"Wilt thou have it?" the ragpicker pressed. "Wilt thou make thine heart invulnerable?"
"Aye," Magnus said at last, "I will."
The ragpicker's face broke into a grin. He clasped his hands, then parted them-and a translucent golden box rose from his cupped palms, with a large keyhole in its lid. Magnus stared at it, entranced, as it floated over to him, then suddenly plunged toward his chest. He cried out, and flinched away-but the box followed him, fading to a mere outline as it sank into his chest and disappeared. Magnus howled, clutching at his chest, expecting a stabbing pain-but there was only a mild sensation, as of something slightly shifting, then...
"Nothing," he whispered, looking up at the ragpicker with haunted eyes. "I feel no differently than ever before."
"Thou shalt know the benefit anon."
Suddenly, Magnus realized he might have done something irrevocable. "Yet what if I wish to be rid of it? Thou hast put mine heart in a box of golden; how shall I open it again?"
"The key is within thee," the ragpicker assured him. "Where?"
The ragpicker grinned. "Ah, now. That is for thee to discover. Myself, even I know not."
"Fiend!" Magnus shouted.
The ragpicker disappeared on the instant, leaving only mocking laughter behind.
The but was wattle-and-daub, like any other peasant hut, and like all the others around it; the anarchists did not wish to call attention to themselves. But under the wattle and daub was armor plate, and within the largest but was a middleaged man working at a wide desk under the light of a very modem lamp.
"Agent Finister is here to report," a voice said out of thin air.
The man looked up in surprise, then smiled with eagerness. "Show her in."
The inner door opened, and a slender woman entered the room. There was a strange light to her eyes; she was slender, with an almost elfin grace.
"Sit down, sit down!" The man stood and went to pour two glasses from a dusty bottle. "Have some wine!" He handed her the goblet.
"Thank you, chief." She sat in the plain wooden chair in front of the desk, accepting the glass with a demure smile. "Well! What news?" The chief bustled around to sit behind the desk. "I know the young warlock has left the planet-and that's good, very good, so far as it goes! But did you give him something to take with him?"
"I think so," Finister said. "Of course, we can't be certain-but if the psychologists are right, I've given him a thorough distaste for sex in any form, which should last for the rest of his life."
"Barring psychotherapy, of course." The chief nodded vigorously. "Yes. But nothing is a sure bet, eh? Excellently done, Home Agent Finister! If we can't beat this second generation of warlocks, at least we can make sure there won't be a third. Splendid, splendid! Especially the eldest-he has the most powerful combination of psi genes of any human being yet bom. If he reproduces . . ."
"But he won't," she said, with a very smug smile. "Amazing! How did you do it?"
"I had the idea from an old witch he encountered, who lived in a tower and specialized in seducing young men to gain their vitality. It gave him a very unpleasant sexual experience, even if it wasn't complete, so I decided to continue the lesson. I disguised myself, of course, first as a nobleman's wife..."
"I wondered why you needed all those extra agents."
"I had to mock up a functioning court, in an abandoned castle. Agent Mortrain did a wonderful job as my aging, jealous husband, by the way. I might have been in trouble if Gallowglass had insisted on accompanying me right into my father's castle, but by the time we arrived there, he was only too eager to be done with me."
"And you gave him a negative sexual experience."
"Caught in the preliminaries to adultery? Very negative, I would say."
"Why just the preliminaries?" The chief frowned.
"I was afraid he would come down with an attack of conscience at the last minute. But it hit him hard; I eavesdropped on his thoughts, and found him communicating with his alter ego from Tir Chlis."
"The alternate universe we abducted his family to, when he was a child? I still can't figure out how they got away from that one." The Central Agent reflected that these home agents, Gramarye espers adopted as foundlings and reared to be loyal to SPITE, were very useful.
"The same-and the opportunity was too good to miss. I disguised myself as a faerie queen, blindsided him, and hypnotized him while his defenses were down. Then I gave him a very detailed dream. Not total-his little brother disrupted it at the last minute, with a couple of disguised images-but enough to shake him badly."
The Central Agent frowned. "Did the little brother know it was a dream?"
"I didn't probe his mind-he's only thirteen, but he would have known it in a second; Gregory is probably the most talented telepath among them. So I don't know, but I'm pretty sure he thought it was Tir Chlis, too. Then I showed up as an enchanted maiden"-she swept her own form with a gesture-"and hit him with every ounce of projected sex appeal I have."
The Central Agent sat very still, then slowly smiled. "I'm surprised he's still alive."
"He wouldn't be, if some meddling hussy in the lake country hadn't interfered. I had him in a total depression, gave him a projected dream that convinced him he was doomed. He wouldn't have eaten a crumb, and would have pined away. But his parents jolted him into motion, and that confounded robot-horse found the Green Witch for him. We really should so something permanent about that healer, chief."
The Central Agent made a note. "We'll see to it. So she undid all your work?"
"Not all. She couldn't have. Oh, she brought him out of the depression well enough, and has him wanting to live again-but he's not sure why, and will have a massive distrust of women for the rest of his life. I don't think any psychiatrist could root that out of his mind. And he'll certainly have no interest in sex, except possibly as an intellectual pursuit."
"And intellectual pursuits don't cause children!" The Central Agent chuckled and rubbed his hands together. "Well done, Finister, well done! We must move you up to bigger things now, eh?"
"I would say that we should." Agent Finister rose and glided around behind the desk to touch the chief's cheek. "Very intimate things."
The chief's eyes kindled, and he smiled slowly. "Just what are you promoting, Agent Finister?"
"Myself." She touched his temple, and he suddenly lost all expression. With languid grace, she set down her goblet and touched his other temple. Slowly, his eyes filled with awe and deep, deep desire. "I would like to be Central Agent some day," she murmured.
The chief nodded and started writing. She didn't take her hands away until he was done, then stood behind him with a secretive smile.
"Agent Worely," the chief said into his invisible intercom, hunger hollowing his voice.
"Yes, chief?"
"Come in, please."
The door opened, and a young man came in with a frown. "What is it, chief?"
"You're my witness," the chief said. "If I die in the line of duty, