Three Mozeketeers by Michael Ferrier

Index

Chapter 1: Shades of Evening
Chapter 2: Discussing the South Sea Island Monkey Trap
Chapter 3: D(i)S(ast)E(r)S
Chapter 4: Playing with Fire and Loaded Dice

Chapter 1: Shades of Evening

Shades of Evening: Mozenrath's Books Volume 3

Jasmine woke when she heard Raja's soft growl. The tiger was looking at a figure who had just entered her room by way of the balcony. It was dressed in fairly dark clothing, and her first intimation was that it was Mozenrath. Then, when she lit and held up a lamp, she realized it was a young man, dressed in blue trousers and some strange dark green tunic. His eyes were bright blue, and his hair short and brown. He smiled at her. Raja growled, and began to slink forward on his belly. She made a soft sound, and held up a hand. The tiger made a frustrated whine, and stopped.

'Princess,' the young man said. His Arabic was odd, with strange cadences in it, but not unintelligible. His hands were placed in his trousers -- it appeared to have pockets sewn in the lining, and his attitude was casual: not the indication of someone who wanted to attack her. 'Forgive me for disturbing you, but I wasn't sure you'd be up or not. Call the guards if you must, or sic the tiger on me, but I merely intend to say something, and be gone.'

Jasmine was so startled she said nothing. She merely waited.

'I wouldn't worry about The Land of the Black Sand for a while,' the young man said. 'Its ruler is going to be a little...busy at present, so you needn't worry about Mozenrath's fiendish schemes for a while.'

'How do you know Mozenrath?' she wanted to know.

'I'm rather intimately acquainted with him, as is my patron. In fact, she probably knows more about him than I, but I manage to fake competence pretty well.' He ran a hand through his short hair, a common gesture, she thought. He's probably not even aware of it. 'He's quite intriguing, and no more so than when you've thrown a monkey-wrench into his latest plan. Nothing better than seeing him angry.

'When he tried to capture Father Tochet for example, I knew he was going to mess up.'

'You know Father Tochet?' Jasmine asked.

'Your Highness, it is not entirely exaggeration when I tell you I made him the man he is today. The good Father owes much of his sparkling personality to me. And, I'm on fairly good terms with other members of this fair city: Eden and Dondi, for example. Wonderful people. I don't know them as well mind, but they seem nice. As do you, and Aladdin, of course.'

'How do you --'

The young man spread his hands. 'Please, Princess. I would answer your questions, but I have things to do now. Later, perhaps, I'll come back and visit. Agrabah is a wonderful city, and I'd love to check it out more closely. My regards to you, your father, Aladdin, and your friends. Bonne nuit.' She was surprised to see him run forward and vault over the balcony. He vanished without a sound. She hurried to the balcony, and saw nothing. It was as if he'd never been there.

'What a strange man,' she said to herself.

'YOU DON'T KNOW THE HALF OF IT PRINCESS. SOMETIMES, I THINK HE GOES OUT OF HIS WAY TO MAKE HIMSELF SEEM UNNATURAL. ACTUALLY, IT'S PROBABLY A GIFT: DEAR OLD MUM MOST LIKELY DROPPED HIM ON HIS HEAD AS A CHILD. AND THAT'S ONE OF HIS GOOD QUALITIES, MIND YOU. HE TOLD ME ONE OF HIS TEACHERS AT UNIVERSITY ACTUALLY CALLED HIM ECCENTRIC. THE POT CALLING THE KETTLE BLACK IN MY OPINION, BUT HE THINKS OF IT AS A COMPLIMENT. SINCE HE NEVER TOLD YOU HIS NAME, EVIL-MINDED LITTLE MAN THAT HE IS, HE WON'T OBJECT IF I TOLD YOU. IT'S MICHAEL. LIKE THE ARCHANGEL, BUT HE'S FAR FROM DIVINE, BELIEVE ME.'

The powerful voice filled the room. Jasmine started back, but could see nothing. 'Who are you?'

'I, PRINCESS, AM THE PATRON HE MENTIONED. NOT PRECISELY A GODDESS, BUT YOU MAY CONSIDER ME THE NEXT BEST THING. YOU COULD SAY I'VE PUT THE FEAR INTO HIM.' A chuckle. 'HE IS ALWAYS SURE TO TREAT ME NOW WITH PROPER RESPECT AND REVERENCE. I MEAN, DOESN'T ALADDIN DO THINGS YOU FIND ANNOYING FROM TIME TO TIME?'

Jasmine was smiling now. 'Whoever you are, you sound like you already know the answer. Of course he does. Well, he did at any rate...'

'WE SHOULD COMPARE NOTES SOMETIME. BUT, IN MOST RESPECTS, MICHAEL'S REASONABLY GENTLEMANLY. SINCE I'VE NEVER MET HIM FACE-TO-FACE, I HAVE TO RELY ON MY OWN IMPRESSIONS. AND THEY'RE DECENT...MOST OF THE TIME.'

'He said something about Mozenrath,' Jasmine said. 'What could he want with the ruler of the Land of the Black Sand?'

'IT'S PERSONAL. MOZENRATH GOT INTO MICHAEL'S HEAD AND DID SOME RATHER UNPLEASANT THINGS TO HIM. HE GOT INTO MINE, AS WELL, BUT IT AFFECTED ME SOMEWHAT DIFFERENTLY. MICHAEL NOW HAS THIS THING ABOUT EVIL SORCERERS, AND HE'S RATHER INVENTIVE WHEN DEALING WITH THEM. SOMETIMES, I FIND IT MUCH MORE ENTERTAINING TO DELEGATE RETRIBUTION INTO HIS CAPABLE HANDS. I CALL HIM THE WEIRD AND EVIL ONE. IF YOU WANT
AN ARABIC TITLE, I SUPPOSE ONE I COULD GIVE YOU COULD BE -- HE FOUND THIS IN ANOTHER BOOK -- AL-MWAZIIB.'

'The Tormentor?'

'IS THAT WHAT IT MEANS? APPROPRIATE, AND NOT MORE THAN A LITTLE SICK. THAT SOUNDS LIKE MICHAEL, ALL RIGHT. YES, I SUPPOSE THAT'S WHAT YOU COULD CALL HIM. A LARGE PART OF HIS LIFE IS DEDICATED TO PUTTING THAT SORCERER IN WHAT WE'LL CALL -- UNCOMFORTABLE POSITIONS. AND HE'S GOOD AT IT. A MASTER OF THE UNEXPECTED.'

'What exactly does he do?' Jasmine wondered.

'DEPENDS ON MOZEY'S PARTICULAR PLAN. WHEN HE TRIED TO ENSLAVE THE CHILDREN OF AGRABAH, MICHAEL SENT AMAL TO RELEASE THE ELEMENTALS MOZENRATH HAD IMPRISONED, AND WAS USING FOR HIS MAGIC DOOHICKEY. IT WAS NO ACCIDENT, AMAL'S BEING THERE.'

'I remember that. It was quite a spectacle.'

