"Oh. Yeah. Sure, sure. Is Inky here yet?"
"Not yet," Sheila said, turning. "But here's Gene and Linda."
"Yo, dudes!" Gene called. "And dudesses."
"Hello?" Sheila went to greet the first of her guests.
Trent yawned again. "Man, I gotta stop eating those submarine sandwiches so late at night."
He shucked his terrycloth shirt and walked to the deep end of the pool. Mounting the diving board, he walked to its far extremity and bounced up and down a few times, then took a few steps back. After a moment's mental preparation, he took three even strides, jumped, and dove, his body straight and true, his trajectory a perfect arch. He cut the surface cleanly, with minimum splashing, like a thrown spear.
The cool chlorinated water washed the sleep from him. He stayed submerged, relishing the hushed drone of underwater sounds and exploring the pool's bubbling blue-green depths.
Not much down here. Bare concrete below; a drain. He gave some thought to going snorkeling soon, or at least taking the glass-bottomed tour boat out to explore the local marine life, plentiful in this world of mostly ocean. He had always had a passing interest in marine biology.
Then again… to hell with it.
Of late he had found it increasingly difficult to work up enthusiasm for much of anything. Maybe it was his job. He ran Club Sheila, which in any other world would have entailed bossing the staff, booking blocks of rooms and function space for tours and conventions, keeping the books, placating irate guests, and performing the hundreds of other duties that the job of running a major resort would require. But this world was different. The hotel, the pool, the cabanas, even most of the guests, were phantasms. Magical constructs conjured out of the occult ether by his wife, a powerful sorceress. The place really needed no looking after. How it all worked was beyond him. He himself-a magician of no mean talents-had never worked conjuring magic on such a scale.
Yet, here it was. Club Sheila. SheilaWorld. Real, down to its inscribed ashtrays and custom matchbooks; real unto the satin sheets and the tiny complimentary bars of beauty soap in the hotel's luxurious marble bathrooms.
Real down to the very swimming pool in which he was running out of breath. He angled toward the surface.
He broke water to the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. The staff had set up tables and a portable bar at the other end of the pool. A few more guests had arrived. Trent did a slow dog paddle to the edge of the pool.
"What are you drinking?" Cleve Dalton asked Lord Peter Thaxton.
"Something called a Samoan Fogcutter."
"Sounds potent. What's in it?"
"Rum and a hodgepodge of sweet stuff."
Lord Peter wrinkled his nose. "Don't like drinks with little umbrellas and things in them."
"This is good."
"That? What is it?"
"Mai Tai. Rum, grenadine, and a bunch of juices."
"Heavy on the rum today, eh? Well, I'll have one of these and then switch to Scots whisky neat."
"A purist."
More guests arrived, and more exotic drinks were made and handed out. Food lay heaped on a nearby table, the theme Polynesian: pineapple and roast pig and fire-baked fish and steamed seafood and tropical fruit in dozens of dishes.
"What kind of drink is that?" Linda asked Melanie McDaniel. "Looks strange."
"A Blue Lagoon," freckle-faced Melanie told her. "I asked for something really different, and I got something blue."
"What's in it?"
"I don't know."
The bartender-a thin young man who looked a bit like a young Elisha Cooke, Jr.-said, "Blue curaqao, ma'am, along with Triple Sec, vodka, and pineapple juice."
"Tastes pretty good," Melanie said after taking a sip.
Gene Ferraro sidled over and put his arm around Melanie's thinning waist (she'd had twins not long ago). "Drink four of those and come up and see my etchings."
She bumped him away with her hip. "You old tease. You talk a great line but you never deliver."
"Why, that's not true. I used to have a paper route."
"Phooey."
Linda said, "Gene leads his love life outside the castle."
"Yeah, I'm a regular Don Juan in the real world. Here I can't get arrested."
"I'll arrest you," Melanie offered.
"Oooh, with handcuffs? Now who's teasing?"
Melanie giggled. Linda motioned toward Gene's drink. "What's that?"
"Iced Tea."
"You on the wagon?"
"It's a drink. Rum, vodka, gin, Triple Sec, sour mix… and, uh… '
"Orange juice and cola, sir," the bartender supplied.
"Right."
"Heavens, that sounds dangerous," Linda said, wide-eyed. "Rum and vodka and gin?"
"Oh, my."
"His Majesty, the king!"
All eyes swiveled to the French doors on the patio. Through them strode Incarnadine, Lord of the Western Pale, and by the grace of the gods, King of the Realms Perilous. His yellow T-shirt bore magenta lettering that read: DEATH'S A BITCH-THEN YOU'RE REINCARNATED. He wore mirror shades, electric-green Bermudas, pink-accented LA Gears, and a big Panama hat with a purple hatband. "Hey, gang, I'm ready to howl."
Women curtsied, men bowed.
"Tut, tut." He waved his indulgence. "Where can I get a drink? Oh, there." He went straight to the bar.
"What will it be, Your Majesty?"
"Ahhh… recommend something."
"Planter's Punch?"
"Nah."
"Rum Runner?"
"Nope."
"Perhaps a Kamikaze?"
"What's in it?"
"Vodka, gin, sake, peach schnapps, and lime juice."
"Sounds suicidal, all right. Can you make an Alabama Slammer?"
"Uh, Southern Comfort, orange juice… and-?"
"Amaretto and sloe gin."
"Right, sir. Yes, sir, coming right up."
The king turned his head. "Trent!"
His brother stepped up to the bar. Incarnadine took his outstretched hand.
"Your Majesty. Happy birthday."
"Thank you muchly. Sheila. Long time no see."
"Welcome!" Sheila said as she gave the king a hug. "You haven't been here in so long!"
"The press of business. I do need a vacation. Maybe I'll stay on a few days."
"The royal suite is always ready."
"Some deep-sea fishing, maybe."
"We have a fleet of boats that sits around."
"There's a funny kind of, sort of, marlin out there," Trent told him. "A real terror to land."
"Oh? sounds interesting."
"Poisonous spines."
"Sounds like fun."
"I'll take you out."
"It's a date. Tomorrow."
"Great," Trent said. "How's Zafra and the kids?"
"Wonderful, wonderful. You two seem to be doing fine. All sun-bronzed and healthy."
"Oh, this climate agrees with me, all right," Sheila said. "but I still get burned a lot. Even my spells don't keep the sun off."
Squinting one eye. Incarnadine held up his right hand and slowly waved two-fingers. "Hmmm. Strange magic."
"Only Sheila's been able to deal with it so far," Trent said. "I have a devil of a time."
"I suspect I would, too. But maybe a simple forfending spell would take care of the sunburn?"
"Tried it," Sheila said. "It kept up a shield all right, but it kept air out, too."
"Hardly practical. Let me see…"
"It's tricky, Inky."
Incarnadine nodded. "I see what you mean. Spells here tend to have unexpected consequences."
"All spells spin off unwanted side-effects," Trent said, but here they sometimes run rampant."
"Take this hotel, for instance," Sheila said. "All I wanted to conjure was a hut. And look what I got."
The three of them took in the rococo elegance of Hotel Sheila.
"Remarkable," Incarnadine said. "I don't think I could do as good a job."
"It's not me, it's the magic here."
"It's you," Trent assured her. "You're a sorceress of the first magnitude."
"Well, maybe here I am."