The Alchemist and the Witch

Anno Domini 1682

THE WIND howled around the log cottage, straining at the eaves and rattling the shutters and the door. It made the pine trees that were gathered around the cottage moan and sway. It pushed at the chinking between the logs, then swirled up to test the shingles of the roof. Finally, it swept panting down the chimney.

Inside the cottage, Amer heard it and turned to close the flue. The wind struck against the metal plates and stopped in surprise, then began to rattle and beat at them. Finally it gave up and turned back up the chimney, shrieking with anger.

Amer looked up as he heard it. He sighed, shook his head, and clucked his tongue, thinking that the wind would never learn. He finished the seam of the brass tube he was working on and laid down his torch.

“Master,” said Willow, “wha’cha makin’?”

She was a globe of light in a large glass jar. If you looked closely, you could see, within the globe, a diminutive, very dainty, humanoid form, but only in rough outline.

“A blowpipe, Willow.” Amer looked the tube over carefully. He was a good-looking man, but overly solemn for one in his early thirties.

“Wha’cha gonna blow through it?”

“Air.” Amer puffed through the pipe, checking to see that there were no leaks. Outside, the wind heard him and swept against the cracks and crevices of the cottage with a blast of redoubled fury at a being who dared mimic it. But Amer paid it no heed.

“Well, of course you’re gonna blow air through it,” Willow said, disgusted. “What else is there to blow? What I want to know is, ‘Why?’ ”

“To make glassware.” Amer went over to the hearth for a look at the kettle of liquid glass that was bubbling thickly over the flames. He found the fireplace filled with smoke from the glowing coals and opened the flue to let it out.

With a joyful shriek, the wind bounded down the chimney again. A second later, it came tumbling back out, coughing and spluttering with the smoke.

“Oh, I like glass!” the ball of light sang.

“It is attractive, isn’t it?” Amer closed the flue and dipped the pipe into the glass. He lifted out a lump of the amorphous mass and began to blow gently into the pipe, swinging it in slow, cautious circles. Gradually the glass took the form of a globe.

“It’s magic!” Willow breathed.

“No, just practice.” Amer shook the pipe, and the globe slipped to the side. Then, with a wooden forceps, he drew it away, so that the narrowing tube of glass connected globe and pipe. He broke the tube and placed the finished object on a pile of sand on the floor, to cool.

“It’s pretty,” Willow said doubtfully, “but what is it?”

“An alembic,” Amer said. “It’s for boiling solutions and channeling their fumes where I want them to go.” He dipped the pipe into the glass again, and soon, test tubes, flasks, beakers, and all the rest of the paraphernalia so vital to the alchemist had joined the retort on the sand pile.

“Oh, they’re lovely!” the ball of light enthused. “But why are you making so many?”

“Because I have to replace all my apparatus,” Amer explained. “The goodfolk of Salem town made that necessary.”

The citizens of Salem had, with great civic zeal, destroyed all Amer’s glassware in the process of razing his house. Due to the unselfish dedication of the goodfolk of the town, Amer had lost everything—laboratory, wardrobe, notebooks, and dwelling—which ten years of work and wonder had won from the New England wilderness. Barely escaping with his life, he had found his way at once to this hidden spot deep within the mountain forest, and in defiance of the rain and wind which had until then been undisputed masters of the forest, built a small house of logs and reproduced as well as possible his lost notebooks.

There was more to do, of course. There was always more to do.

Taking up a knife and a stick of wood, Amer went to the armchair by the fireplace, sat down, and began to whittle.

“Now wha’cha makin’?”

“A model of a human skeleton, Willow.” Amer made a careful scrape along the tiny wooden bone with his carving knife, held back the piece to evaluate it, compared it with the drawings in Galen’s text on anatomy beside him, and nodded, satisfied. He put it down and took up the next roughly cut blocky bone and began to whittle its details.

“Wha’cha makin’ that for?”

“To better understand human anatomy, my dear.”

“Why in firedamp do you want to understand that?”

Amer smiled. “So I can write a book about it.”

A miniature skull began to grow out of the wood under his knife. On the table at his elbow lay a diminutive rib cage, a pelvis, and an assortment of other bones. There was also a large stack of drawings and pages, all written in the alchemist’s hand. Amer was preparing his own text on anatomy.

“Oh,” said the ball of light, “I’m writin’ a book, too. I’m gonna call it Bizarre Behavior of the Bipedal Beast.”

“Indeed!” Amer looked up from his work. “And where are you finding your information?”

“From watching you. You’re about as bizarre as they come. Let’s see . . . ’makes little skeletons . . . ’ ”

Amer smiled, wondering what his little captive was using for pen and ink—or paper, for that matter. He, of course, had never heard of electricity, let alone the concept of rearranging electrical charges that store her words. “You’re not exactly a conformist yourself. Will-o’-the-wisps aren’t supposed to write books, you know.”

“Must be the company I keep.”

“Touché.” Amer smiled. “I am a trifle eccentric, I suppose.”

“No ‘suppose’ about it. You do a lot of things people aren’t supposed to do.”

“Do I really!”

“Uh-huh.” The ball of light bobbed. “Like, for one thing, they’re not supposed to go messing around with smelly ol’ potions and things. They’re also not supposed to catch will-o’-the-wisps and keep ’em in bottles!”

“Beakers,” Amer corrected automatically. “You wouldn’t want me to be lonely, would you?”

“Yeah,” the will-o’-the-wisp said pensively. ‘‘That’s another thing people aren’t supposed to do.”

“What? Be lonely?”

“Uh-huh,” said Willow. “They’re supposed to live in towns, or maybe farmhouses, with other people—but not high up on mountainsides, all alone.”

“Well, yes,” Amer conceded. “I must admit that’s true. But the people of Salem didn’t want me there, Willow.”

“Aw, I’ll bet they did. You just think they didn’t.”

“No,” Amer said, frowning, “I’m afraid they made their opinion quite clear. They burned my house and notebooks, and broke my instruments. I barely escaped with my life.”

“No!” Willow said, shocked.

“Why, yes,” said Amer mildly.

“But why, Master?”

“Because,” said Amer, “Samona told them I was a warlock.” He frowned. “Actually, I don’t think they’d have taken action on her unsupported word—she’s never been terribly well-liked, except by the young men, and then in the worst possible way. She must have had some help, some others telling the goodfolk that I had made a pact with Satan.”

“Master!” Willow gasped. “You didn’t, did you?”

“Of course not, Willow. I’m an alchemist, not a warlock.”

The will-o’-the-wisp sounded puzzled. “What’s the difference?”

“A warlock gains magical powers by selling his soul to the Devil,” Amer explained. “An alchemist gains magical results by studying the phenomena of nature and mind.”

“By how?” The will-o’-the-wisp was totally at a loss.