'BIT OF A BONUS, ACTUALLY: I HADN'T EXPECTED HIM TO GET MIRAGE IN THE SAME BLAST. A NICE LITTLE STROKE, WELL-PLAYED. HE DOES LITTLE THINGS LIKE THAT. NOTHING FATAL, NOTHING PERMANENT, BUT GUARANTEED TO MAKE MOZENRATH SULK FOR DAYS. ADMIT IT: BLACK SAND ACTIVITY HAS BEEN AT AN EBB THE PAST LITTLE WHILE, HASN'T IT?'

'It has, actually. I wondered about that.'

'WELL, I MAY DISPARAGE HIM, BUT NEVER LET IT BE SAID MICHAEL DOESN'T DO HIS BIT.'

'You said he was a master of the unexpected. Like Chaos?'

'I THINK SIMILAR IS A FAIRER DESCRIPTION. MICHAEL CAN'T COMMAND THE RAW POWER CHAOS DOES, BUT YOU ALSO HAVE TO REMEMBER, CHAOS ISN'T REALLY EVIL; HE'S QUIXOTIC. MICHAEL IS MORE EVIL IN TERMS OF HIS APPLICATION: HE FOCUSES MORE SPECIFICALLY ON MOZENRATH, RATHER THAN CAUSING GENERAL DISTURBANCE, AND HE LIKES TO BE SUBTLE ABOUT IT UNTIL THE MOMENT ARRIVES. THEN --'

'Then what?'

'IMAGINE FIFTY ODIFERANS ALL HITTING YOU WITH HUNDRED-POUND SLEDGEHAMMERS AT THE SAME MOMENT.'

'Ouch.'

'THEN MULTIPLY THAT BY A FACTOR OF FIFTY.'

'It sounds uncomfortable to say the least.'

'THEN, MULTIPLY AGAIN BY A HUNDRED.'

'Well...'

'AND THAT'S MICHAEL ON ONE OF HIS OFF DAYS.'

'He sounds unreasonably cruel.'

'TRUST ME. YOU MET HIM BRIEFLY, DID HE SEEM PARTICULARLY MONSTROUS TO YOU?'

'Not particularly. One might think he was slightly mad, but --'

'BELIEVE ME, PRINCESS. TO THE GOOD GUYS, SAFE AS HOUSES. HE WOULDN'T DREAM OF YOU OR YOUR PEOPLE GETTING HURT. IT'S ONLY EVIL SORCERERS HE GOES AFTER WITH SUCH FERVOUR...I WISH HE'D LET ME KNOW WHAT HE DID TO DESTANE IN ARBUTUS'S GARDEN...WELL, ANYWAY. I HAVE TO CHECK UP ON HIM. SEE HOW MY WEIRD AND EVIL ONE'S GETTING ON...'

The presence faded, and Jasmine was alone again.

'MICHAEL.'

'Great One.'

'WHERE ARE YOU? THE ICQ SCRYING SOFTWARE HAS A GLITCH IN IT AGAIN. I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'VE BEEN UP TO. REPORT, O WEIRD AND EVIL ONE.'

'Do you think this is Special Forces or something? I give you an update on how I'm penetrating enemy territory? I'm hanging below a Roc's nest by my fingernails, and praying to any deities in any worlds that might be listening I don't fall. Now I need to...'

'MICHAEL!'

'All right, all right. And don't wave the gender issue at me right now: I want to remain upright so badly, it holds no terror for me at this point. I came for feathers.'

'FEATHERS?'

'You suggested tickling his feet once. I'm considering it as a part of my master plan.'

'INTERESTING. BUT SURELY YOU'VE GOT MORE TO TELL?'

'I thought I might break into his library again: since I haven't written Mozenrath's Books Volume 3, I want to know what his newest additions are.'

'GOOD, GOOD. AND?'

'Then, I will carefully, and lovingly, replace every single one of his books.'

'NOT BAD. BUT THESE ARE MERELY PETTY ANNOYANCES. DON'T TELL ME YOU'RE LOSING IT.'

'Right now -- Great One -- the -- only --thing -- I'm more concerned about -- is --losing -- my -- lunch...'

'IS THAT A FEATHER I SEE IN YOUR HAND?'

'Yes, Great One. You know it is.'

'RIGHT. HOLD ON THEN.'

The sight of space and time ripping.

The smell of ozone.

The sound of someone throwing up.

The Citadel library.

'MICHAEL, I SAID I WAS SORRY. I FORGOT THAT YOU SOMETIMES GET SICK WHEN WE DO TRANSLOCATION. YOUR SHOES...'

'Why don't I believe you, Great One? Never mind, they can be cleaned. I just hope the smell doesn't give me away. Anyway, here are the books -- OOOOO!'

'WHAT?'

'A brand-new book on ceremonial magic. The blood on it is still fresh: he must just have had it stolen from a caravan. I think I should nick this one: forget about replacing it.' Michael placed it in his rucksack, turned to face the shelves, and rubbed his hands gleefully.

'And now, to make a few alterations...'

'Where is it?'

Mozenrath was frantic, scrabbling through the piles of books on his shelves. Copies of Martha Stewart Living,
Better Homes and Gardens, Macleans, The Care and Breeding of Long-Haired Tibetan Cats, I'm OK, You're OK, fluttered to the ground like dying birds.

'The book on ceremonial magic. I know I had it put here! It had a very important ritual in it that I need, right now! None of these books or pamphlets were here before. I know they weren't!' Foam flecked his chin, his eyes bulged. 'The demon I conjured...it can't stay on this plane unless the ritual is completed...and I need that book to finish it, for Iblis's sake! If I don't, the creature will...

A voice seemingly emanating from the Earth's core, reverberated throughout the Citadel.

'You forgot the magic words, Moze-man, and I am NOT staying! Ciao, baby. Gharna'k the Destroyer is OUTTA HERE!'

A loud crash, the smell of something sulfurous...and silence.

Totally dejected, Mozenrath beat his fist against the shelves in frustration, and stopped as something skated across the back of his neck. He whirled, but the only thing there was a piece of parchment falling to the floor. He picked it up, and looked at it.

It was not written in Arabic, but English, in a fluid, cursive script. He stared at it in disbelief.

Dear Mozenrath, Lord of The Black Sands:

This replacement of your collection was done as a public service. The Seven Deserts Reader's Advisory Committee believes your reading interests cater far too much to a): the practice of sorcery, b): the promotion of demonology, spiritualism, and devil conjuration, and c): the development of plans for world domination. We, the Committee, believe these books may be harmful to readers, and encourage the promotion of megalomania, necromancy, delusions of grandeur, and other unhealthy, antisocial attitudes.

This new collection is for you to widen your reading tastes, opening your mind and heart to the other opportunities in this great world of ours. For questions and comments about the process, as well as reclaiming your books...don't call us, we'll call you.

Mozenrath's gauntlet flared. The parchment disappeared in a flash of blue-black flame, not even leaving ash behind. He turned, rested his head against the shelves, and moaned.

The pop of displaced air turned his head again. He saw another sheet of parchment, apparently in the same hand, flutter to the floor, atop it was a soft, golden, object. A Roc's feather.

Picking up the second parchment, he began to read.

