by Gary Gygax
The wings were not feathery pinions after all. The towering entity inside the quatragram was not an elemental prince of air. The drawn figure used for the summoning was breached. The gasps were of horror.
A red-eyed demon was loose among them all.
"NO!" the great sorcerer cried in denial.
"Oh, but yes!" the demon fairly chortled in an incongruous contralto whose sweetness was quite at odds with its tusked mouth and taloned hands. "You are mine according to the grant of the jack-al-headed one of the North, the stealer of the sun," it added almost in a titter. The iron-hard nails shot forth and gripped Omniurge Fron-tonac. Blood spurted, and the doomed sorcerer uttered a wail of agony and despair as the others in the hall remained powerless. The apprentices shrieked and tried to flee. Two of the lesser demonurges joined the panic. The rest stood fast and worked frantically to ward themselves. The fiery-eyed demon cast its gaze momentarily toward the five others nearby and chortled. "Perhaps I'll return for you later." Then it folded the bloody form of Omniurge Frontonac, tucked the corpse under its left arm, and vanished in a clap of iron thunder far louder than the striking of the huge clock.
Only a reek of vilest sort and a few spatters of gore remained to prove that demon and Frontonac had ever been in the oddly silent chamber. The Academie Sorcerie d'Ys had just lost its master. It was an event from which the college and all associated with it might never recover nor live down.
The howling of something like wild dogs was heard distinctly that night in Ys at about the fourth hour after midnight. Oddly, certain fishermen reported similar howlings coming from the sea around the promontory. That, of course, was dismissed.
MEN AS GAUNT AS DEATH
Color began to streak the horizon, and the tops of the rolling waves glistened with a tawny hue. "When will you break your fast, great lord?"
Setne Inhetep had obtained the villa on the Mare Librum only a few days before. The staff which went with the spacious grounds and dwelling were not yet accustomed to the strange habits of the ^Egyptian. Although Setne did not turn, his reply was polite. "Later, thank you, Carlos. You may return to the villa and await us there. It will be no more than half an hour."
The Iberian shrugged, then gave a slight bow toward the tall foreigner's back. "As you command, lord," he murmured. He was careful to withdraw silently, his sandals making only soft shushing sounds in the sand. Carlos knew that all Egyptians were rumored to be mages, and the tall, red-complexioned fellow who was the villa's current master openly admitted to being a wizard-priest Carlos had no reason to doubt, what with the man's shaven head, hawk nose, and sea-green eyes which seemed to look through to the very brain! Carlos made a sign to ward off the evil eye, again careful to do so with his hand shielded from the thin stranger. No sense in taking chances, for the Magister Inhetep might have an eye in the back of his head.
In fact, Setne was vaguely aware of what Carlos was thinking and doing.
Perhaps it was a sixth sense, possibly a mere quirk. Certainly whenever anyone concentrated on the ur-kheri-heb—a wizard-priest when translated from Egyptian to the Iberian or any other tongue—he was able to sense it, unless the individual was one with strong heka hiding his thoughts or Inhetep was distracted. In any event, Setne was not paying attention because Carlos was a simple fellow. He broadcast everything, but it was of no consequence. Besides, the Magister had eyes only for Rachelle. There was one worthy of attention. If only she were so plainly discerned by his powers. . . .
Rachelle raced along the shore, oblivious to all. It was part of a ritual she performed every morning at first light. The regimen consisted of running, calisthenics, various sorts of gymnastics, and swimming, too, whenever possible. This setting was perfect for her. Rachelle shot a glance towards where the Egyptian stood. He was watching, of course. That she was naked bothered Rachelle not a bit. She waved as she sped past him, and Setne gave a little wave in return. If possible, Rachelle exercised at other times of day as well as at dawn. Often, however, because of their travels, it was not possible. She was glad that there was time now. Setne had promised that they would spend at least another few weeks here in Valentia. The red edge of the sun rose, seeming to force its sphere through the waters of the sea in order to reach the air above. Rachelle stopped and stood panting slightly. This was a spectacle she would not ignore.
