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The Grammy awards had been handed out two weeks ago, and he’d won more individual awards than any other performer in history. The fans had done that for him. Now there was talk, nothing more than vague rumors, of course, that because of the penetrating and powerful social commentary contained in his lyrics, the Nobel committee in Stockholm was giving serious consideration to awarding him a special prize. It would be the first time a popular composer and performer had been so honored. The Pulitzer for music, he had been assured, was already in the bag. And, of course, the minority party was asking him, or rather pleading with him, to put his career aside long enough to run for the vacant junior senatorial seat from the state of California.

Yes, it might have seemed like enough to overwhelm any one man, but not Jonathan Thomas Meriweather. He handled success and adulation with the same ease as he handled his favorite guitar. Though he basked in his fame, he was still just the same regular guy as always, he’d explained to the hordes of eager reporters who kept pestering him for quotable quotes.

Ah, well, he supposed, he’d tantalized them long enough. He adjusted the Fender’s strap, nodded toward his sidemen, and waited while Bobby started to work the crowd up all over again with his drums. A vast wave of adoration rolled forth from the audience to sweep over the stage in a great roar.

Yes, everything was going about as well as mortal man could expect, he told himself. He’d accomplished everything on this tour he could have hoped to do. No one knew yet, but tonight would be his last live performance. He was going to accept the offer to run for the vacant senatorial seat.

But something was not quite right. The strings of his guitar felt thin beneath his fingers. They seemed to stick, and there were more of them than there should have been. They ran the wrong way too. It didn’t seem to bother the crowd, which continued bellowing and screaming louder than ever, but it unnerved Jon-Tom. He turned his back on them, letting Bobby and Julio carry the opening overture while he fought to sort himself out. Wrong, wrong, there was definitely something wrong!

As he turned away from the crowd the shouts of jubilation faded away, taking the people with them. The cavernous walls of the Forum disappeared and with it the overweening feeling of contentment.

It was the noise that drew Mudge to the cave, the laughing and sounds of carousing, along with the faint odor of liquor and pungent dope sticks. He knew that he should tell his companions, but surely he could check out this one anomaly by himself. Besides, he’d left them far behind, chattering mindlessly among themselves.

There was no one posted on watch at the entrance to the burrow. If he couldn’t slip in, have a look-see around, and slip out again without being detected, of what use was he?

The tunnel was brightly illuminated by sweet-smelling torches instead of expensive spell-maintained glow bulbs. That suited him fine. He’d had enough of spelling and magicks. It led in and down before leveling off. The dirt floor gave way to smooth stone. A vein of malachite running through the pavement had been polished to a brilliant shine, the green-and-black waves undulating through the marble. He followed it toward the noise and smells.

A hundred yards on and the tunnel opened up onto a scene of sybaritic splendor. Ahead lay a chamber of epicurean delights. From the roof hung a massive chandelier ablaze with a thousand candles, each one fashioned of perfumed wax. He did not stop to consider how so enormous a fixture might have been brought into this place. He was too busy staring at the orchestra. It consisted of scantily clad females, each of whom was not only playing her instrument with consummate skill but clearing enjoying a personal and intimate relationship with it.

In fact, there wasn’t a male in the entire assembly. There were females of many species, but the majority were otters: sleek and smooth of fur, long of whisker, and sharp of tooth. Thirty of them were dancing to the wild music of the orchestra, spinning and swirling like dervishes. He observed them transfixed, frozen to the spot. Faced with such an unexpected and astonishing abundance of feminine pulchritude, what else could he do?

Not stand there forever, however much he might want to preserve the moment. He had not come alone. With great reluctance he turned to race back out the tunnel to inform his friends of what he’d discovered when a sharp, startled scream split the air. The music ceased. The dancing halted. So did Mudge. Every one of those shining, voluptuous beauties was staring straight at him.

“Look,” exclaimed one of the otterish houris into the lingering silence, “a malel”

Shrieks and giggles filled the chamber as they charged toward him.

“Now, lassies,” he said uneasily, putting up both hands and assuming a defensive posture. “Let’s not do anything drastic until we talk this over.”

They swarmed over him, their perfume overpowering, each fighting for the chance to touch and caress, to kiss and nip. Not struggling as hard as he might have, he found himself half pushed, half pulled into the chamber. The music resumed, freer and more undisciplined than before. They were inviting him to join them, he knew, in their celebration. To revel as he’d never reveled before. His friends were waiting, true but—they could wait. And if they couldn’t, well, they’d just have to get along without good old Mudge. He succumbed fully to euphoria.

Jon-Tom blinked, wiped at his eyes. He was gripping the duar so hard, his fingers hurt. Had he snapped out of it automatically or had he been fortunate enough to play a perturbation-canceling melody while still unconscious?

What had happened to the Forum, to the screaming crowd? Where there had been fans wild with delirium, fighting and reaching just to touch his boots, applauding and cheering every word that fell from his lips, now there was only rank upon rank of tall pine trees, of firs and spruces and an occasional young redwood. And their silence was deafening.

His companions surrounded him, but when he called out to them, they did not reply. They did not even seem to see him.

Colin sat up in a pine tree, munching away on pine needles and wearing the look of the exorbitantly stoned. Clothahump squatted beneath him, sheltered by two large roots. He was turning a flat rock over and over in his hands, a rapturous expression on his face. A sound made him turn to his left.

Dormas was rolling around in the dirt, her expression almost as beatific as Colin’s. She had dumped her pack, and their supplies lay scattered all over the ground. Sorbl lay close by, facedown in a muddy puddle of rainwater. He was blowing bubbles and making swimming motions with his wings. He was further gone than any of them. And Mudge— Jon-Tom searched the clearing anxiously. Where was Mudge?

A noise that was part growl and part moan came from off to his right. Holding his forehead (he had one hell of a headache), Jon-Tom stumbled off in that direction, trying to follow the sounds to their source.

They led him to a fallen log that the otter was embracing tightly, his face wreathed in a smile of languorous ecstasy. As soon as he saw what the otter was doing, Jon-Tom swallowed hard and turned away. During their travels Mudge had done absurd things, impractical things, even moderately disgusting things, but this—he tried to shut out the image that lingered in his mind as he considered what to do next.

Clothahump was the only one who looked half like himself. Jon-Tom walked up to the wizard and put a hand on his arm. He shook it hard.

“Wake up, sir! I don’t know where you are now, but you aren’t where you’re at. Please, Clothahump, answer me.”