Postcriptum:

Sucker. Gotcha again. This is in fact the THIRD time I have been in your library, howd'ya like THEM pomegranates, Mozenbreath? For all your vaunted security, for all the undead and magical servants at your beck and call, one little old library student has been able to waltz in and out of here with impunity, not once, not twice, but THREE times. No magic, no genie, just the little grey cells, as Hercule Poirot would say. But then you've probably never read Agatha Christie, have you?

Even a certain street rat (you know the one) can't claim that: he's been in your house more times than you've had hot dinners, but he never made it to your library, did he?

Nya-nya-nya-nya-nya!

A drawing of a face with its tongue sticking out. Mozenrath sucked in his breath sharply, and continued:

I was going to tickle you with the feather, but we both felt that would be anticlimactic and cheap after what I just did. I think I'll go to Agrabah, and let them know how you've just been taken three times in a row instead.

And about the book? Don't waste your time. It's really not much of a read. All this dreadful stuff about demons, and giving your enemy a slow, creeping sickness so he rots into a liquescent pile of goo...you need to get out more. And considering I spend most of my time in my room reading, that's a laugh and a half right there. I don't usually destroy books, but this one was so bad, I made an exception. I burnt it. Made for some lovely green flames, too. It's a pity you didn't see them.

Mozenrath felt his jaw tighten.

And, as the birth of Christ will soon be upon us, as well as the New Year, I'd just like to wish you well and for your continuing regard over this holiday season. Despite the fact that I plan to be visiting again soon.

Visions of unspeakable tortures danced in his head. The letter concluded:

And if you're having trouble recollecting, my name is Michael, also known as The Weird and Evil One, servant and confidant of The Great One. You first saw me sitting in your throne last night, and may I say I did not use a seat protector, and am carrying a highly communicable disease for which no cure has been found.

And now that all that happy stuff is out of the way, enjoy your holidays, and I look forward to seeing you again soon, old friend. The Great One sends her regards, too.

Yours most sincerely,

M.

And below that was another drawing of a face: a yellow one with a wide smile. And below that, the legend:

Amen. Praise Allah. Have a nice day...

Mozenrath was in such a blind fury, he tore the paper to strips, placed them in his mouth, and ate them, jaws working mindlessly up and down. Xerxes, drifting in from another part of the Citadel, looked at his master, and wisely decided to say nothing.

To be Continued....

Back to index

Chapter 2: Discussing the South Sea Island Monkey Trap

Discussing the South Sea Island Monkey Trap

'Damn.'

Michael didn't like hanging upside down: he hated how the blood rushed to his head. He especially didn't like cold, damp, clammy dungeons, and he especially hated it when they were the Citadel's dungeons.

YOU BROUGHT THIS ON YOURSELF, YOU KNOW.

It wasn't the voice of the Great One, it was the Great Seer this time. And she was pissed.

'Look, I said it was an open invitation, didn't I? The Great One told me about how you felt being left out: I never intended for that to happen. The only reason I sent you the stuff was to show you what we'd been up to, and to give you some ideas. Ticking you off was not the point. Begging the Seer's pardon, I think you over-reacted.'

YOU SUGGEST THAT I OVER-REACTED? ME? YOU CAME TO ME WITH THAT STUFF ABOUT THE PAIRAKA, YOU WENT TO ME LONG BEFORE THE GREAT ONE GAVE YOU HER PROTECTION, AND NOW YOU SHUN ME?

'I still think your reaction is a bit extreme. But, if my hands weren't in manacles, I'd applaud. Let the punishment fit the crime, it's said. Well, helping me get caught in the Citadel is pretty appropriate. That'll teach me. It reminds me of the South Sea Island Monkey Trap.'

AND WHAT WOULD THAT BE, IDIOT MALE?

'When South Sea Islanders want to catch a monkey, they put a hole in a coconut, and bait it with something nice: nuts, let's say. It's large enough for the monkey to pass his hand through, but once the hand is inside, it becomes impossible to pull it out. I should have known Mozenrath would never have left the gates open. Damn!'

THE WIDDLE MONKEY PUT HIS HAND IN, DID HE?

'Yes, he did. And I never twigged to the Mamluk patrol being right there when I came in. I was even more surprised when they didn't kill me. I don't suppose you had a hand in that, did you?'

THAT'S FOR ME TO KNOW, AND YOU TO FIND OUT. There was the sound of footsteps coming closer. ANNND, YOU SHOULD BE FINDING OUT, RIGHT ABOUT...NOW. Bolts clinked, and the door swung back with an awful grating sound.

The aether crackled. 'WHAT'S ALL THIS THEN?'

I'M FED UP WITH THIS GUY IGNORING ME! I THOUGHT A BIT OF PUNITIVE DAMAGE WOULD TEACH HIM RESPECT.' IT ALWAYS DOES...OH, LOOK. HERE COMES THE MASTER OF CEREMONIES NOW.'

Mozenrath stepped into the chamber. The door clanked shut behind him with an awful finality, and they were in darkness for a few seconds. Michael expected the gauntlet to flare, for the cell to be flooded with witchlight, but it did not. Instead, his voice, soft as velvet, and black as night, said quietly.

'Hello, Michael. It is you, isn't it?'

'Yes, Mozey, it is. And how pleasant to see you too.'

'You're almost as flippant as that street rat...a shade more literate and educated perhaps, but still an unbelievable pain. I couldn't believe it when I found out the Mamluks had netted you; you always going on about breaking them like toothpicks. And now, you never even throw a punch. Pathetic suits you, friend. It really does.'

'Pathetic? You're cribbing from your own lines now. Jasmine got the same deal in Dagger Rock, or close enough. I'd hoped I would have rated something higher than that; I mean, not that I'm better than Jasmine, but maddening enough to rate my own threat, at least. That ticks me off.' He tugged at the manacles; they held firm.

'So, anti-magic manacles work on you, do they? I'm so glad: I have a lot planned for you. I don't suppose you know how furious I am about losing my books, especially a certain, rare volume on ceremonial magic. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?'

'Considering I was stupid enough to sign my name to that note -- I hoped you framed it -- I can hardly deny it, can I? And I don't want to have to submit to interrogation spells: I have this thing about people messing with my head. Funny, I know, since I enjoy messing with yours so much, but what would life be without a double standard?'

When Mozenrath spoke, Michael felt a twinge of unease now: his voice was much closer than it had been. 'I appreciate your candour, but you know your confession is not going to make the slightest difference: I will have my pound of flesh, whether you will it, or no.'

'The Merchant of Venice now? I admired you as a guy with originality. Don't sell me short by quoting other people's paraphrased words at me.'

'Wasn't it T. S. Eliot who once said...immature poets imitate, mature poets steal?'

'You're quite right. So, when does the screaming start?'

'Not just yet, Mickey. Not just yet. I have some research to do, first.'

'Would you mind if I asked you not to call me that? It's reserved for certain personal acquaintances.'

'In that case, yes, I would mind. I think I qualify...don't you?'

'Not in the particular sense I'm considering.'

Footsteps cat quick to the door, the awful sound of the bolts, a reverberating slam. Footsteps going away. Michael looked upwards into the dark. 'I hope you're getting all this, ladies.'

OH, WE ARE, MICHAEL, WE ARE. NEVER FEAR.