Inhetep joined her where the waves lapped the sand. "Are you finished?"
Rachelle flashed the tall man a smile of greeting. He had taught her to love sunrises such as this. "No . . . not quite. I will swim a little longer."
"An excellent prospect," Setne agreed. "It will give zest to my appetite, I am sure. Wait a moment and I'll join you."
The huge solar disk now balanced on the horizon, creating a pathway of red-orange brighter than orichalcum. Rachelle laughed, sprang ahead and, seconds later, was out in the low waves. "Old sluggard!" she shouted as she ran farther out. "You'll be plodding about forever, and I need to be active." With that Rachelle dove as if she were a mermaid.
It took only a moment for the Egyptian to slip out of his one-piece white cotton garment, girdled like a kilt and tunic. Setne simply loosened the girdle, pulled the folds of the blouse open and off his arm, and dropped it onto the sand. Still in his loincloth, he followed the girl, although far less precipitously. He was lean, and well over six feet tall. Setne never revealed his age, and it was nearly impossible to guess. Sometimes he looked but thirty, at other times he appeared to be forty. In fact, he was older. As a rolling surge came in, Inhetep launched himself smoothly into it. He was a strong but obviously unexceptional swimmer. "Beware, girl! Wizards do not take kindly to being japed at!" Inhetep shouted as he splashed out toward Rachelle.
There was no possibility of him catching her. Rachelle was able to literally swim rings around the Egyptian. She did so, including several even more insulting maneuvers which took her under and over him, as if a dolphin were sporting with some lesser denizen of the sea. "Come on then, bald priest of Thoth. If you're such a marvelous
magician, let's see you sprout fins and catch me!
Knowing all along that it was a hopeless matter—unless he did somehow transform himself into fish or aquatic mammal—Setne swam in a straight path, away from the beach, ignoring the girl's tauntings and antics. After a few minutes, Rachelle grew bolder and tried to dunk Setne's head into the clear greenish water. "Ahah!" Inhetep managed to cry in triumph as he caught the girl's hand with a movement as quick as a striking cobra. "Now you shall know what true justice is!"
"No!" Rachelle blurted. How many times had she been caught thus? Would she never learn? She was young, lithe, quick, and strong—very strong and very athletic. Rachelle did a somersault, twisted, tore with her free hand at the Egyptian's hold, and found Setne's grasp as unbreakable as a giant and hungry octopus. She heard him answer, "Yes!" and then she was deep beneath the water. Inhetep descended with her. Rachelle knew she could hold her breath for minutes, and her mentor could at best manage a few dozen seconds. She would win.
Setne went along too willingly to the five-fathom depth to which the girl swam. Then he looked at her and grinned. Rachelle's eyes grew large in the dim greenness; she made a face at him as Inhetep let go of her. Rachelle shot up to the surface and sped off toward shore. Inhetep followed leisurely, working along as if he were a fish, for he had sprouted gills. Magick. This was indicative of his relaxed state of mind. The Egyptian almost never used his power so lightly. The girl had been truly surprised at the display. That pleased him.
"That was a dirty trick," Rachelle said as Inhetep came up out of the sea and walked to where she stood.
"You were warned," he countered. "I've had quite enough physical exercise for one morning.
In fact, I have now developed a ravenous appetite! Are you ready to join me in a morning repast?"
"Humph," Rachelle said, turning towards the villa. "Yes, but don't change the subject. That was an unfair thing you did."
"No more unfair than you, a d
evotee of sport and physical activity, pitting yourself against a sedentary old heka-binder." It was so outrageous a statement that Rachelle barked a scornful laugh, and Inhetep grinned in self-derision. "Cease bickering with your master," he commanded without force or authority. "I won the contest, and now you must serve me for another day."
Rachelle lowered her eyes. "Yes, master," she intoned humbly. Then she gave him a dark-eyed look which would have withered a basilisk. "Tomorrow is another day," she said, and marched off, back straight, toward the bath at the left of the main building. Setne shook his head in admiration at her beautiful form as Rachelle strode ahead.
