Skarn stepped forward, gloating. "So much for you, you feeble old fool. I have dawdled with you long enough. Feel now my Death Spell, you and your useless apprentice!"
Unluckily for Skarn, he had earlier discarded his fancy riding boots in order to pursue his thievery quietly. When he now strode forward, he planted one stockinged foot flatly on Cyril's back, prompting the offended snake to rear up and sink his fangs into Skarn's unprotected leg.
Seizing this splendid opportunity, Drop yelled as loudly as he could, "Ho! Ghost! GHOST!"
The owl, driven to frenzy by all the blinding lights, swooped down from his shelf, talons extended. He landed on Skarn's head, buffeting the sorcerer with his great soft wings, while yanking cruelly at the man's long red hair.
Skarn, understandably, yowled under this multiple, totally unexpected attack. As his mouth gaped open, Drop lunged toward the floundering sorcerer and popped the lozenge between his lips.
There was a frozen instant of startled silence, a gasp from Skarn, then a gulp. The tormented sorcerer wrenched Ghost from his head, and would have dashed the owl to the floor had it not twisted from his hands and flown safely to its ceiling shelf.
Skarn gibbered, shuddered, and slowly shrank in size. Drop watched with keen interest to see just what Skarn's True Shape might be. It was momentarily concealed by the heap of Skarn's human clothing, then there was a jerky stirring, and tearing aside the fabric, a rather warty yellow-brown demon emerged from the folds.
Flax, by now recovered from his breathless impact against the bookcase, pointed at the demon, pronouncing a stern magical order.
The demon shook its claws defiantly at him, but was summarily vanished, leaving behind a cloud of foul smoke.
"Faugh!" exclaimed Flax, gesturing open all the adjacent doors and windows. "A cleansing breeze should suffice to disperse this. All-much better. And there is one more item that needs to be destroyed-Mistress Wryfern's gift potion. Although it was intended only to be an innocent diversion, I now perceive what a deadly threat it could pose in wicked hands." Snatching up the blue glass bottle, the wizard vaporized it in a flash of white light.
From his lofty perch, Ghost emitted a loud hoot of protest.
"My dear Ghost," said Flax, "and Cyril, and above all, Drop! I thank each of you for your valiant efforts. Had you not assisted when you did, I fear that we all should have perished. You must all be fairly rewarded. Let me see-some nice brown eggs for Cyril, I think, and pickled herring for Ghost and Drop. How does that sound? Where did I put that jar of herring? Was it in the kitchen, or the back storeroom?"
As Drop followed the wizard to aid in the search, he privately regretted only one thing. He had not had the chance to try a bite of the demon, which had smelled most deliriously of mouse.
Of Age and Wisdom by Roger C. Schlobin
There are few tales that remain of the ancient times when dragons and cats ruled the Earth and humanity was no more than a stirring in the genes of screeching monkeys. Of these times-when cats chose to use their enduring power of speech to talk with only the most interesting of dragons and when the two races were united by the Bond of Talon and Claw, Fire and Fur-the foremost remaining epic is of Mei-Chou, the wise silver-mackerel tabby, and Ao Rue, the last of the blue-eyed sorcerer dragons, and how the two fared when the dragons ill-advisedly terraformed the Gobi from its native sea to a desert with the fell power of the Northern Lights. Together, the two battled the vampirism of the mindless Azghun Demons and the power-mad tyranny of Lei-kung and his demented cohort, Han Chung-li. Prominent too of the stories of this forgotten age is that of Ao Rue's great, undying love for the stunning Nü-kua.
Yet, despite Mei-Chou's great fame and courage, should she be asked for her favorite tales of these long-forgotten days and if she found someone worthy of her speech, she would humbly tell of the greatness of her aging mentor and father, Lord Chu, affectionately known to her as Chu-Chu. This is her favorite, the one she told the most.
Mei-chou cut through a wide, high-walled canyon as she descended the Mount of God, known as the Bogdo-ola in the old speech. Normally, the chilled air might draw her to thinking of the unknown, remote heights and how cold it was at the twenty-two-thousand-foot summit. No one knew what lived there or how cold it was; the cloud-draped heights defied even the mightiest dragon's wings. But, at this dark hour, her thoughts were filled with her beloved Chu-Chu, the cats' shaman, who lay dying in his cave. Despite his matted fur and hollow flanks, her love's eye always remembered him in the glory of his youth. His dark-blue eyes were almost black. They still shone within the lush fur of his ebony mask. His face and ears were framed by a creamy, camel-colored mane that circled to his full jowls. At least, Chu-Chu liked to call it a mane; Mei-chou thought of it more as a ruff. He'd say ruffs were prissy. But he'd also say that jowls had nothing to do with weight and everything to do with dignity. His mane blended back and down through rich, thick shades of chestnut and sable to black legs, paws, and tail. No color quite separated. They all moved in harmony, one into the other. The changes were so subtle that, when the light changed, there were moments of tan, chestnut, chocolate, and charcoal on his body. His most arresting feature was the oversized fangs that extended down over his lower jaw into the velvet of his chin. He thought they made him look fierce; Mei-chou knew it was only overbite. A Himalayan Sealpoint, Lord Chu insisted he was one of the few felines indigenous to the Gobi. But Mei-chou had heard enough to suspect that he was the product of a momentary lingering between a Black Persian and a Siamese. Cats, for all their proclamations of civilized demeanor, were erotically prone to random couplings, to spontaneous trysts. Perhaps, these passing matings had something to do with their complete immunity to guilt, their absolute freedom from embarrassment.
But now even the wonder of the unassailable Bogdo-ola and Lord Chu's beauty could not take her mind from her sorrowful thoughts: So old. My Woolly-Bully. Senile, I guess. So fat. Hardly moves at all. His latest mate, Pita, makes his last days soft. Good! More and more he tells his strange, rambling stories, especially the one about the great torn who slew a dragon. Mind wanders more each day. Dragon slaying, indeed! That a cat ever could or would fight a dragon! Such nonsense! Still I wonder if there ever was such a tomcat? Nonsense! As much chance of that as a smart ape!
If Mei-chou had not been so preoccupied, she probably would have heard the raver that waited for her. She was both surprised and annoyed at her lack of vigilance when the demented dragon lurched out from behind a large outcropping of rock. Mei-chou looked right and left. The canyon walls were too far away for her to run. She couldn't outrace his fire despite his obvious clumsiness. There was nowhere to go. So she sat down, began to wash her paws, and acted like he wasn't there at all.
"Now you are mine; fur turd!"
"Oh, hello, did you say something? Who are you?" Of course, Mei-chou recognized Han Chung-li, but she had decided that the best tactic was to keep him off balance. This one is deep dumb. He shouldn't be too hard to handle.
"I am General Han Chung-li. The rightful and blessed successor to the glorious Lei-kung, you stupid cat!"
"Oh, you're a general now. Who appointed you?"
"That's dragon business. Nothing for you sub-creatures to worry about." Smoke began to rise from his nostrils as his flame brewed. Mei-chou remained calm. Dragons rarely frighten cats. It was considered bad form. Moreover, cats are indifferent to any dragon's magic, much less this one's poor excuse for anything, and they fully enjoy the dragons' narcotic smoke.