“By constructing logical generalizations encompassing ever more natural and supernatural phenomena.”

“If you say so.” But the will-o’-the-wisp sounded doubtful. “You sure you’re safe here, though?”

“Oh, yes,” Amer murmured. “Quite safe.”

For Amer had done more than merely rebuild. He had set an elaborate network of traps and warning devices around his cottage in a wide circle, for it was highly possible that the good colonists would not rest until they had hunted him down and burned him at the stake.

“It is possible,” he told Willow, “that the Salem folk may still be pursuing me. I’m quite certain that Samona, at least, will not rest until she has settled with me.”

“But who is this Samona? And why’d she say you’re a whosiwhatsis if you’re not?”

“Samona,” said Amer, “is a very beautiful young witch who lives in Salem—only they don’t know she’s a witch. And she told them I was a warlock because she hates me.”

“Hates you?” Willow demanded, incredulous.

“Hates me,” Amer confirmed. Not that he had ever done anything to Samona that should cause her to hate him; indeed, he was supremely indifferent to any being that walked on two feet, and especially so to those who wore skirts. Samona despised him for this; but then, she held the whole colony in contempt for similar reasons.

And this Amer could never understand, for though Samona loathed the Puritans for their reserve, she was herself extremely reticent, so much so that more than a few of the stern young men still bore the scars of her fingernails for their boyhood audacity in paying her a courtly compliment.

“Why does she hate you, Master?”

Amer made a guess. “Because she hates all men.”

“Well—yeah, I can understand that. But why you especially?”

“Because my magic is just as powerful as hers.”

“But that’s no reason to hate you!”

“That’s just the way women are. Willow.” Amer sighed.

“Aw, it is not!’; willow said stoutly. “I’m not and I’m a woman!”

“That’s different,” Amer explained. “You’ re a will-o’-the-wisp.”

“What woman isn’t?” Willow returned. “There’s gotta be another reason why she hates you, Master.”

“Well, there is, really. You see, she sold her soul to the Devil, and I didn’t.”

Notwithstanding his refusal to sell his soul, Amer had garnered more knowledge of magic through his experiments than Samona had gained through her pact with Satan. “I think we were both born with the ability to work magic, actually—it was just a matter of learning how. She thought she paid a much lower tuition than I, but she’s begun to realize that the bill will come due eventually, and will be rather exorbitant. Mine took longer, but is paid in full as it goes.”

“Oh.” That gave the will-o’-the-wisp pause. “No wonder she hates you.”

Amer looked up, surprised. “I don’t see any logic in it….”

“That’s all right, Master,” Willow assured him. “There isn’t any.”

“Then it is absolutely necessary that I keep an eye on her.” Amer put down the tiny bone and went back to the hearth. He placed the new glassware on a tray and took it over to a keg-spigot he had hammered into one of the logs that formed the wall. He twisted the handle, and clear, sparkling water gushed out, though the spigot met only solid wood within the log. It was fed by a clear mountain stream, a mile away; the alchemist had learned well from his research.

He washed the new glassware with water and sand, then set it up on metal stands on a bench that ran the full length of the wall. He lost no time in setting an alembic bubbling merrily into a cooling tube with a beaker at its end, to collect the distillate.

While he waited for the beaker to fill, he turned to another workbench, one that bore racks of vials, another alembic, several glass tubes, and a small crucible. It was backed by shelves of jars and boxes, each carefully labeled. Amer took another, larger beaker, filled it with water, and set it over an elaborately carved alcohol lamp. Then the alchemist began to ladle powders into a beaker. “Let’s see . . . green pepper. . .sugar. . .cinnamon . . .”

“Sounds good, Master.”

“. . .powdered batwings. . .”

“Gaaaaaack!”

“Oil of ambergris. . .”

“Uh, Master . . .”

“Eye of eagle . . .”

“Master . . .”

“Monosodium glutamate . . .”

“M-A-A-A-A-STER!”

“Oh.” Amer looked up, blinking. “Yes, Willow?”

“Wha’cha makin’ !?!”

“Making?” Amer looked down at the frothy liquid in his beaker. “A far-sight potion, Willow.”

“A what?”

“A far-sight potion. So I can watch Samona, wherever she is.”

Willow gasped. “You’re a peepin’ Tom?”

“Willow!” Amer remonstrated, scandalized. “I am merely performing a vital mission of strategic reconnaissance.”

“That’s what I said. Wha’cha wanna look at her for, anyway?”

“I’m afraid it’s necessary,” Amer said, thin-lipped. He peered into the beaker. “You see, she’s always trying to find some way to enslave me.”

“Enslave you? What’s she want to do that for?”

“Because she’s a woman.”

“That’s no reason,” Willow maintained.

“Samona thinks it is,” Amer explained. “As I’ve said, she hates all men.”

“And you most of all, ’cause you’re not a warlock?”

“For that,” Amer said judiciously, “and because I’m the only man she can’t enslave with her magic.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’ve got magic, too.”

Willow sounded puzzled. “I thought you said you weren’t a witch.”

“Warlock,” Amer corrected absently. “That’s the male equivalent. And no, I’m not. I’m an alchemist.”

“Same thing.”

“Not at all.” Amer sighed, striving for patience and trying to find a slightly different way to explain something he’d already explicated. “A witch gets her power from the Devil. But an alchemist gets his magic by working experiments.”

“Gotta get this down,” Willow muttered. “Chapter Four: Magic, Male and Female… Now—you’re an alchemist?”

“That’s right.”

“And she’s a witch?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And that’s why she hates you?”

Amer looked up, startled. “You know, Willow, you may have something there. If I got my magic from the Devil, she probably wouldn’t even notice me.”

“Why not?” The will-o’-the-wisp was totally perplexed.

“That, my dear,” said Amer, “is one of the peculiarities of the female mind.”

“You mean,” said Willow, “you don’t know.”

“Precisely.”

A gentle bubbling announced that the beaker was ready.

Amer recited an incantation and peered into the fluid. “Now let me see. . .” He found it filled with a swirling of unearthly colors. He sighed patiently and muttered a refinement of the earlier spell—with no results. He tried a second and a third spell, and then, losing patience, slapped the side of the beaker. Instantly the colors swirled together, stretched and wriggled; and snapped into focus in the form of Samona.

She was dressed in a low-cut, red velvet gown with a high Elizabethan collar that framed her head in a scarlet halo. The bodice was molded to her as though it had been born on her and had grown as she had grown, narrowing as her waist had narrowed and flaring out into the skirt as her hips had become wider and fuller, curving softly, and then sweeping up in a futile attempt to hide her high, swelling breasts. But where cloth had failed, long shimmering hair had succeeded, flowing down to hide her in soft, luxuriant black waves. Her face was smooth, gently tinted, with slanting black eyes and wide, full, blood-red lips.

