead of winter.

Gwen pulled her heavy sweater around her and looked out at the crashing waves. She exhaled her breath and watched the little puff of white steam hover in the air in front of her.

There was a crunch of a footfall on the sand behind her. She turned, looked up, and smiled.

"Hello, love," she said. "Enjoy your nap?"

Arthur sat down next to her and draped an arm around her shoulder. "Feeling quite refreshed, thank you."

They sat next to each other, basking in the warmth of each other's presence. Finally Arthur said, "I'm glad I came back."

"What, from your nap?"

"No, from the dead. This was certainly worth returning for."

"Arthur, I wish you'd stop putting it that way." She sighed. "I keep telling you, you were only dead for under a minute."

"Is that all?" He laughed.

"Look, they bring people back from the dead all the time. Your heart stopped and they got it started again."

"Simple as that." He shook his head. "I'll never understand how so many people consider magic too unbelievable, but they accept as commonplace things that I would have once considered inconceivable."

They stared out at the ocean for a while longer. Then Gwen rested her head on his shoulder.

"I like being married to you," she said.

"The local news people liked it too." He laughed. "Marrying me in my hospital bed. It must have looked delightful on the evening news."

"It did."

"You in your wedding dress, me in my gown with the string openings down the back. Very dignified."

"Look," she said in all seriousness, "I let you get away once. 1*11 be damned if I let you get away again."

She kissed him lightly. He smiled. "Let's run away," he said conspiratorially. "Right after I'm sworn in, I'll make Percy deputy mayor, and then we'll run off."

"You make it sound so tempting."

"It's meant to be."

"You can't. You know we can't. You have a destiny to fulfill."

"Oh, bugger destiny. You're starting to sound like Merlin." He lay back on the sand. "I suppose we'll have to return to it all soon. Merlin. Percy. Ronnie."

"Chico, Groucho, and Moe-sorry, Harpo-have vanished," said Gwen. "The last anyone's heard from them is a postcard of Philadelphia City Hall with a little note saying, 'Wish we were here.* She laughed. "Maybe they're going to stop being the Marx Brothers and become one large W. C. Fields."

She curled up next to Arthur as they lay back on the sand. "I did so many things wrong the first time around, Gwen," said Arthur after a time. "I had so many expectations to which no one could live up. I've been given a second chance-hell, a third chance. I desperately don't want to make a muddle of it."

"You won't," she said confidently. "You're Arthur. You're my husband, and you're a good man, and you'll always do what's right. Even if it's wrong."

"Thank you." He shivered slightly. "Getting chilly. Want to go in?"

"We could. There's an old movie on TV 1 always wanted to see. A Bing Crosby film."

"I don't know the fellow, but I'm game."

"Good. It's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court."

He stared at her. "Let's stay out here a while longer."

"But you said you were getting chilly."

"Then," he pulled her close to him, "we'll just have to find some way to keep warm."

Somewhere in New York Merlin looked at the TV screen and smiled in spite of himself. "I suppose I was wrong about her. It is nice to be wrong every once in a while. But not too often."

He reached over, turned the channel selector. The image of Arthur and Gwen on the beach vanished, to be replaced by another. Merlin settled back with a box of popcorn to watch Bing Crosby.

Oddes and Ends

The description of armor was lifted from a book on armor by Sean Morrison, entitled, unsurprisingly, Armor. It was published by Crowell in 1963.

The following historic landmarks mentioned in this book really exist-Belvedere Castle, the Cloisters, the Camelot Building on Twenty-eighth Street off Broadway (at this writing the home of-honest to God-the Lady Guinevere Theater), and Arthur's Court, a men's clothing store near Central Park. Tell them I sent you. They don't know me from a hole in the wall and you'll probably get a blank stare, if not embarrassed coughs.

Other people and places mentioned in this book are entirely fictional, except where they're named after real people and places.

Lastly, the election depicted in this book is not at all meant to be representative of an actual mayoral campaign in New York City. Unless, of course, Arthur ran for mayor, in which case it would all turn out exactly as has been laid out here.

About Ye Author

is also known for his work at Marvel Comics, including The Incredible Hulk, Spider-Man and Merc. He lives in New York with his wife, two children, and countless stuffed animals.

Magikal mirth 'n mayhem

from the creator of

Thieves' WorldT

Make no mythstake, this is the wildest,

wackiest, most frolicking fantasy series

around. With the mythfit Skeeve and

his magical mythadventures, Aahz

the pervert demon, Gleep the baby dragon,

and a crazy cast of mythstifylng characters,

Robert Asprln's "Myth" series Is

a guaranteed good time. Join the world of

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the wacky adventures of fantasy's

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Dedicated to Myra Because she's always been dedicated to me Author's Note

The author would like to cite the following books and/or authors: LeMorte d"Arthur by Sir Thomas Mallory

The Once and Future King and The Book of Merlin by T. H. White The Last Enchantment and other assorted titles by Mary Stewart Tales of King Arthur by John Steinbeck Arthur Rex by Thomas Berger. All of the above have been carefully read, or purchased, or checked out from the local library and never returned by the author of this work. In the preparation of this manuscript the author has at the very least skimmed the flap copy, sell copy, and table of contents of all of the above, plus many other titles too numerous or obscure to mention.

The author thanks all of the above for their contribution, however small, to this work. But don't expect royalties.