'I suppose if I asked you when the daring escape was planned, you wouldn't tell me, would you?'

I BELIEVE, MICHAEL, THE WORD YOU ARE LOOKING FOR IS IF. IF THE DARING ESCAPE IS PLANNED. A heartfelt chuckle.

'Great One? Aren't you going to support me on this.'

'I DON'T KNOW...I'VE KNOWN THE GREAT SEER A LOT LONGER THAN YOU, AND YOU HAVE TREATED HER RATHER SHABBILY, I MUST ADMIT.'

'And yet, you said you supported me when we talked about it earlier!'

'DID I? WELL, YOU'RE MORE THAN WELCOME TO TRY AND PROVE IT. I HOPE YOUR LAWYERS ARE ON GOOD RETAINERS, MR FERRIER...THEY'VE A LOT OF DIGGING TO DO.' Another chuckle.

'I'm tempted to say something very uncharitable and rude about you two at the moment.'

DON'T FINISH THAT THOUGHT, MICHAEL.

'What thought?'

THAT ONE.

'What one?' There was the sound of creaking chains.

GOOD. WHAT ARE YOU DOING, BY THE WAY?

'Crunches. If I'm going to be here for a while, I may as well keep in shape.' The sound of counting, intermixed with the grunt of exertion. 'One, two, three, four...'

HE'S CRAZY, SILVESTRIS. HE REALLY IS.

'OF COURSE HE'S CRAZY. THE LAST THING WE NEED IS A SANE MOZEKETEER.'

Laughter, somewhere in the aether.

Mozenrath looked at the book curiously. It was brightly coloured, cheerful: a child's picture book, and certainly not the type to inspire terror. He looked at the page and shook his head slowly. It made absolutely no sense. How could this scare anybody? Well, according to what he'd found out, it did. And it had taken a while to track it down. But he'd done it, because in the end, it seemed the most effective method. The other methods had possibilities, but...Mirrors? The subject had acquired immunity to them, he looked in mirrors every day of his life, and even in dim light, they held no terror for him now.

The eyes of certain stuffed animals and dolls, or displayed in pictures? Again: immunity to some, and it would be a costly process to track down and determine those still effective. The book, innocuous as it seemed, was the best option.

He looked at the title again, the cover: a clothesline, with various articles of inner and outerwear flapping in the wind; the artist had done a good job, but it wasn't scary. Flipped through the various pictures inside: comical, amusing, some might say, but terrifying? No. Still, he seemed to have a hyperactive and powerful imagination: maybe that was where the fear came from. A person who could dream up the indignity of Kokoro no Jakku might be frightened by anything....to dream of a herd of water buffaloes in your closet...the sorcerer shook his head. Then he grinned. What mattered it that the terror was inspired by something strange? The important thing was that it worked.

WHAT'S HE UP TO?

'I CAN'T SAY. I'VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THAT IN MY LIFE.'

Michael was so engrossed in his physical activity, he never heard the door open the second time. The flaring of witch-light pricked his eyes, and he felt tears run briefly down his cheeks. The sorcerer stepped forward, almost jauntily. 'You like to read, don't you, Michael?'

'Yes.' Guardedly; damned if he'd give anything away.

'I have something for you.' The famous smile: Michael didn't trust it. He began to understand how Aladdin and company felt. Admiring the smile from a safe distance was one thing: viewing it in manacles was another. Then he saw the book in Mozenrath's hands.

'Where did you find that?' His voice was husky and dry. The smile became more vulpine.

'Oh, I found out somewhere that you liked it. Consider it a gift, a little replacement for the book of mine you burnt. I'll just set it up so you can read it. Don't worry; I shan't be opening it at your favourite page.'

The book glowed, and inverted itself, so it was facing Michael upside-down. The sorcerer saw sweat was beginning to gleam in the roots of his hair. Good. There was something he didn't like about it, definitely. The book's pages slowly began to turn...and immediately it opened at the page. Just as his sister had done, many years ago, getting the book from the library just to freak him out. Michael tried to close his eyes, but his body wouldn't obey: there was a look of horrified fascination on his face.

'Tell me,' the sorcerer said, 'what's so scary about a picture of a cow? Cows are harmless, inoffensive creatures, aren't they?'

Michael nodded. His upper lip was actually trembling.

'All I see is a Jersey cow with a pair of white gloves on its horns. Why does it frighten you so?'

'Pogue Mahone!' Irish Gaelic for 'kiss my ass.' There wasn't much force to it though.

The gauntlet glowed. 'Tell me.'

'You bastard. I haven't seen that book in years. I looked at all the picture books that frightened me as a child, no matter how silly they were, and I got used to them. Except that picture in that book. Damn you!'

'Seems I found your Achilles heel, Michael. Tell me: Why don't you like the picture?'

Michael tried to resist. His jaw trembled and rattled at the force of the compulsion spell; Mozenrath knew it was useless. Those who tried to resist had their jaws broken, and then had to talk with their broken mouths. The pain would be unbearable. Michael's face reddened, then at last he burst out:

'I don't like how it looks at me! I hate how the artist did the eyes on that stupid cow, whenever I was a kid I thought it was looking at me! When I got that book out and read it, I had to put it in my parents' room when I slept because I hated the thought that it would be there, in the book, in the room, waiting to look at me!' He started to sob. Mozenrath grinned. Michael was as good as broken. The glow vanished. The book fell to the floor with a thud. He walked out, whistling 'Marrakesh Night Market'.

As soon as he left, Michael wiped his eyes one last time, then looked around and grinned.

WHAT JUST HAPPENED THERE, MICHAEL?

'YES. THAT WAS A MOST UNSEEMLY DISPLAY.'

'Yes. Sorry about that...but I am surprised it wasn't you that tipped him off. How he found out about the book, I don't know. But he did me a favour: I'm now over that particular phobia.' His hand slipped easily from the manacle, and plucked up the book from the floor. He freed his other hand, dropped to the floor (briefly, and painfully on his backside), and produced a sheaf of pictures from his pocket. He rubbed his hands.

'And now...'

Mozenrath was pleased to see his prisoner's head lolling, upside down. The book lay where it had fallen. He nudged Michael with his toe. 'Interesting in a little reading, Michael?'

No response. His eyes were open, and didn't respond. He was drooling. Catatonic. Mozenrath sighed. It seemed his revenge was all too cheap. He gestured to the two Mamluks who'd come with him.

'Take him down. I'll have to decide what to do with him later.'

The Mamluks lowered the boneless sack to the floor. Mozenrath examined the book. Such a small thing, and it had removed a great thorn in his side, very quickly. Would that Aladdin could be dealt with as easily. Intrigued at how such an innocent picture could produce such paralysing fear, Mozenrath opened the book.

From the title page, a picture of Destane stared out at him. Desiccated, his three-forked beard lying on his chin like a discarded snakeskin. Eyes greedy, grasping, lascivious and covetous, looking out at him. Hello, Mozenrath. You were very bad, my young apprentice. Time for you to be punished. The eyes...they seemed to be looking at him, following him. Hands trembling, he turned over the page. There was no escape. Where turkeys had cavorted in nightcaps, rabbits had been covered by kerchiefs, and yes, a Jersey Cow had sported a woman's white gloves on her horns, there was his old mentor looking out at him, eyes blazing. Page after page after page...he gave a little cry, dropped the book to the floor, and skipped backwards...then saw Michael's eyes look at him. The Mamluks had crumpled to the floor, smashed like toothpicks.