All this Amer noted, and had noted every day of his childhood and youth almost without knowing it. She’d changed her eyebrows again, and the mahogany highlights were back in her hair.

“Still so easily bored,” he murmured, staring into the beaker.

“Not you, Master!”

“No, no! Samona.”

“Master! You really shouldn’t!”

“Fo,” Amer said, frowning at what he saw. “I think I should.”

For the miniature Samona’s hands were moving lightly and quickly among the bottles on the shelves alongside her fireplace, measuring their contents into a small cauldron that boiled and chortled softly over an unearthly green flame. She stirred the brew, dropped in a pinch of a white, glittering powder, and stood counting her pulse-beats as she watched the thickening liquid.

“What’s she doing, Master?”

“I thought you said spying was wrong, Willow.”

“Well, yes, but gossip is another matter. Tell me!”

Amer smiled. “She’s making a potion, too. But what kind?

Let’s see. . .she’s using essence of sweet zephyrs. . .powdered tears. . .rhadlakum. . . . What can it be?”

“That’s what I was wonderin’,” Willow muttered.

“My heavens!” Amer looked up, eyes wide. “Another aphrodisiac!”

In the beaker, the miniature Samona, judging the time to be right, swung the cauldron off the flame, let it stand for a few minutes, and then skimmed the surface with a ladle and poured the skimmings into a small vial. She held it up to the light; it glittered with ruby liquid, steaming. Her eyes glowed; she eyed the vial with a smug smile, then began to laugh.

Suddenly, there was a flash of green light, and she was gone.

Amer stood looking into the beaker for a few seconds more.

“What is it, Master?” Willow cried. “Master? Master!”

For Amer had taken a clean beaker and started pulling powders off the shelves.

“What kind of potion is an aphro-whatever?” Willow demanded.

“An aphrodisiac, Willow.”

“What’s it for?”

“Me, I’m afraid.”

“No, no! I mean, what does it do?”

“Stra-a-a-a-ange things,” Amer said.

“Like what?”

“Well,” said Amer, and “well,” again. Then, “It will, uh . . . make me, uh . . . like her.”

“Wonderful! Then you’ll be friends again?”

“Well, something like that, yes.”

“Master,” the will-o’-the-wisp accused, “you’re not bein’ honest with me.”

“Very well, Willow.” Amer sighed, looking up from his work for a moment. “An aphrodisiac makes a man desire a woman carnally. And the particular kinds that Samona brews are also love philtres.”

“A love filter? What’s it do, take the love out of the carnal—whatever?”

“Desire. And no, a ‘philter’ adds love in to where it wasn’t before.”

“That doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“Nor to me, either,” Amer confessed. “But here’s the manner of it: if she can trick me into drinking that potion, I’ll become her slave.”

“I thought you said her magic didn’t work on you.”

“It hasn’t—so far. And only because I counter her spells and potions with my own. But there is always the possibility that she might be able to concoct a new potion that would work on me.”

“So what’re you doin’?”

“Making an anti-aphrodisiac, Willow.”

“A what?”

“A protective drug,” Amer explained. “It will ward me from the effects of her potion. Let’s see . . . where did I put the saltpeter?”

“But,” said Willow, “don’t you want to fall in love with her?”

“Willow,” said Amer, “don’t ask embarrassing questions.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Why does she want to make you like her?”

“Because she’s a woman.”

“No, no! I mean, besides that!”

“Willow,” Amer said between his teeth, “it is not tactful to remind a scholar of just how much he doesn’t know.”

“Well, I’m sorry! Y’ know, this whole thing seems really silly to me. She mixes a potion so you’ll fall in love with her, and you mix one so you won’t. You could save a lot of time and trouble if neither of you mixed the potions.”

“Very true,” Amer agreed. “Unfortunately, Samona doesn’t see it that way.”

“Why not?”

“Well…I suppose it’s that if she can’t enslave me one way, she’ll try another.”

“And an aphro-whatsis will do that?”

“It’s a good start,” Amer allowed.

“I don’t understand,” said the poor, confused will-o’-the-wisp.

“I only wish I did!” Amer said fervently. “Let’s see. . .wormwood. . .a pinch of gall. . .wolfbane. . . .”

“Love potions.” Willow was engraving in her book of energy impulses, “Protective drugs. . . Wait till Harvard hears about this!” She spoke of the College that had been established for many years.

Amer gave the potion a final stir, lifted it to his lips, and drank it off in a single draft. His face twisted in a wry grimace; he coughed, and came up smiling. “There! I’m safe!”

A tone, so low that it was more felt than heard, filled the room. Willow vibrated with panic, but Amer breathed, “Just in time.”

“Good afternoon, Amer,” murmured a low, husky voice.

“Good afternoon, Samona.” Amer noted that her tones were deeper and fuller than usual, sending a shiver through his system; he reminded himself that his potion needed a few more minutes to take its full effect.

She came over to the side of his chair, and the flowing skirts clung to her as she came.

“You aren’t very polite,” she said. “A host usually offers his guest some refreshment after a long journey.”

“Of course,” Amer said. “Forgive me.” He rose and took a decanter and two glasses from the mantel. “Will amontillado do?”

“Quite well,” Samona said, and a smiled flickered for an instant over her lips. It lasted no longer than the tick of a watch, but that was long enough for Amer to be certain it had been there.

He filled the glasses and gave her one. “To your power—may it increase.”

“Hypocrite!” she said. “Toast something else, Amer, for you know as well as I that I’ll never be stronger than I am now.”

“Oh, come,” Amer said. “You’re young yet.”

“Yes, but I’ve reached my peak. You’re young, too, Amer, but somehow your power keeps growing. I should know, I’ve been trying to defeat you long enough.”

“Oh, now, Samona!” Amer protested. “You mustn’t give up so easily! You might win yet, you know.”

“Indeed? It doesn’t seem very likely.”

“Don’t believe her, Master!” Willow whispered, just behind his back. “Remember her potion!”

That jarred Amer out of his shock. “Yes 1 Well, uh, Samona—I’m glad to see you’ve finally given up chasing a will-o’-the-wisp.”

Someone cleared a miniature throat behind his back.

“I beg your pardon, Willow,” Amer hissed out of the comer of his mouth.

Samona didn’t notice; she had turned away, pacing toward the hearth. “You’re right, Amer. I’ve become wise in the hard school of frustration. I know when I’m beaten.”

“Surely. . . .”

“No,” she said, bowing her head forlornly, “I’ve come to admit defeat, Amer.”

For a moment he panicked, thinking she meant it. But then he remembered the fleeting, gloating smile as he poured the wine, and said, “Well, I’m glad to see that you’ve finally become wise, Samona. It’s not good for you to keep wearing yourself out getting nowhere.”

“So I’ve learned,” she said with a touch of bitterness. “No, I’ve come for a truce. And to prove that I mean you well, I’ve brought news of danger.”

