The man-woman sat impatiently on the remains of a cask off to one side, careful not to disturb the work at hand. It had already cost him dearly -- in gold and blood. Some of the things the mage had demanded had been bought, but most had been stolen. The former owners were often no longer in a condition to object to the disposition of their property.
From time to time the mage would glance searchingly up at him, make a tiny motion with his hand, frown with concentration, then return to his drawing.
After the fourth time this had happened, the stranger wet his lips with a nervous tongue, and asked, "Why do you keep doing that? Looking at me, I mean."
The mage blinked and stood up slowly, his back aching from the strain of staying bent over for so long. His red-rimmed, teary eyes focused to one side of the man, for he still found it difficult to look directly at him.
"It's the spell that's on you," he replied after a moment to collect his thoughts. "I don't know of a demon strong enough to break a spell that well made."
The man jumped to his feet, reaching for a sword he had left back in the mage's room because the old man had warned him against bearing cold steel into a demon's presence. "You old bastard!" he snarled. "You told me -- "
"I told you I could call one -- and I can. I just don't know one. Your best chance is if I can call a demon with a specific grudge against the maker of the spell -- "
"What if there isn't one?"
"There will be," the mage shrugged. "Anyone who goes about laying curses like yours and leaving justice-glyphs behind to seal them is bound to have angered either a demon or someone who commands one. At any rate, since you want to know, I've been testing the edges of your curse to make the magerune appear. I'm working that into the summoning. Since I don't know which demon to call, the summoning' will take longer than usual to bear fruit, but the results will be the same. The demon will appear, one with a reason to help you, and you'll bargain with it for the breaking of your curse."
"Me?" The stranger was briefly taken aback. "Why me? Why not you?"
"Because it isn't my curse. I don't give a damn whether it's broken or not. I told you I'd summon a demon -- I didn't say I'd bind him. That takes more skill -- and certainly more will -- than I possess anymore. My bargain with you was simple -- one demon, one bottle of Lethe. Once it's here, you can do your own haggling."
The man smiled; it was far more of a grimace than an expression of pleasure. "All right, old fraud. Work your spell. I'd sooner trust my wits than yours anyway."
The mage returned to his scribbling, filling the entire area lit by the lanthorn suspended overhead with odd little drawings and scrawls that first pulled, then repelled the eyes. Finally he seemed satisfied, gathered his stained, ragged robes about him with care, and picked a dainty path through the maze of chalk. He stood up straight just on the border of the inscriptions, raised his arms high, and intoned a peculiarly resonant chant.
At that moment, he bordered on the impressive -- though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the water dripping off the beams of the ceiling, falling onto his balding head and running off the end of his long nose.
The last syllable echoed from the dank walls. The man-woman waited in anticipation.
Nothing happened.
"Well?" the stranger said with slipping patience, "Is that all there is to it?"
"I told you it would take time -- perhaps as much as an hour. Don't fret yourself, you'll have your demon."
The mage cast longing glances at the shadowshrouded bottle on the floor beside his visitor as he mopped his head with one begrimed, stained sleeve.
The woman-man noted the direction his attention was laid, thought for a moment, weighing the mage's efforts, and smiled mirthlessly. "All right, old fraud -- I guess you've earned it. Come and get it."
The mage didn't wait for a second invitation, or give the man-woman a chance to take the reluctant consent back. He scrambled forward, tripping over the tattered edges of his robes, and sagged to his knees as he snatched the bottle greedily.
He had it open in a trice, and began sucking at the neck like a calf at the udder, eyes closing and face slackening in mindless ecstasy. Within moments he was near-collapsing to the floor, half-empty bottle cradled in his arms, oblivion in his eyes.
His visitor walked over with a softly sinister tread and prodded him with a toe. "You'd better have worked this right, you old bastard," he muttered, "Or you won't be waking -- "
His last words were swallowed in the sudden roar, like the howl of a tornado, that rose without warning behind him. As he spun to face the area of inscriptions, that whole section of floor burst into sickening blood-red and hellish green flame; flame that scorched his face, though it did nothing to harm the beams of the ceiling. He jumped back, frightened in spite of his bold resolutions to fear nothing.
But before he touched the ground again, a monstrous, clawed hand formed itself out of the flame and slapped him back against the rear wall of the cellar. A second hand, the color of molten bronze, reached for the oblivious mage.
A face worse than anything from the realm of nightmare materialized from the flame between the two hands. A neck, arms, and torso followed. The hands brought the mage within the fire -- the visitor coughed on the stench of the old man's robes and beard scorching. There was no doubt that the fire was real, no matter that it left the ceiling intact. The mage woke from his drugged trance, screaming in mindless pain and terror. The smell of his flesh and garments burning was spreading through the cellar, and reached even to where the man-woman lay huddled against the dank wall; he choked and gagged at the horrible reek.
And the thing in the flames calmly bit the mage's head off, like a child with a gingerbread manikin.
It was too much for even the man-woman to endure. He rolled to one side and puked up the entire contents of his stomach. When he looked up again, eyes watering and the taste of bile in his mouth, the thing was staring at him, licking the blood off its hands.
He swallowed as his gorge rose again, and waited for the thing to take him for dessert.
"You smell of magic." The thing's voice was like a dozen bells ringing; bells just slightly out-of-tune with one another. It made the man-woman nauseous and disoriented, but he swallowed again and tried to, answer.
"I... have a curse."
"So I see. I assume that was why I was summoned here. Well, unless we enter into an agreement, I have no choice but to remain here or return to the Abyssal Planes. Talk to me, puny one; I do not desire the latter."
"How -- why did you -- the old man -- "
"I dislike being coerced, and your friend made the mistake of remaining within reach of the circle. But I have, as yet, no quarrel with you. I take it you wish to be rid of what you bear. Will you bargain to have your curse broken? What can you offer me?"
"Gold?"
The demon laughed, molten-gold eyes slitted. "I have more than that in mind."
"Sacrifice? Death?"
"I can have those intangibles readily enough on my own -- starting with yours. You are within my reach also."