'Tell me, Moze,' Michael said, 'have you ever heard of the South Sea Island Monkey Trap?'

The night wind coming off the desert was very nice. Michael felt it ruffle the roots of his short hair.

I TRUST WE LEARNED OUR LITTLE LESSON, MICHAEL?

'Yes, Great Seer, we did. You don't have to tell me twice.'

'ACTUALLY SEER, SOMETIMES YOU DO. AND MORE THAN TWICE, I MIGHT ADD.'

'That was a bit smug, Great One, wasn't it?'

'WELL, WE ARE OMNIPOTENT, DUCKY.'

'Are you, though? You didn't know about the book, though...did you?'

YOU THINK WE'D TELL YOU IF WE DID?

'I should be so lucky.' Laughter in the aether.

ANYWAY, MICHAEL, THE SLATE IS CLEAN FOR THE MOMENT. JUST REMEMBER WHO YOUR FRIENDS ARE WHEN YOU SEND INVITATIONS. DON'T FORGET NEXT TIME.

'Of course.'

'WE'RE COUNTING ON YOU, WEIRD AND EVIL ONE.'

I, FOR ONE, WILL NOT BE SO MERCIFUL NEXT TIME IF YOU DO.

'I'm aware of that, thank you.'

He was abruptly alone. The wind in the Land of the Black Sands howled around him. His work was done, for now.

Whistling 'Marrakesh Night Market,' Michael found his own way home.

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Chapter 3: D(i)S(ast)E(r)S

D(i)S(ast)E(r)S

Mozenrath took one look at the programme the black-robed figure handed him (completely and eerily silent of course; that was how you played the game, after all), and sighed. The ageism of the sorcerer's profession angered him; once again, he was to listen to keynote remarks by some dried-up, toothless fossil! Too many of the older school of sorcerers acted as though once you got a rep, you had tenure: no further acts of evil were required. He'd watched a lot of their territories, and slowly seen the creeping rot of neutrality develop. They did nothing: they sat in their castles, towers, and huts on hen's legs, and did their own researches while their hair turned white, and their strength went, and they cackled evily to themselves as their teeth fell out. Territorial expansion -- good old-fashioned terror, even -- was no longer part of the agenda. He smiled grimly to himself: they laughed at him, but he was a traditionalist, in a way: he made sure the traditions stayed alive: get as much power as you can, as fast as you can, expand your territories any way possible, and look down on, crush, and utterly wipe out the other guys before they have a chance to do it to you.

For the millionth time, he considered the locale. Getzistan was not his choice: it was too bright, cheerful, and while he could appreciate the country's industry in giving all available tourists the shaft (after all, more of the gamblers lost money than gained it), he felt it was inappropriate. He suspected that was why the old men liked it: in terms of pleasure, it was quite nice. After they completed the festivities, many of them would go to the tables, the baths, the shows, trying to convince themselves they still possessed runs of luck, bodies worth admiring, or libidos. Sultan Pasta Al Dente was not overly fond of his clientele at these yearly meetings, but, Mozenrath thought, he was a businessman as well as a ruler, and the clients often poured the economy of some of the smaller countries into Getzistan in a night, and never missed it. Certainly, he thought, with another secret smile, enough to offset the loss of certain young Turks walking away with double what they'd contributed. It was just his way of keeping in practice; blowing something up was counterproductive, so he'd do something subtle, instead. And, eventually, he planned to come and grind them all under his heel, anyway: let the Getzistanians have their fun.

He looked down at the programme in his hand again. The lecture on Eternal Life, always and forever, ha-ha, (superfluous, since many of the attendees had passed anything amounting to a normal lifespan ages ago, or at least looked that way), a debate on the use of torture: is there such a thing as too much torture, and is it appropriate in all circumstances? (Why debate: answers: 1) No, and 2) a very definite Yes). He covered a yawn with his gauntlet; he could hear Xerxes snoring in the depths of his hood. He didn't care, it was all very --

Suddenly, his wizard senses came on full bore. There was a very powerful signature of magic somewhere in the audience. He scanned the rows of seats as he walked down to the front of the amphitheatre. There. In the black robes, midway down on the left, three of them. One seemed male, the two on the other side were women, one familiar, most likely the Siamese cat one woman was stroking. As the other woman cocked her head, he saw a flash of bright red hair escape from her hood. He shook his head -- no, it was impossible. Zahra couldn't be here; she was back at the Citadel with her sisters. There just happened to be a sorceress in the audience with red hair; nothing to be concerned about. A coincidence, an unsettling coincidence -- and he was a man who deeply distrusted coincidences -- but it was better to accept it than consider the alternative might be true.

'Wendy, Wendy, Wendy,' Michael chided -- the Seer's decision to take on physical form had made him unusually bold this evening -- 'melting to a puddle in front of Mozenrath is not the way to remain incognito! It almost made me toss my falaefel the way you were mooning over him. I offer thanks to all the gods there are he didn't do more than glance over here. And another thing -- yowtch!' He stopped shaking his finger in her face as Simon, Silvestris's cat, dug his claws into his forearm. He turned and glared at the animal. Simon, nestled securely in the arms of his mistress, opened his mouth, showing his delicate pink tongue and needle teeth in a contemptuous yawn. Up yours, mate. I know how you feel, and frankly, I couldn't give a toss. So there.

To make matters worse, the cat was telepathic; any thought was sure to be picked up, and furthermore, half the people in the
auditorium would know. So, muttering to himself, Michael took out a handkerchief, and began dabbing the bloody marks on his arm. I hope, he thought, Simon's claws are clean. The last thing I need is an exotic disease --

I heard that, mate.

Sorry.

Silvestris jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. 'Don't you dare be thinking bad thoughts about my cat! Don't you dare!'

Michael put the handkerchief away, and spread his hands in a gesture of peace. 'All right, all right! But that hurt!' he whispered fiercely. 'We don't want to give the game away right now, do we?'

'Of course we don't. Get on with it, then!'

'OK. The keynote speaker uses a magical device similar to a teleprompter. The incantation we devised should add our comments at the precise moments we want them to. I checked it all out; everything's working fine. The additional signatures shouldn't be noticed. All I ask: don't laugh too loud...yet. We'll wait, and see how it goes.'

Buzzards would have rejected the man on sight; here was someone who'd gone through Death's door, out the other side, and then decided to come home again. In a word, he looked like something that couldn't possibly be living, but then had enough animation to still be considered alive. Or, he could have been Ayama Ghoul's closest relative. When he opened his mouth to speak, you expected puffs of bone dust to emerge.

'Sorcerers and sorceresses,' he croaked. There was a strange whistling tone to his words; it was as if he couldn't enunciate properly. 'Welcome, once again to our annual Desert Society of Evil Sorcerers meeting, here in the beautiful capital of Getzistan --'

There was a dutiful spate of clapping; not very enthusiastic, but enough to know that they were listening to him.