“Danger? From whom?”

“From Death.”

Amer smiled. “There’s always danger of that, Samona.”

“You don’t understand.’ Samona turned away impatiently.

“I’m willing to learn.”

“Yes, and eager, too, I know,” she said, bitter again. But she smoothed her face with a smile. “Then learn, scholar, that in this eldritch world we inhabit, Death is not a force, but a being.”

“Fantastic. . .”

“But real enough, for us.” Samona turned to face him again. “Death doesn’t come in the usual way when he comes for a witch. He comes in person, and you may never know he’s there until you feel the cold, damp bones of his hand clutching your shoulder.”

“Come now,” Amer said. “Surely, with all your powers, you could invent some sort of protection for yourselves.”

“True,” she said, “but if we ever relax for so much as a second, he is upon us. If we forget ourselves in our delight with our own cleverness, if we lose our heads in glee as we watch a victim shudder, we will almost certainly feel the chill on our shoulders and feel it creep to our hearts, and will hear a cry of triumph as we sink to the depths of Hell.” She stood gazing at the fire, pale and trembling, as though she could see the hollow eyes of Death staring at her.

“But if Death is always lying in wait, as you say,” said Amer, softly, “how is it that you have never thought it necessary to speak of him until now?”

“Because he struck among us last night,” Samona said in a hushed, almost strangled voice. “This morning Goody Coister was found sitting in the old rocking chair in front of her fireplace. She was stone dead.” Samona’s eyes reflected the fire burning quietly on the hearth. “I saw her myself,” she whispered. “You could still see the marks of his fingers on her shoulder.”

“Goody Coister?” Amer whispered in shock and disbelief.

Samona smiled with malicious satisfaction. “Yes, Goody Coister, that virtuous old hag. That venerable symbol of New England purity. Shall 1 tell you how many bastards she and old Moggard have spawned?”

“Moggard?”

“Yes, Moggard. Warlock-General of New England and Vice-Chairman of the Universal Brotherhood of Sorcerers. He begat quite a few on the old biddy—not that any of them lived to know of it, of course.” For a moment, Samona seemed sad and forlorn.

“But Goody Cloister taught me my catechism!”

“Of course. The worst ones always look to be the most respectable. Shall I tell you about Sexton Karrier?”

Amer shuddered. “Please don’t.”

Samona’s eyes gleamed, and her smile deepened with satisfaction. She turned away, and when she turned back to face Amer again she looked quietly humble once more.

“Ah, well,” she said, “I just wanted to warn you. Come, Amer, fill my glass again, and let’s drink to friendship.”

Amer shook off the mood of apprehension and forced a smile. He nodded and took the decanter from the mantelpiece and poured them each a glass. “As red as your lips, my dear, and as sparkling as your eyes.”

“Gallant,” she noted, and lifted her glass. “To our truce.”

“Pax nobiscum,” Amer said, and drank.

Samona nearly choked on her wine. “Please!” she said between splutters, “must you use Church language?”

“I’m sorry,” Amer said. “Really I am.” He patted her back gently.

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, and turned on him like a cornered vixen. For a moment, Amer could have sworn that he saw the Devil looking out at him from her midnight eyes.

But she regained her composure immediately. “I’m sorry, Amer. But you know I could never bear to be touched. And it’s become worse since I. . .joined the coven.”

“Yes, quite so.” Amer had a brief, nightmarish vision of what her initiation must have been like, and how much of herself she had lost. He shuddered. “I’d forgotten. My apologies.”

“Accepted,” she said, looking up at him, and, “Oh, Hell!” in a slightly reverent tone. “I’ve spilt my wine all over you.”

‘‘That’s all right,” Amer said, recovering himself with equal rapidity. “I’ve plenty more. Would you care for another glass?”

“Yes, please,” she said. She put her hand to her forehead.

“Yes, I—I think I need it.”

“Why, you’re pale,” he said.

“No, I’m all right,” she said. “It’s nothing.”

“Sit down,” Amer said, pushing an armchair toward her.

She all but fell into it. He picked up a notebook and fanned her gently.

“Just a moment’s rest. . . .”

“There, there,” Amer soothed. “Too much excitement, that’s all. . . .”

“Yes. I—I’m fine now. Thank you.”

Amer put the notebook down, took Samona’s glass to the mantel, and filled it from the decanter. He knelt and gave it to her.

But as she took it, he noticed a ring on her hand, a ring with an exceptionally large stone—a huge emerald with a deep, almost liquid luster. In all the time he had known her Amer had never seen Samona wear such a ring. “What a beautiful gem!”

“I—I’m glad you like it, Amer.” Her eyes were wide with. surprise and—was it alarm?

“That—uh—friend I’ve heard you speak of. . .Lucretia . . .?”

“Yes, it was a present from her.”

He smiled sadly as he looked at it.

“Amer. . . .”

“Yes, of course.” He tore his gaze away and went over to a cabinet that stood next to the table on which Willow rested. “You’ll need something stronger than wine.”

As soon as he’d turned away, Samona sat up, pressed the stone out of its setting with feverish haste, and emptied the drop of potion it contained into his glass of wine.

“Master,” Willow hissed, “she’s pouring something into your wineglass.”

“I thought she would,” Amer muttered. “Fortunate that I didn’t drink it all.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“No, not especially, Willow. Let me see. . .I suppose I’ve given her enough time. . .”

Only just; Samona had scarcely replaced the stone and fallen back into the chair before Amer returned.

He took a glass from the mantel and filled it from the bottle of whiskey he’d taken out of the cabinet. “Here.” He pressed it into her hand, which trembled as she brought the glass to her lips. Amer took his wineglass from the table and raised it, wondering what kind of spell the potion was supposed to cast over him. ‘‘To your quick recovery,” he said, and downed it.

Samona watched him out of the comer of her eye and muttered a short incantation as he drank. Then she leaned back in the armchair and sipped her whiskey slowly, waiting for the potion to take effect. Beneath the dark waves of hair that covered them, her breasts rose and fell softly with her breathing, and Amer was shocked when he realized that he’d been wondering just what the low-cut gown would reveal if she wore her hair back over her shoulders.

Finally Samona set down her glass, took a deep breath, bit her lip, and said, “Amer, I—I don’t feel too well. Would you see how my pulse is?”

“Certainly,” Amer said, and he took her wrist, frankly puzzled as to what she was up to. He probed for the large vein, probed again, and frowned. “I can’t seem to find it.”

“I never seem to be able to, either,” she said, “not there.

See if you can feel my heartbeat.” She slid his hand under the heavy black tresses, and Amer found that the gown was cut very low indeed.

For a moment he was stunned, completely at a loss. Then, with a sort of numb amazement, he realized the purpose of the potion, and began to be very glad he’d taken the antidote. For one way or another, Samona meant to have his soul. He would play along to see if she had more tricks prepared.