Hair still damp from the saltwater, Setne and the girl sat on the villa's little terrace watching the sea traffic—small boats and tall-masted ships to and from Valentia—as they enjoyed a simple breakfast. The /Egyptian invariably drank sweetened tea. This morning he had juice from Valen-tia's famous orange groves. Setne barely touched the crusty little loaf before him, but Rachelle made up for the wizard-priest's lack of morning appetite. Fruit, milk, bread with marmalade, smoked eel, and tea were spread out before her.
"You should eat more," she scolded Inhetep. "If you would exercise more and eat more you wouldn't look like a stork."
Setne scowled as if he actually took her words seriously. True, he did rather resemble a long-legged bird, but never one so homely as a stork! "And if you would spend more time in study and learning, young lady, you might have something better to look forward to than a lifetime as a sword-carrying bodyguard," he replied with mock seriousness.
"You seemed happy enough with such inconsequential skills when we were in Thessalonika, and—"
"You were nearly slain that night!"
"There in the warrens of the medina in Mar-rakech, I recall being of some small assistance too.. . ."
Inhetep harrumphed. "So? Have you forgotten how I had to rescue you in Milano? Had you been able to perform the simplest of Preternatural unbindings, death would not have hovered so near your pretty head!"
"Thank you," Rachelle said simply. Then she called, "Carlos, I am still famished. Bring me a pair of those eggs baked in cream!"
Inhetep was at a loss to know if the girl had
thanked him for saving her life or for his inadvertent compliment. He decided to drop the matter for now. Setne would pick it up again later, as he always did, when the opportunity presented itself. He ordered fresh tea and settled back to watch Rachelle devour still more breakfast. Inhetep had found the girl when she was but six or seven years old, a Phonecian or Sham-ish waif taken prisoner in the course of warfare between Egypt and Pharaoh's neighbors to the east. Too young for service in a bordello or sale to a harem, too scrawny and sickly for manual employment, Rachelle had been placed on the slave block almost as a joke. In truth, there had been softly uttered jests and rude titters when the wizard-priest had purchased the little child. Five silver crescents he had bid—overbid. The slaver had immediately banged his gavel, snatched the coins, and shoved the child at the shaven-headed Inhetep, fearing that he was mad and would renege.
He had meant to be rid of Rachelle immediately. A few weeks at his own small villa to the west of Thebes to put a little flesh on her and make her presentable, then he would hand the girl and the manumission certificate over to the temple of Maat. Education, training, and work would have made the little slave girl into a priestess with no small degree of social standing in a dozen or so years. Rachelle had had different ideas. Inhetep had rescued her, so she was
his no matter what. None of the magister's plan had any bearing on the matter.
A month and she was still as scrawny as ever and as wild-looking, too. Inhetep had returned from the east and reprimanded his household staff for failing to have the waif presentable for dedication to the temple.
"She is impossible," the chief of his staff had said earnestly.
"That one is a hellion!" the elderly housekeeper had agreed. "Send her packing now."
That was sufficient for Setne to take charge of the matter personally, yet somehow the waif had prevailed. Instead of being sent off to a temple, Rachelle wound up getting instruction with the children of higher class in the small temple of the nearby village. Inhetep had tutored her as well, and a few years later Rachelle had gone off to formal schooling, but not as an aspiring priestess of Maat as Setne had proposed. Rachelle had talked the wizard-priest into sending her to the great temple of Neith in Sais. Neith was the feminine deity of warfare, the Lady of storms and fighting. Rachelle went off as a little girl and returned a few years later as a sophisticated woman, a trained warrior, skilled huntress, and keen thinker.
"Almost twenty years now," Rachelle said as she swallowed a mouthful of eggs.
Setne started, staring at her. "You haven't actually learned . . ."
"No. I need no truck with spells, silly old dear." She answered the hanging question with a satisfied grin. "You are as easy to read as an unrolled scroll."
Of course. The Egyptian relaxed. For a moment, he thought he had been slipping. Perhaps he was readable—he obviously was—but only to the girl. She was correct, and twenty years was sufficient time for his old friend to learn to read expressions, interpret body language, associate words, create an educated guess. It approximated mind reading. "You're mistaken as usual, amazon," Setne lied. "I was wondering if there might be something of interest in the count's personal collection of manuscripts and curiosities, that's all."