'My name (whistle), is Hajhid El-Khamel, and I must say I am honoured to be the keynote speaker for this year --'

'Bet it's your last one too, old man!' an impetuous young mage called out. Hajhid extended a boney finger, there was a flash of magelight, and the next words emerged as a croak. This time the clapping was more heartfelt: they enjoyed the show much better with these little ad-libs and heckling.

'My topic for this evening is --' the wizened wizard blinked, like an owl emerging into sunlight, then made a throat clearing most would have mistaken for a death-rattle, 'excuse me --' he placed a pair of ancient pince-nez on his nose, and leant so far forward his balance was at risk, '-- my topic for this evening is -- Why Mozenrath is such an annoying little bastard.'

Thunderous applause, and enthusiastic cat-calls: the anti-Mozenrath faction was out in force tonight, over seventy-five percent of the audience were wired enough on strong alcohol and kif to come out and admit that yes, they too didn't like the Lord of the Black Sand. Some younger mages began stamping their feet and chanting 'Bastard, bastard, bastard' in perfect unison. Hajhid held up his hands for silence, and amazingly, the crowd hushed. There was a section near the middle where both sides began to draw away: aloof, sitting ramrod-straight, and wrapped in his cloak, the heat and barely-chained hatred was coming off Mozenrath like steam.

'I must admit,' the old mage at the front continued (he knew nothing of what was going on, but was a professional enough speaker to know you rolled with the misfortune), 'I know it is rather unusual for the yearly roast to begin this early' (surely he hadn't put this into the magic dictaphone when he prepared it this morning) 'and with the target not decided beforehand, but I thought a bit of change would be good for this year. Mozenrath, as it's known, is disliked by many of us, and I am proud to include myself among that number.' Cheers, claps, whistles, one prolonged snarl of rage.

'Now, the first reason we hate Mozenwanker, excuse me, Mozenrath (the guy was good, Michael thought, he picked up on just the right note of contempt) is that he has no respect for authority.'

Clap, clap, cheer.

'Now many of us remember the late, and well-remembered Destane; he was a good friend, and a source of constant inspiration to me. The former ruler of the Black Sand, a brilliant pervert, and the man who put the ill back into evil, Destane was a constant yardstick of achievement to us all. Mozenrath, after much torment and suffering at his hands, turned the tables on his mentor, and transformed him into a Mamluk.'

A few novices, still in their own training, began to clap, until their masters and mistresses turned around and shushed them harshly.

'Your clapping,' Hajhid said, speaking directly to the apprentices, 'while understandable, is misplaced. Mozenrath's action was not, in itself, a bad thing. The destruction or defeat of our former master or mistress is to be expected, to be cherished; it is, in our profession, a rite of passage. However, despite the leeway we have over the
pathetic practitioners of white magic --' wild applause '-- we still have our own rules and regulations. In The Black Sorcerer's Training Manual, of which I happen to have the edition edited by the Great Khartoum --' shocked and impressed intakes of breath '-- paragraph 4, sub-head 23, section 8.1 -- the numbers are the same in all editions should you care to look it up -- under 'Final Training: The Destruction and Discrediting of the Instructor', it says:

8.1: The Training shall not be greater than thirty years, and certainly not less than twenty.

'Let it be known, dear friends, that Mozenrath was in his fifteenth year of training when Destane was destroyed. Legally, he has no right to be here.'

There were shocked gasps of horror and astonishment around the room. Mozenrath tried angrily to say something, but the noise of the crowd drowned him out. Thankfully, it also covered the sound of Michael's guffaws.

'However, issues of punishment may be dealt with later. I just also wish to address...'

'What's wrong with you?' Wendyrath hissed savagely. Michael was shaking back and forth in paryoxsms of laughter, tears actually trickling down his cheeks.

'I did it,' he gasped breathlessly between fits, 'I don't believe it, I actually did it!'

Silvestris crumpled his robe in her fists. 'Did what? You've discredited Mozenrath, nice work, as usual, but it doesn't rate your reaction. What didn't you tell us about this?'

'That book Hajhid is quoting so fervently from, chapter and verse,' Michael gasped out, 'it doesn't exist!'

'What?'

'I found out, if you make the effort to cite sources, and make them seem official, most people will accept them at face value: they're far too busy to check it themselves. The old goat is following the script we wrote because he doesn't want to seem a fool; do you honestly think anyone liked Destane? So, I put down the title of this imaginary book, slapped Khartoum's name in front of it to make it impressive, and pulled some chapter, paragraph and section numbers off the top of my head. Voila! Instant credibility! I knew my librarian training was good for something!' He chuckled again. 'But consider the audience reaction: Mozenrath knows it's all eyewash, but all these others here who hate him: do you think they want to admit they don't know the book old Hajhid's referring to? Of course not. So they all nod their heads, and accept it as the gospel truth. Moze can protest till Doomsday now, but who wants to hear the truth, especially about him? The Lord of the Black Sand, shot down in flames, and in front of witnesses who hate his guts! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!'

'But the crowd,' Silvestris gasped, 'they'll tear him to pieces!' Simon arched his back and hissed at Michael.

'Probably,' Michael said, calmly. 'Wouldn't you, in their position?'

Wendy brought her nails near his face like claws. 'Have you gone daft? We agreed: no permanent or fatal damage!'

'Seer, Great One,' Michael said respectively, 'if you start thinking Mozenrath's packing it in now, we've all been supporting the wrong man from Day One, don't you think? The credibility, like the meetings, is a load of cobblers: they only get respect by inspiring fear and terror. Our Man Mozey will have to spend a lot of time kicking magical butt and taking names after tonight, but that's about all. We also know, to steal a phrase from another well-known comic character, he's the best there is at what he does.

'Do you really think I'd harm him?' He smiled at the two women, teeth bright and shining in an open, honest, face.

'Yes,' Silvestris and Wendy said in unison. The Great One and the Grand Seer sank back into their chairs, mollified for the moment. Simon put his fur in order, and resumed staring at Michael with his normal expression of cold contempt.

'No wonder we came,' Michael said, feeling more cheerful than he had in weeks, 'we understand each other so well, don't we?'

Surrounded now by his own island of calm, all sorcerers in a ten-foot radius around him having frantically backed away, Mozenrath tried to think what had happened. First point: this keynote speech was obviously a setup to discredit him. Second: who was responsible? He had a copy of the guestlist; he scanned it. At first, nothing unusual. Then, at the bottom, three -- no, four names he'd never seen --caught his eye.

Now, think: what did they mean? Many sorcerer names were inspired by other magicians, or the names of magical objects and beasts. Destane had always maintained his moniker
had come from the word disdain, but Mozenrath had found it was from an obscure Indo-European language spoken by a tribe of five hundred somewhere in the farthest corner of the Seven Deserts, and literally meant: He Who Lusts After the Young Boys. But then, Destane had never tried to hide his appetites, had he?

Silvestris. No idea. Leave that one.

Pairaka. He knew all too well what that one meant! He thought briefly of the woman who looked like Zahra, then dismissed it, briefly, let it niggle at the back of his mind.

Simon. Simon Magus, perhaps? The Christian magician and Knight Templar? Possibly.