Amer caressed her, slowly moving his hand to part the rich black waves and stroke them away to her shoulders; then he let his hand slide over the swelling softness of her. He felt her shiver under his touch. He knelt and watched her cream-white breasts as they rose and fell, straining against their velvet prison.

Then he looked at her face, and it was dead white. He realized with a shock that he was the first ever to touch her with tenderness, and that her trembling was not from passion alone. Finally, with a sense of awe, he realized her courage.

Then she looked at him with fear in her eyes, and her trembling lips parted softly. He slid his free hand to her back, between her shoulders, and pressed her to him. Their lips met in moist sweetness.

They broke apart, and he pulled her head down onto his shoulder. “So,” he said, with wonder, “that’s what it’s like. . . .”

“What. . . ?” Samona half-gasped.

“Your scapula,” Amer breathed. “It articulates with your clavicle by ligament! And I thought it was connected by cartilage . . . .”

For a moment, Samona sat very, very still.

Then she was out of the chair and over against the wall with a wildcat’s scream. “Take your hands off me and get away from me, you tin-bellied machine!” She clasped at the wall behind her with fingers hooked into claws, glaring at him and hissing, “I wish you were in Hell!” And, for a moment, Amer could have sworn he saw hellfire in her eyes.

Then a cloud of green smoke exploded. When it cleared, she had vanished.

“Thank Heaven!” Willow sighed. “Master, she’s gone!”

But Amer only stared at the place where she had been, murmuring, “Strange. . .strange, very strange. . . .”

“What, Master?”

“My emotions, Willow.”

“Why, Master?” the will-o’-the-wisp cried in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“I must write this down,” Amer hurried to his writing desk and snatched up a quill. “It’s priceless information. . . I’ll probably never have the same experience again.”

“I’ll say!” Willow said fervently. “But what’s the matter?”

“Well, Willow. . .”

“Now, now, Master, you’ve had a nasty shock. Just lie down and relax. You’ve had a hard day. I’ll write it down for you.” Willow prepared to make alterations in the electrical potentials within her.

Amer took her at her word, going over to the narrow cot against the wall and lying back, head pillowed on a horsehair cushion. “It started when she told me that she’d come to declare a truce. . . .”

“Just let it flow, Master,” the will-o’-the-wisp said, oozing sympathy.

“She looked up at me, and her eyes looked so innocent, and she seemed so submissive. . . .”

“Mm-hmmm.”

“. . . and she said she’d come to surrender. . . .”

“Yes, Master . . .”

“And, well, Willow, for just a moment there, I felt panic”

“RealIy!”

“And, Willow—that worries me. . . .”

The wind swept around the cottage, infuriated at being balked. But it was gaining strength, because other winds were coming, ushered by the towering black clouds that drifted from the west, obscuring the moon. The wind welcomed its kin, and together they tore at the cabin, howling and tearing. Then a great black cloud arrived and broke open a drum of rain, with a huge crack of thunder. Torrents gushed down, lashing the little cabin, and the winds howled in glee.

Inside, Amer slept on in blissful but disturbing dreams, unheeding of the winds. Enraged, they redoubled their force. Still Amer slept—until Willow came to attention, startled. She listened, was sure she’d heard right, and called, “Master! Wake up!”

It came again, from the door—a knocking.

“Master! Wake up! There’s someone here!”

“What? Here? Where?” Amer lifted his head, dull with sleep.

“At the door!”

“Here?” Amer stared at the portal.

It shook as the knocking sounded again, louder and. quicker.

“Oh, my heavens! And at this hour of the night!” Amer shoved himself out of bed, shuddering as his feet touched the cold boards, shoved them into slippers, and stood. He shuffled over to the door as the pounding came gain, insistent, impatient. “Patience, please! Patience! I’m coming!” Finally, he pulled out the bar.

The door slammed open, and the wind howled in triumph, whirling toward the doorway—and swooping away as something blocked it from entering. It howled in frustration, but a flash of lightning drowned it out with a huge clap of thunder—and showed Amer the robed and hooded silhouette standing in his doorway.

The alchemist froze. Then he turned to catch up his dressing gown and don it. Knotting the sash, he turned back to the doorway.

“Please excuse my appearance,” he said, “but I must admit that I was not expecting you.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” the figure said. “Very few ever do.”

Amer frowned. “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous,” he said, “but would it be too much trouble for you to tell me who you are, and what you’ve come here for?”

“Not at all,” the figure said, and, in sepulchral tones, “My name is Death, and I’ve come for you.”

Amer raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed?” he said, and then, a little taken aback, “Well, I’m quite honored.”

But then, recovering himself, he saw that Death still stood outside the door.

“Oh, my heavens!” he cried, “you must think me terribly rude. Come in out of the rain, won’t you?”

Somewhat puzzled, Death stepped into the cabin, and Amer pushed the door shut behind him. The wind screamed as the door shut on it, then howled and battered against the door in rage. But Amer dropped the oaken bar into its brackets, then turned and went over to the fireplace to throw on another log. “Come stand by the hearth and dry yourself. May I get you a drink?”

“Why, yes,” Death said, pleasantly surprised. “Wormwood, if you have it.”

“Of course,” said Amer, taking another decanter from the mantel. He filled a glass and handed it to Death, then poured one for himself. Reaching up, he took a vial from the mantelpiece, shook a little of the fine, chicory-scented powder it contained over the stool, and muttered a short, unintelligible phrase. The outline of the stool blurred, then began to stretch and bulge as though it were alive. Within thirty seconds, it had assumed the shape of a high-backed wing chair. It sprouted cushions, which grew and blossomed into a luxuriant golden velvet. The outlines hardened again, and a soft, comfortably padded armchair stood by the hearth.

“Sit down, won’t you?” Amer said.

Death didn’t answer. He stood staring at the armchair. At last he cleared his throat and said, in a businesslike tone, “Yes. This brings me to the matter about which I came, Master Amer.”

“Please sit down,” Amer said. “It pains me to see a guest standing.”

“No, thank you,” Death said. “My cloak isn’t quite dry yet. But about this—ah—strange gift of yours, Master Amer.”

“How rude of me!” Amer said. “Please forgive me. Being freshly wakened, I’m afraid I’m not thinking very clearly.” He turned to a closet in the wall near the workbench and drew out a leather laboratory coat. “Please put this on and let your wet cloak hang by the fire.”

“No, thank you,” Death said, a little hastily. “However, it is getting rather warm, and I must admit that I’m beginning to feel like a steamed chestnut.” He opened his hood and the front of his cloak, and Amer stared, fascinated. For Death’s head was a skull, and his body was a complete, articulated skeleton.

“Excuse me,” Amer said, “but would you mind holding your arm straight out to the side?”

Death frowned. “Like this?”

