“I never seem to be able to, either,” she said, “not there.
See if you can feel my heartbeat.” She slid his hand under the heavy black tresses, and Amer found that the gown was cut very low indeed.
For a moment he was stunned, completely at a loss. Then, with a sort of numb amazement, he realized the purpose of the potion, and began to be very glad he’d taken the antidote. For one way or another, Samona meant to have his soul. He would play along to see if she had more tricks prepared.
Amer caressed her, slowly moving his hand to part the rich black waves and stroke them away to her shoulders; then he let his hand slide over the swelling softness of her. He felt her shiver under his touch. He knelt and watched her cream-white breasts as they rose and fell, straining against their velvet prison.
Then he looked at her face, and it was dead white. He realized with a shock that he was the first ever to touch her with tenderness, and that her trembling was not from passion alone. Finally, with a sense of awe, he realized her courage.
Then she looked at him with fear in her eyes, and her trembling lips parted softly. He slid his free hand to her back, between her shoulders, and pressed her to him. Their lips met in moist sweetness.
They broke apart, and he pulled her head down onto his shoulder. “So,” he said, with wonder, “that’s what it’s like. . . .”
“What. . . ?” Samona half-gasped.
“Your scapula,” Amer breathed. “It articulates with your clavicle by ligament! And I thought it was connected by cartilage . . . .”
For a moment, Samona sat very, very still.
Then she was out of the chair and over against the wall with a wildcat’s scream. “Take your hands off me and get away from me, you tin-bellied machine!” She clasped at the wall behind her with fingers hooked into claws, glaring at him and hissing, “I wish you were in Hell!” And, for a moment, Amer could have sworn he saw hellfire in her eyes.
Then a cloud of green smoke exploded. When it cleared, she had vanished.
“Thank Heaven!” Willow sighed. “Master, she’s gone!”
But Amer only stared at the place where she had been, murmuring, “Strange. . .strange, very strange. . . .”
“What, Master?”
“My emotions, Willow.”
“Why, Master?” the will-o’-the-wisp cried in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“I must write this down,” Amer hurried to his writing desk and snatched up a quill. “It’s priceless information. . . I’ll probably never have the same experience again.”
“I’ll say!” Willow said fervently. “But what’s the matter?”
“Well, Willow. . .”
“Now, now, Master, you’ve had a nasty shock. Just lie down and relax. You’ve had a hard day. I’ll write it down for you.” Willow prepared to make alterations in the electrical potentials within her.
Amer took her at her word, going over to the narrow cot against the wall and lying back, head pillowed on a horsehair cushion. “It started when she told me that she’d come to declare a truce. . . .”
“Just let it flow, Master,” the will-o’-the-wisp said, oozing sympathy.
“She looked up at me, and her eyes looked so innocent, and she seemed so submissive. . . .”
“Mm-hmmm.”
“. . . and she said she’d come to surrender. . . .”
“Yes, Master . . .”
“And, well, Willow, for just a moment there, I felt panic”
“RealIy!”
“And, Willow—that worries me. . . .”
The wind swept around the cottage, infuriated at being balked. But it was gaining strength, because other winds were coming, ushered by the towering black clouds that drifted from the west, obscuring the moon. The wind welcomed its kin, and together they tore at the cabin, howling and tearing. Then a great black cloud arrived and broke open a drum of rain, with a huge crack of thunder. Torrents gushed down, lashing the little cabin, and the winds howled in glee.
Inside, Amer slept on in blissful but disturbing dreams, unheeding of the winds. Enraged, they redoubled their force. Still Amer slept—until Willow came to attention, startled. She listened, was sure she’d heard right, and called, “Master! Wake up!”
It came again, from the door—a knocking.
“Master! Wake up! There’s someone here!”
“What? Here? Where?” Amer lifted his head, dull with sleep.
“At the door!”
“Here?” Amer stared at the portal.
It shook as the knocking sounded again, louder and. quicker.
“Oh, my heavens! And at this hour of the night!” Amer shoved himself out of bed, shuddering as his feet touched the cold boards, shoved them into slippers, and stood. He shuffled over to the door as the pounding came gain, insistent, impatient. “Patience, please! Patience! I’m coming!” Finally, he pulled out the bar.
The door slammed open, and the wind howled in triumph, whirling toward the doorway—and swooping away as something blocked it from entering. It howled in frustration, but a flash of lightning drowned it out with a huge clap of thunder—and showed Amer the robed and hooded silhouette standing in his doorway.
The alchemist froze. Then he turned to catch up his dressing gown and don it. Knotting the sash, he turned back to the doorway.
“Please excuse my appearance,” he said, “but I must admit that I was not expecting you.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” the figure said. “Very few ever do.”
Amer frowned. “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous,” he said, “but would it be too much trouble for you to tell me who you are, and what you’ve come here for?”
“Not at all,” the figure said, and, in sepulchral tones, “My name is Death, and I’ve come for you.”
Amer raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed?” he said, and then, a little taken aback, “Well, I’m quite honored.”
But then, recovering himself, he saw that Death still stood outside the door.
“Oh, my heavens!” he cried, “you must think me terribly rude. Come in out of the rain, won’t you?”
Somewhat puzzled, Death stepped into the cabin, and Amer pushed the door shut behind him. The wind screamed as the door shut on it, then howled and battered against the door in rage. But Amer dropped the oaken bar into its brackets, then turned and went over to the fireplace to throw on another log. “Come stand by the hearth and dry yourself. May I get you a drink?”
“Why, yes,” Death said, pleasantly surprised. “Wormwood, if you have it.”
“Of course,” said Amer, taking another decanter from the mantel. He filled a glass and handed it to Death, then poured one for himself. Reaching up, he took a vial from the mantelpiece, shook a little of the fine, chicory-scented powder it contained over the stool, and muttered a short, unintelligible phrase. The outline of the stool blurred, then began to stretch and bulge as though it were alive. Within thirty seconds, it had assumed the shape of a high-backed wing chair. It sprouted cushions, which grew and blossomed into a luxuriant golden velvet. The outlines hardened again, and a soft, comfortably padded armchair stood by the hearth.
“Sit down, won’t you?” Amer said.
Death didn’t answer. He stood staring at the armchair. At last he cleared his throat and said, in a businesslike tone, “Yes. This brings me to the matter about which I came, Master Amer.”
“Please sit down,” Amer said. “It pains me to see a guest standing.”
“No, thank you,” Death said. “My cloak isn’t quite dry yet. But about this—ah—strange gift of yours, Master Amer.”
“How rude of me!” Amer said. “Please forgive me. Being freshly wakened, I’m afraid I’m not thinking very clearly.” He turned to a closet in the wall near the workbench and drew out a leather laboratory coat. “Please put this on and let your wet cloak hang by the fire.”