Yoma. Another of those cursed Japanese words. Then he froze. There was something familiar about the script, the way it was written. Where had he seen it before? He remembered a note in his library, appearing from nowhere. At the bottom had been a postscript.

Sucker. Gotcha again. This is in fact the THIRD time I have been in your library, howd'ya like THEM pomegranates, Mozenbreath? For all your vaunted security, for all the undead and magical servants at your beck and call, one little old library student has been able to waltz in and out of here with impunity, not once, not twice, but THREE times. No magic, no genie, just the little grey cells, as Hercule Poirot would say. But then you've probably never read Agatha Christie, have you?

Even a certain street rat (you know the one) can't claim that: he's been in your house more times than you've had hot dinners, but he never made it to your library, did he... if you're having trouble recollecting, my name is Michael, also known as The Weird and Evil One, servant and confidant of The Great One. You first saw me sitting in your throne last night, and may I say I did not use a seat protector, and am carrying a highly communicable disease for which no cure has been found.

And now that all that happy stuff is out of the way, enjoy your holidays, and I look forward to seeing you again soon, old friend. The Great One sends her regards, too.

Yours most sincerely,

M.

This script was exactly the same: it even had a saucy air to it, as if the penwielder had written it with a flourish, knowing he would eventually notice. He crumpled it in his fist.

'May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits,' Mozenrath hissed. 'May your right ear whither, and fall into your left pocket. May you live in interesting times! May you --' He snapped his head around, and raked the auditorium, trying to spot him. Then he remembered the three people with their magic signatures, and tried to spot the three blackrobes, and of course, the cat. It must have been them.

Then, he noticed, he was surrounded by a wall of sorcerers. They were no longer backing away: they looked positively eager now. Of course, he remembered. This had become the annual DSES roast, ahead of schedule. And an evil sorcerer's roast was never content to remain on a totally verbal level. The power was building around him, and since it was composed of almost the whole auditorium, there was a lot of it going around. He gathered his power, and prepared to transport himself, as the energy and the heat began to build...

Sultan Pasta Al Dente was confused. Three figures in black robes -- two women, one man, they had their hoods off -- obviously members of the DSES convention in the building across the way, had just entered his audience chamber, and deposited massive sacks of gold and gems at his feet.

'What's the meaning of this?' he demanded. He wasn't angry or worried, just puzzled.

The man, blue-eyed and brown haired, stepped forward, and salammed with perfect courteousy. 'This is for the damage to the convention centre, Your Excellency.'

Pasta looked out his window and stared across at the Centre. Nothing seemed amiss. The torches and lamps still burned brightly, there seemed no signs of a commotion. 'Damage? Did something happen inside the convention centre? Please,' he said, the genial host, 'if it's something minor, please don't trouble yourselves. I can take care of it --' The man had raised a hand.

'Sultan,' he said, 'consider this an insurance policy. The damage this is to replace may not be serious; in fact, it may not even happen. We just wish to --' The thunderous detonation outside cut off his words; they all saw the Getzistan Convention Centre crumble in on itself and collapse like a house of cards. 'Oopsie,' the man said, and stepped back, face scarlet with embarrassment.

'Michael,' one of the women said in a voice of exasperation. She held a Siamese cat in her arms.

The other woman, whisps of red hair escaping from her hood, waved a hand, and the Centre was instantly restored. 'Keep the gold, Sultan,' she said, magnaminously, 'we don't require it.' Then, all three of them bowed, and vanished. No puffs of smoke, no theatrical light effects. It was as if they'd faded away.

Strange, the Sultan thought. A lot more courteous than most evil
sorcerers he'd met, and unusually conscientious about paying debts. He plucked a gold dinari from a sack, and bit it. It was real, all right: they seemed unusually honest, too. Very strange...

He made it, of course. But when he reached the Citadel, and examined the first available mirror, he noticed his eyebrows and a good portion of the front of his hair had been singed off. Xerxes had almost choked to death laughing, until he'd grabbed the eel and choked and pounded him into submission. Then, when his familiar had stopped gurgling with joy, Mozenrath sighed, and began to chant the painful spells that would help him regrow his hair.

Retiring to his bedchamber, he found a note on his pillow. Atop it was his DSES Membership Card. A quick search of his own clothing revealed yes, his card had indeed been taken. The card itself was useless, cut cleanly in half by some sort of bladed instrument.

The note, in that disgustingly familiar English script said simply:

You won't be needing this for a while, will you?

You've got to admit, as a champion at misdirection, libel, slander, statistics and outright lies yourself, it was good, no? Admit it, Mozey: you didn't see it coming, and yes, we were all there in the audience, myself, the Great One, and the Grand Seer -- I bet her appearance shook you, didn't it? Oh, and Simon -- I almost forgot. The Great One would never forgive me if I left him out.

Allow us to express our admiration and gratitude at your escape, though all of us knew you would pull it off without a problem. May the next few months you spend keeping those jerks in line be fruitful ones for you, and don't forget to write every so often, either.

Be seeing you...

The bottom contained, simply, four signatures.

Silvestris (The Great One)

Pairaka (The Grand Seer)

Simon (The Siamese Cat)

Yoma (Michael Ferrier)

PS: If you think you now have an advantage knowing our names and identities, we advise you to get over it quickly. You don't. Ta-ta!

Mozenrath crumpled the parchment in his hand, and groaned.

Elsewhere, in a place beyond space and time, Michael sat hunched over his keyboard, keys clicking endlessly. Behind him were two presences, manifesting themselves as brilliant balls of light.

WHAT'S THE PLAN NOW? the Grand Seer wanted to know.

'YES MICHAEL, TELL US, PLEASE,' the Great One coaxed.

'Gladly,' Michael said. 'Remember how I told you Moze has had his gauntlet for too long? How I thought Xerxes should have a crack at it?'

The masses of energy grew brighter: it seemed analogous to a pair of evil, demented grins. They shone on Michael's own teeth, bared in a similar expression.

'Yes,' he said, more softly now. 'Tremble, mortals!' he proclaimed suddenly. 'Bow down before XERXES, THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE!'

Michael started to laugh, slow, deep, and somewhat maniacal. The Seer and Great One said nothing, but looked on, seeming to nod with grim approval.

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Chapter 4: Playing with Fire and Loaded Dice

Playing With Fire and Loaded Dice

Michael stood outside the silvered curtain. His face was a riot of indecision. The Grand Seer and The Great One wished he wouldn't pace like that. The sound of his shoes on the flagstones was very loud: Mamluks would be an inconvenience.

'Well,’ the Grand Seer said, 'aren't you going in there? A bet is a bet, after all.’

'I know, I know!’ he snapped, irritably. 'I'm just...nervous, I guess.’ He flushed at the sound of giggling behind him.

'Nervous. The Weird and Evil One says he’s nervous.’

'It’s only a bunch of pairaka after all, Mickey. Six-one odds? Hardly reason for you to be nervous now, is it? I mean, they'll only kill you now, won't they? And besides...’

'What?’ Tension ran through his voice like a steel wire.

'I have the feeling you've been wanting to do this for a long time. That first poem you wrote: about the pairaka, hardly a coincidence now, is it? And you positively salivate when the next installment comes out. Admit it. You get off on the thrill of this thing. So why are you nervous?’