“Yes, exactly.” Amer picked up a notebook and pen and began drawing. “Now, would you move your arm in a circle? Yes, that’s fine. You see, I’m in the midst of an investigation of the relationship between the scapula and the bones of the upper arm, and. . . .”

“Please!” Death drew his cloak tightly about himself and turned away, and the white skull became suffused with a touch of pink.

“Oh, curse me!” Amer cried, and his face turned bright magenta. “When I become absorbed in an investigation, sir, I’m apt to forget everything else, including my manners. I beg your forgiveness.”

“That’s quite all right,” Death said, turning back to him. “We all have our faults. But if you’re really sorry, Master Amer, you may prove it at the price of a little more wormwood.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Amer said, filling Death’s glass again. “Are you sure you won’t sit down?”

“No, thank you,” Death said. “But perhaps you should. I’m afraid I have some rather unpleasant news for you.”

“Oh!” Amer sank into the armchair Samona had occupied earlier in the day. “Unpleasant news? What would it be?”

“Well,” Death cleared his throat and began to pace to and fro in front of the fireplace, skeletal hands clasped behind his back. “Well,” he said, “I’m afraid this may seem rather ungrateful in view of your excellent hospitality, but—well, duty is duty, and. . . Certainly you’re aware, Master Amer, that none of us can live forever.”

“Yes,” said Amer, smiling blithely but blankly.

“Well. . .that’s how it is,” Death said, with a note of exasperation in his voice. “We must all die sometime, and. . .well. . . Confound it, Amer, now’s your time.”

Amer sat in a stunned silence for a minute, and then, in a hollow voice, he said, “I see. . .”

“Master!” Willow wailed. “What’re we gonna do?”

“Well, Willow,” Amer said slowly, “it would seem as though you’re finally going to have your freedom.”

“Oh, I don’t want it, I don’t want it! Not at that price!”

“Well . . . I’m sorry, old man,” Death said gruffly, “but what must be, must be.”

“Oh, that’s all right, that’s all right,” Amer said, staring at the fire with an unwavering gaze. “But . . . isn’t that strange?”

“What?”

“Samona. For some reason, all I can think is that I should have kissed Samona—just once, without my protection drug. I never did, you know.” He turned and looked, frowning, at Death. “Now, why should I be thinking of that?”

A tear formed at the edge of the skull’s hollow eye and rolled down the hard white cheekbone. “Come, come, let’s have done with it quickly! Give me your hand.”

Amer ignored the outstretched, bony fingers, and his eyes began to wander aimlessly around the room, “But I’ve so much left to do. . . .”

“So said Caesar when I came for him, and so said Peter and so said Charlemagne. Come, cease torturing yourself!”

Amer’s wandering gaze fell on the miniature bones he had carved earlier in the day. The look of intelligence returned slowly to his eyes as, very carefully, he lifted the model bone-pile into his lap. He took a roll of fine wire from the table and began to string the little skeleton together.

“Just let me finish this,” he said. “Just one more work completed—then I’ll go.”

“All right, but be quick,” Death said, drawing back his hand. There was a note of relief in his voice.

He began to pace the floor again. “If you’d just had sense enough to keep your fingers out of magic, none of this would be necessary.”

“Why, what’s wrong with magic?” Amer fixed the collarbone in place.

“It’s not the magic, it’s the way you go about getting it that ruffles the boys upstairs.”

Amer looked up. Death spun toward him and pointed an accusing finger. “You could at least have had the good sense to guard your door! Your master would have given you as many spells as you wanted for the express purpose of keeping me out!”

Amer smiled sadly and shook his head. “But I don’t have a master.”

“It’s complete and utter carelessness! If you—What did you say?”

“I don’t have a master.”

“Indeed! And I suppose you’re not a sorcerer?”

“Quite right—I’m not.” Amer threaded the pelvis onto the spine.

“Oh?” said Death. “Then how did you come by your magic?”

“I was born with it, I think. In fact, I’m growing increasingly certain that every magic-user is conceived with the talent for it. You either have it, or you don’t—but if you do, the raw ability isn’t enough; you have to learn how to use it.” He warmed to his subject. “That’s all the witches and warlocks in the neighborhood gain by their pact with the Devil—instruction. Of course, there are many who have no power whatsoever; Satan and the older witches merely delude them into believing they’re able to work magic.” He frowned, gazing off into space. “I’ve learned, in the last few years, that there are holy men in the East who know how to work wonders, though that’s not the main purpose of their study—and they do teach those who truly wish to cultivate the life of the spirit. So their magic is gained by spiritual advancement, without condemning their souls to eternal agony in the afterlife. But I knew nothing of them, when I wished to learn.”

“Then where did you find your teacher?” Death demanded.

“I taught myself,” Amer said, stringing up a femur. “I learned by investigation and hard thought. I experimented until I found the rules by which the world operates. I win my own knowledge, sir. I don’t beg.”

“Rules” Death snapped. “What sort of rules?”

“Oh, there are many of them—the principle of equivalence, for example: for every effect you work, you will always have to pay in one way or another. Or the principle of similarity, which makes it possible for me to do something to someone—say, removing a wart—just by doing the same thing to a model of that person, once I’ve learned how to focus my thoughts properly. That’s really just an application of a larger principle, actually—a sort of rule of symbolism: ‘The symbol is the thing it represents,’ in some metaphysical way I haven’t discovered yet. I’ve reason to believe there are other worlds, other universes, in which the rules of magic don’t apply—in which the symbol is not the thing, for example.”

“Fantasy,” Death snapped.

“For us, yes. But we are no doubt fantasies for them. In this world in which an alchemist can talk to Death, the laws of magic work well enough.”

Death eyed him warily. “You haven’t sold your soul, then?”

“Not in the least,” Amer said. “Invictus.”

Death paced the hearth for a long time, wrapped in thought. Amer was twisting the last toe into place when the skull spoke again.

“It may be,” he said. “But I’ve heard the story before, and it’s almost always a lie. I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me, after all.”

Amer smiled sadly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so hospitable,” he said. “Then you might have been willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.” He twisted a loop of wire around the little skeleton’s leg and laid it on the table.

“Perhaps,” Death said, “though I’m not worried about bribery—I’m immune to it. But come, you’ve finished your plaything. The time’s come.”

“Not quite,” Amer said, twisting the other end of the wire around the table leg. He took the vial of powder from his dressing-gown pocket arid sprinkled it over the model.

“Milyochim sloh Yachim,” he said.

“What?”

“Milyochim sloh Yachim,” Amer said again (repeated obligingly).

“What does that mean?” Death said.

“Well, for all practical purposes,” Amer said, “it means you can’t move from that spot.”

“I don’t know how you expect to convince me that you’re not a sorcerer,” Death said, “if you keep on materializing liqueurs that way.”