Rachelle snorted derisively. It was a habit she » had picked up from the wizard-priest. "And I'm a dainty concubine of the Imperial Ch'in!" she retorted. Then Rachelle arose from the little table and strode off. "I will be in my chambers practicing my negligible arts. Please disturb me only if you need someone to rescue you."
Inhetep made a rueful noise, a clucking which might stem from either disappointment or a point scored against him. Rachelle would know which. He watched her walking into the villa. She dressed like a man, but her slender body's feminine lines were not disguised. Rachelle was as tall as many of the local men, but never would she be mistaken for one. The blue-black curls,
finely featured face, and superb curves certainly qualified her for inclusion in even an emperor's harem. She had perfect manners, could sing well, and played harp and mandolin, too.
Beauty, etiquette, refinement, knowledge, and quick wit assisted her greatly in difficult times. Foes typically mistook her qualities for softness, weakness, vulnerability, but Rachelle was as deadly a foe with bow or sword as any amazon. She could out-wrestle and out-fight most men half again her weight, for she was a devotee of the art of unarmed combat, which applied the force of the attacker against himself. That, after initial schooling in the Grecian forms of such combat, made her nearly unbeatable by any opponent not likewise trained.
"Why does she remain with me?" Inhetep murmured aloud.
Carlos, hovering nearby in anticipation of the Egyptian's departure from the breakfast table to pursue whatever it was such strange men as himself did to occupy their days, came close and bent towards Setne. "I crave your pardon, lord, but I didn't hear your command clearly."
"I said you should clear this stuff away," Inhetep told the Iberian. "I am finished."
"Very good, lord," Carlos intoned. "Will there by anything further?"
Setne waved him away, lost again in thought. Should he actually go to Count Patros' nearby castle? Or should he simply spend another leisurely day here? There was some letter writing to do, and he had not finished the treatise on antipathic dweomercraefting written by the woman who claimed she was Queen of the Romney or some such. What was her name, anyway? No matter . . . Inhetep's thoughts drifted back to Rachelle. Her stubborn refusal to be anything other than his guard had proved to be a benison from the gods. It had seemed quite the opposite at first.
He had been jibed about sending the homely little slave girl to school. The folk of Egypt were very liberal in most attitudes, especially regarding sex, and they thought Inhetep was currying a wholly u
nattractive girl toward becoming a concubine. There had been no use in answering any of that. The huge eyes set in the sharp, thin face, Rachelle's cleverness, and her absolute devotion had made Setne's decision regarding her. With education and training and manumission, Rachelle would be accepted as an Egyptian. Regardless of her plainness, the girl would find useful work in some ecclesiastical organization or with one of the various government offices. Even with only marginal talent for magickal practice, clerics were in high demand. He had tried, but despite his best efforts and her own willingness to try to please her benefactor, Rachelle had shown absolutely no ability whatsoever for any form of magick. None! The wizard-priest shook his bald pate at that thought. Almost everyone had a modicum of talent, which training and study could develop, if only to a very minor extent. Still, she had excelled at virtually everything else set before her as a challenge.
Someday soon, Setne would have to find a suitable husband for her. It was just that he did still need her. That had been proven to him time and time again over the last few years.
As an ur-kheri-heb, a great priest and wizard too, Inhetep was unusual in Egypt, and outside of Pharaoh's realms the combination was as rare as a black pearl. The governor of the Abydos Sepat, one of the sixty-four districts into which the kingdom was divided, had requested Setne's services just as Rachelle had returned from Sais. He had gone, of course, taking her with him. After all, what else could he do? Desert his foster child upon her homecoming after so many years? The service had been important—dangerous, too. In the last desperate stages of the affair, Rachelle had been involved and proved the usefulness of her recent training by acquitting herself with no little bravery. The felonious officials and their hired killers had been slain or captured, the governor cleared of the false charges, and Inhetep sent back to his home with commendations and a sizable purse of gold.