'Because: I don't know what to expect. Our dear Mozey, devious as he is, does follow certain patterns. Dangle a magic item in front of his face, he goes bonkers...’

'You have the wrong character, I think,’ The Great One said snidely.

'You know what I meant. And you --’ he glared at the cat which was preening itself, and looking at him with feline amusement, '-- you, Simon, can stop all that telepathic chuckling. Just...the pairaka are so quixotic, I can't predict how they'll react.’ He looked at the Seer. 'Admit it. Neither can you.’

'I admit nothing.’ Smirk.

'Of course. Your beloved soul-mate is in there.’ He jerked a thumb at the curtain. 'I suppose anything she does to me has your tacit approval.’ Silence. He blew out a deep breath. 'All right, a bet’s a bet, and I did say I'd do it.’ He strode towards the curtain.

'Remember!’ the Great One called behind him. 'Be evil!’

Darkness: but not insurmountable. And noises. Chuckling, giggling, soft moans. He recognised Mozenrath’s pain signature, and grinned in the dark. Boldly, daringly, stupidly, he turned back towards the curtain and shouted, 'I don't suppose either of you have a camera and flash, do you?’

The noises stopped. His heart almost did. Great, just great...

'You...it is you, Michael, isn't it?’

'Hello there, Mozenrath...and the same to all the fair ladies here.’

'Fair ladies...uhm. I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted.’

'You sound scared, Michael. And I'd be lying if I didn't say just how happy it makes me feel.’

Perfumes, a whisper of silk. He whipped around, hands coming up in a position half-way between the tae kwon do ready position, and a boxer’s guard.

'You just pray I don't get pictures of you Moze. How do you think Agrabah would like you in flagrante delicto? Hard to bank on the old fear when you're caught doing things best left private, eh?’

'Let’s just see how you like them, then.’

'What do you think, Darice?’

'Hmm. Not bad. Promising raw material, but...’

He brought his foot up, powered a roundhouse kick in the direction of the voice. Nothing.

'He does seem a bit feisty now, doesn't he?’

Front snap kicks with alternating legs. Still nothing.

A hand softly touched his shoulder. Reverse elbow strike. It was like trying to punch smoke.

'Oh, I get it! He wants to dance! doesn't he seem to be dancing to you, Rahi?’

'Now that you mention it...’

He snatched up a silk cushion by feel in the dark, threw it. A soft squeak. Contact.

'No, maybe he’s more the playful sort.’

Something very small and fast hit him at waist level with a perfect tackle. Rolled with it, tried to; couldn't get up. Knees on his arms, holding him down. He expelled his breath in a sigh. 'Damn. You caught me.’

Green eyes glinted in the dark. 'Yes, we have. Now it’s fun time.’

The Great One looked at her watch. 'I suppose he messed up.’

The Grand Seer chuckled. 'Of course he messed up. Foolish man, thinking he could walk into a pairaka harem like that. There’s a reason why it means forbidden place in Arabic.’

'Shall we give him the camera?’

'Not yet. He wants to have his fun, let him.’

Poetry. That was the key. And, he mused, a poem about them. What was more appropriate? Flattery. Yes, flatter them, his brain said. Flatter like hell, my son.

Abruptly, he stopped. He couldn't remember the words.

'Continuez,’ a voice above him said. It was very harsh. 'It sounded like you were getting to the good stuff; don't stop now.’ And he laughed quietly to himself as he heard Mozenrath say, 'What in the name of Iblis is he doing?’

'Ahem. Now, where was I? Oh yes...’

And then, to his astonishment, he heard the sound of what almost seemed like sniffling.

'Finna! What in the name of Iblis are you blubbering about?’

'By all that’s Evil, it’s so true! don't you think so?’

'Well...’

Heard a soft thump; prayed it was the Polaroid Instamatic. His brain and mouth mechanically continued the recitation while his free hand groped. Please, God, Allah, or whatever higher powers are listening, please let it be the camera...

He caught a mental glimpse of preening in the dark, and he smiled. Unfortunately, it threw his rhythm off.

'Why are you stopping?’ A quiet hiss, full of understated menace. His hand touched plastic. Oh thank you, thank you, thank you...

'Uhm, er, um...’

A nail was drawn slowly down his cheek; he felt the beads of blood rise, like a zipper being done up.

Mozenrath was giggling. 'Enjoying yourself, Michael? I know I am!’

He started to speak, very quickly.

My senses fadeI now fall into sleepIt’s where I try to hide in dreams I keepBut no lips at my earfrost on my browAs little Finna whispers’My turn now...’

He rolled quickly, breaking the pairaka hold on him, brought the camera up to where he thought Mozenrath was, pushed the shutter. A brief flash of light but some squeals of surprise, and an almost primal howl from Mozenrath. But he had the shot. He knew it. He surged up as the pairaka hurtled after him, and screamed in triumph.

Three yards to the curtain. He was going to...

A shower of golden dust in front of him. No, I’m not...

Zahra was standing in front of him, and grinning. 'Well, that’s not something you’re telling the world now, is it?’

He knew better, but he took the swing at her anyway: stupid, pointless, and utterly useless. Her right hand grabbed him before he was half-way, and her left hand lifted him off the floor. Legs doing ninety, and going nowhere, a good six inches from terra firma. And all because I agreed to a stupid bet...

He didn’t see where the Grand Seer came from, didn’t know, didn’t particularly care. He did, however, love the look of astonishment on Zahra’s face, and was even more shocked at the power of the Seer’s right cross. Zahra grunted, and went down hard, then rolled over and looked at the Grand Seer more closely. There was an expression of stunned incredulity there that was priceless. Michael pointed the camera at her face and pressed the shutter. Zahra screamed at the indignity of it all. They began to back through the curtain, Michael addressing Moze and Zahra both:

'What’ll it be? Poster size, glossy eight-by-tens, what? What’s your pleasure?’

They both had to smile at the scream. From the looks on the Great One’s and Simon’s face as the two of them emerged, they had enjoyed it too.

'So,’ Michael panted, 'did I win the bet?’ He helped up the two shots: Moze in boxer shorts with pink hearts, feet clad in the luxurious pink bunny slippers, then Zahra, captured forever in a most priceless double take...

The Grand Seer smiled, inscrutably.

'You’re not going to tell me, are you?’

A head-shake, side to side, slowly, nothing more.

A slow suspicion began to dawn.

'There never was a bet, was there? You just wanted me to go in there, didn’t you?’ He looked at the Great One, and Simon. Open, predatory grins. 'I don’t suppose you...?’ He spread his hands.

The grins. His face slowly stretched into one that matched it, and Michael shook his head.

'An excellent piece of work,’ he admitted grudgingly. 'We screw Moze, you find a secret desire I wanted to indulge all along, and a way for me to almost get myself killed fulfilling it. Marvelous. Chalk up another for you three.’ He stared at them again, hostility gone.

'Well, until next time, I guess. Ciao!’

As Michael slowly let himself fade away, he couldn’t tell if it was Mozenrath they were laughing at, or him. He didn’t really care: he was too busy laughing at himself.

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