“Oh, I’m not really materializing them.” The alchemist snapped his fingers, and a flask of absinthe appeared on the table. “I’m transporting them. There’s a spirits merchant in Boston, you see, who keeps finding bottles missing from his stock.”

“Thief!” Death accused.

“Not at all; he finds gold wherever there’s a bottle missing. You’ve noticed that I always place a nugget on the table before I transport the bottle?”

“And it disappears.” Death gave him a severe stare. “I was wondering about that.”

“The mass of the bottle must be replaced with an equivalent mass,” Amer explained. “I suppose I could use stone, but it’s much more honest to use gold. I believe he makes quite a profit on the transaction.”

“I should think so. But where do you find the gold?”

“I dig it up—after I’ve dowsed for it, of course.”

“Where did you learn dowsing?” Death demanded.

“It came naturally,” Amer explained. “I was very young when I began to notice that hazel twigs twitched when I held them—perhaps three years old.”

“And you will still have me believe your powers have nothing of the supernatural about them?”

“For that matter,” Amer countered, “how do you expect me to believe that you’re supernatural when you continue to consume such vast quantities?”

“Bah,” Death said. “We’ve only had a couple of drinks.”

“Uh-uh!” the will-o’-the-wisp slurred. “I been keepin’ track!”

“And partaking, too.” Death turned to Amer. “So that was why you poured the brandy into that beaker.”

“Even a will-o’ -the-wisp needs fuel. . . .”

“Your fifth glass of cointreau was emptied three hours ago,” Willow said brightly if blearily. “Since then you’ve downed six glasses of chartreuse, four of cognac, and four of absinthe—right now, you’re starting your fifth.”

“Willow,” said Death, “you have missed your calling. You would have made an excellent conscience.”

“And to top it all,” the alchemist said, “you’re not the slightest bit tipsy.”

“Naturally not,” Death said.

“Don’t you mean ‘supernaturally not’?”

“I meant what I said.” Death set down his glass. “Would it be natural for Death to become intoxicated?”

“Is it natural for Death to be a connoisseur of fine liqueurs ?”

“Certainly, as long as I’m not affected by them. In fact, I’ve quite an affinity for spirits. But come, Master Amer,” Death said, “pour me another absinthe, for we stand in great danger of becoming philosophical just now.”

“My heavens! We must prevent that at all costs!” Amer filled Death’s glass again. The Pale Horseman sipped the liqueur and settled back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.

“You know, Master Amer,” he said, “I’m beginning to like you quite well.”

“That’s not surprising,” Amer said.

Death looked at him sharply. “Sorcerer,” he said, in a tone of great severity, “have you been casting more spells in my direction?”

“Oh, no! Nothing of the sort,” Amer said. “It’s merely that absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.”

“I’ll overlook that remark,” Death said, “if you’ll fill my glass again. But wormwood this time.”

“Try it with some juniper-flavored gin.” Amer poured three measures into a glass.

“I notice that you are showing no more effects of your drinking than I do,” Death noted.

“Mashter’zh on’y had two shnifterzh o’ brandy,” Willow slurred.

“I haven’t much tolerance,” Amer confessed. He followed the gin with a dash of wormwood, and handed it to his guest.

Death tasted a drop. “Not bad.” He tasted another. “In fact, it’s quite good. Is this your own invention, Master Amer?”

“It is,” Amer said, very pleased. “What do you call it?”

“Well, I named it for the saint on whose day I first tried the mixture.”

“And that was . . . ?”

“Saint Martin’s Day.”

“It appears to be excellent,” said a fat, rasping voice.

“May I have some?”

“Why, certainly,” said Amer. He had poured the wormwood into the glass before it occurred to him to wonder where the voice had come from.

He turned and saw an enormously fat man dressed in a huge black cape and conical, flat-topped, broad-brimmed hat with a tarnished brass buckle. His whole face seemed to sag, giving him the mournful appearance of a bloodhound. But the sadness of his face was belied by his mouth, which curved in a wide grin of insane glee.

“Amer,” said another voice, a feminine one. “May I introduce you to Master Moggard, Warlock-General of New England and Vice-Chairman of the Universal Brotherhood of Sorcerers.”

Amer turned and saw Samona standing nearby, the glow of victory in her eyes.

“Who is it?” said Death, for he sat facing the fireplace in a high-backed wing chair, and Samona and the sorcerer were behind him.

“Samona and a—um—friend,” Amer said, looking at Death. “They seem to have . . .” But he stopped there, for he saw pits of fire at the back of the skull’s hollow eyes.

“Master Moggard,” Samona said, “this is Amer, the man of whom I told you.”

Moggard waddled forward, holding out a stubby, hairy paw. “Charmed,” he croaked.

“I’m glad you are,” Amer murmured, rising to grasp the acid-stained appendage.

“No, no,” Moggard said. “Not I. It’s you who are charmed—or will be shortly.”

“Indeed?” Amer said, freeing himself of the warlock’s clammy grasp. He turned and poured the juniper gin into the glass with the wormwood. Turning again, he placed it in Moggard’s hand.

“Would you care for something, Samona?”

“I believe I would,” she said. “Amontillado?”

“Of course.”

Moggard waddled about the cabin, inspecting apparatus, thumbing through notebooks, examining powders. He turned back to them as Amer was handing Samona her glass.

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, rolling up to them. “You have a superb laboratory, Master Amer.”

“Thank you,” Amer said, bowing in acknowledgment of the compliment. He remained wary.

Moggard turned to the bookshelf and leafed through another notebook. “Yes, indeed! You have amassed an amazing deal of knowledge, Master Amer.” Then, thoughtfully, “Perhaps a bit too much.”

“Oh?” said Amer. “May I ask exactly how I am to interpret that statement?

Moggard sighed—or rather, wheezed—as he replaced the volume.

“You are not, if I am correct, a member of the Brotherhood, Master Amer?”

“The Brotherhood?”

“That is to say, you have gathered your knowledge with no other—ah—‘being’s’ help?”

“Certainly. 1 have extracted all of it by myself.” Amer’s voice rang with a note of pride.

“Ah. So I feared,” Moggard said. “I am sure, Master Amer, that you can appreciate our predicament. We cannot have a man practicing without—ah—having been initiated.”

Amer’s gaze sharpened. “I wasn’t aware you had any jurisdiction over the situation.”

“Not technically, perhaps.” Moggard’s smile turned toothy. “But we have ways of influencing affairs, for people who disagree with us. For example, I’m certain you have realized that your expulsion from Salem was not purely spontaneous.”

Amer frowned. “That the goodfolk did not originate the notion of my being a warlock? I was aware Samona had put the idea into their heads. . . .”

“But you also must have realized that a female, so young and with so little influence, would not have sufficed to arouse so fierce a movement.” Moggard crowded closer. “No, no, she had a great deal of support from some very influential citizens, very influential.”

