All this Amer noted, and had noted every day of his childhood and youth almost without knowing it. She’d changed her eyebrows again, and the mahogany highlights were back in her hair.
“Still so easily bored,” he murmured, staring into the beaker.
“Not you, Master!”
“No, no! Samona.”
“Master! You really shouldn’t!”
“Fo,” Amer said, frowning at what he saw. “I think I should.”
For the miniature Samona’s hands were moving lightly and quickly among the bottles on the shelves alongside her fireplace, measuring their contents into a small cauldron that boiled and chortled softly over an unearthly green flame. She stirred the brew, dropped in a pinch of a white, glittering powder, and stood counting her pulse-beats as she watched the thickening liquid.
“What’s she doing, Master?”
“I thought you said spying was wrong, Willow.”
“Well, yes, but gossip is another matter. Tell me!”
Amer smiled. “She’s making a potion, too. But what kind?
Let’s see. . .she’s using essence of sweet zephyrs. . .powdered tears. . .rhadlakum. . . . What can it be?”
“That’s what I was wonderin’,” Willow muttered.
“My heavens!” Amer looked up, eyes wide. “Another aphrodisiac!”
In the beaker, the miniature Samona, judging the time to be right, swung the cauldron off the flame, let it stand for a few minutes, and then skimmed the surface with a ladle and poured the skimmings into a small vial. She held it up to the light; it glittered with ruby liquid, steaming. Her eyes glowed; she eyed the vial with a smug smile, then began to laugh.
Suddenly, there was a flash of green light, and she was gone.
Amer stood looking into the beaker for a few seconds more.
“What is it, Master?” Willow cried. “Master? Master!”
For Amer had taken a clean beaker and started pulling powders off the shelves.
“What kind of potion is an aphro-whatever?” Willow demanded.
“An aphrodisiac, Willow.”
“What’s it for?”
“Me, I’m afraid.”
“No, no! I mean, what does it do?”
“Stra-a-a-a-ange things,” Amer said.
“Like what?”
“Well,” said Amer, and “well,” again. Then, “It will, uh . . . make me, uh . . . like her.”
“Wonderful! Then you’ll be friends again?”
“Well, something like that, yes.”
“Master,” the will-o’-the-wisp accused, “you’re not bein’ honest with me.”
“Very well, Willow.” Amer sighed, looking up from his work for a moment. “An aphrodisiac makes a man desire a woman carnally. And the particular kinds that Samona brews are also love philtres.”
“A love filter? What’s it do, take the love out of the carnal—whatever?”
“Desire. And no, a ‘philter’ adds love in to where it wasn’t before.”
“That doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“Nor to me, either,” Amer confessed. “But here’s the manner of it: if she can trick me into drinking that potion, I’ll become her slave.”
“I thought you said her magic didn’t work on you.”
“It hasn’t—so far. And only because I counter her spells and potions with my own. But there is always the possibility that she might be able to concoct a new potion that would work on me.”
“So what’re you doin’?”
“Making an anti-aphrodisiac, Willow.”
“A what?”
“A protective drug,” Amer explained. “It will ward me from the effects of her potion. Let’s see . . . where did I put the saltpeter?”
“But,” said Willow, “don’t you want to fall in love with her?”
“Willow,” said Amer, “don’t ask embarrassing questions.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Why does she want to make you like her?”
“Because she’s a woman.”
“No, no! I mean, besides that!”
“Willow,” Amer said between his teeth, “it is not tactful to remind a scholar of just how much he doesn’t know.”
“Well, I’m sorry! Y’ know, this whole thing seems really silly to me. She mixes a potion so you’ll fall in love with her, and you mix one so you won’t. You could save a lot of time and trouble if neither of you mixed the potions.”
“Very true,” Amer agreed. “Unfortunately, Samona doesn’t see it that way.”
“Why not?”
“Well…I suppose it’s that if she can’t enslave me one way, she’ll try another.”
“And an aphro-whatsis will do that?”
“It’s a good start,” Amer allowed.
“I don’t understand,” said the poor, confused will-o’-the-wisp.
“I only wish I did!” Amer said fervently. “Let’s see. . .wormwood. . .a pinch of gall. . .wolfbane. . . .”
“Love potions.” Willow was engraving in her book of energy impulses, “Protective drugs. . . Wait till Harvard hears about this!” She spoke of the College that had been established for many years.
Amer gave the potion a final stir, lifted it to his lips, and drank it off in a single draft. His face twisted in a wry grimace; he coughed, and came up smiling. “There! I’m safe!”
A tone, so low that it was more felt than heard, filled the room. Willow vibrated with panic, but Amer breathed, “Just in time.”
“Good afternoon, Amer,” murmured a low, husky voice.
“Good afternoon, Samona.” Amer noted that her tones were deeper and fuller than usual, sending a shiver through his system; he reminded himself that his potion needed a few more minutes to take its full effect.
She came over to the side of his chair, and the flowing skirts clung to her as she came.
“You aren’t very polite,” she said. “A host usually offers his guest some refreshment after a long journey.”
“Of course,” Amer said. “Forgive me.” He rose and took a decanter and two glasses from the mantel. “Will amontillado do?”
“Quite well,” Samona said, and a smiled flickered for an instant over her lips. It lasted no longer than the tick of a watch, but that was long enough for Amer to be certain it had been there.
He filled the glasses and gave her one. “To your power—may it increase.”
“Hypocrite!” she said. “Toast something else, Amer, for you know as well as I that I’ll never be stronger than I am now.”
“Oh, come,” Amer said. “You’re young yet.”
“Yes, but I’ve reached my peak. You’re young, too, Amer, but somehow your power keeps growing. I should know, I’ve been trying to defeat you long enough.”
“Oh, now, Samona!” Amer protested. “You mustn’t give up so easily! You might win yet, you know.”
“Indeed? It doesn’t seem very likely.”
“Don’t believe her, Master!” Willow whispered, just behind his back. “Remember her potion!”
That jarred Amer out of his shock. “Yes 1 Well, uh, Samona—I’m glad to see you’ve finally given up chasing a will-o’-the-wisp.”
Someone cleared a miniature throat behind his back.
“I beg your pardon, Willow,” Amer hissed out of the comer of his mouth.
Samona didn’t notice; she had turned away, pacing toward the hearth. “You’re right, Amer. I’ve become wise in the hard school of frustration. I know when I’m beaten.”