“Such as . . . Goody Coister? And Sexton Karrier?”

“Them, yes.” Moggard nodded vigorously. “And others—there were several others, all substantial citizens.”

“And all members of your coven.”

“Not mine, no; my coven is elsewhere. But of the Salem coven, yes. We did wish it to be lethal . . .”

Samona looked up, shocked.

“. . . so that the problem you represent would have had a final solution—but unfortunately, you were too adroit for the mob.”

“The action was ill-considered.” Amer frowned. “It will rebound on you—not immediately, perhaps, but it will rebound.”

“Oh, I think you underestimate us—as we underestimated you. No, the knowledge and skill you have demonstrated make you a problem of great significance.”

“Why, thank you!”

“I assure you, though it is a compliment, it is also a statement of menace—so you will understand that we must revoke your powers.”

Amer smiled slowly. “May I ask how you propose to accomplish this?”

Moggard pursed his blubber lips thoughtfully. Then he said, “It’s somewhat irregular, but a man of your ability merits the courtesy.”

Meaning, Amer realized, that Moggard hoped to frighten Amer out of his dedication to God and goodness, and add both him and his powers to the coven.

Grinning again, Moggard said, “Master Amer, all your powers are based on knowledge of certain laws which your investigations have revealed, are they not?”

“They are.”

“Then I am certain you realize what the consequences would be if these laws were suspended in a certain area and if that area were to surround you, rather like a cloud, no matter where you were to go.”

The smile faded from Amer’s lips. “You have the power to do this?”

“Yes, my—ah—superior has arranged it for me.”

“And of course you would not hesitate to use it.”

“Of course.” Moggard’s grin widened. “Unless, of course, you were to apply for membership in the Brotherhood.”

“I see.” Amer’ s voice was calm, but his face was white. He turned away and looked at the fire in the grate. “And if I don’t choose to apply, you will cancel my powers by suspending all natural and supernatural laws within my immediate area.”

“That is correct.”

“The forces that hold the tiniest bits of matter together would lose their hold—and everything about me would turn to dust.”

“To a dust so fine that we could not see it,” the warlock agreed.

“Including food.”

“Ah, I see you have grasped the essence of the situation,” Moggard chortled.

“In short, if I refuse to sell my soul, I die by slow starvation.”

“Indeed you would! Admirable perception, sir! Really, you delight me.”

“Starve!” Samona turned to the warlock sharply. She was white-faced, and her lips trembled as she spoke. “No, Moggard! You said you would do no more than make him powerless!”

“True, my dear, but at that time I had no idea that he had garnered so much—ah—wisdom.”

“I’ll not let you harm him!”

A new glint appeared in Moggard’s eye, and he waddled up to her with a rapt, fascinated stare.

“Oh, do try to stop me, my dear!” he gurgled. “Such an act would make you liable to discipline” —and his voice dropped to a low, giggling tone— “of my choosing.”

Samona backed away from him, revolted and trembling. Giggling, Moggard followed her.

“Let her be!” Amer shouted, brandishing the poker. Moggard spun, and then he waddled up to Amer, and his giggling became almost hysterical.

“So you, too, wish a display of my powers?”

Amer fell back. A bony hand shot out and closed round his wrist. He stared down into the flaming eyes of Death.

“Loose me!” Death said in a low, angry voice. “Loose me and I’ll rid you of him forever!”

Amer stared at Death, and then he looked up at Samona, pressed blanched and trembling against the wall. He shook his head slowly.

“Are you a fool?” Death hissed. Then, in a tone of mild disgust, “Don’t worry, these two have convinced me you’re no sorcerer.”

Amer just shook his head again.

“Why?” Death’s voice was hoarse with rage. But then he realized that Amer was looking at the witch, not the warlock. He sat back in his chair, glowering at the alchemist.

“I see,” he said bitterly. “Thus are men made powerless. I’d thought better of you than that, Amer.”

“Come, sir!” Moggard gurgled. “Will you sign your name in our—ah— ‘captain’s’ book? Or will you die?”

Cold determination crystallized within Amer. He stood straight and tall, giving the sorcerer a stony glance. “I have never had any dealings with the Devil, Master Moggard, and I will not have any now—even at the cost of my life.”

“As you will, then,” Moggard giggled, and his voice had the sound of twigs crackling in a fire. He stretched out his paw and spoke a polysyllable that was mostly consonants, and Amer saw the objects around him dissolve as all laws, natural and supernatural, ceased. In a few seconds everything near him was powder.

Including the miniature skeleton, the wire, and the table and with them, the spell that held Death bound.

Death shot to his feet, and the skeleton hand closed on Moggard’s neck. The sorcerer turned to stare into the flaming eye sockets, and his face had scarcely registered his horror before he fainted.

“You see what comes of cowardice, Amer,” Death said. “Had you loosed me when I asked, I might have spared your witch for you. But now she too must come with me.” And he stalked toward Samona.

“Wait!” Amer shouted. “Give her a chance. Can’t you spare her if she gives up her witchcraft?”

Death halted. He fixed his blazing stare on Samona.

“Your absinthe was good,” he said. “This one time I’ll be clement.”

Amer breathed a sigh of relief.

“Come then, she-devil,” Death said. “Which will it be? Life or damnation?”

Samona looked from Death to Amer and back again, and then she stood away from the wall and straightened her back.

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” she said, and the look she threw at Amer was pure hate. “Yes, I renounce the darkness.”

“Well enough!” Death turned and stalked to the door, dragging Moggard along like a rag doll. He paused with his hand on the latch and turned to Amer.

“Farewell, alchemist. You’ve won your witch. But I wish you luck, for you’ve made a bad bargain.” And Death threw open the door and in two long strides was lost in the stormy night. The cabin returned to normal, but only for seconds. Then the wind shrieked in joy and tore into the cabin.

It raced around the room, overturning furniture, smashing glassware, and triumphantly hurling notebooks into the fire. It fanned the flames and howled with glee.

Amer fought his way to the door and shoved it closed. The wind screamed in rage as the door pinched it off, and blasted the cabin with the finest imprecations in its vocabulary as the alchemist shot the bolt.

Amer leaned against the door, catching his breath. Then, with a smile which, considering the smiler, could be judged as sizzling, he turned to Samona. But the smiled faded and Amer fell back against the door as he looked at her, for the wind had blown her hair back over her shoulders, and Amer suddenly became acutely aware of her femininity.

Samona frowned, puzzled—Amer had never behaved in such fashion before.

“Wha’sa matter?” Willow asked.

“My protection drug,” Amer gasped. “It wore off an hour ago!”

Then Samona realized her advantage. She advanced on him relentlessly, with a smile on her lips and victory in her eyes, and she pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him very thoroughly.

And in her arms we must leave our friend Amer, for he has finally been completely and very capably bewitched.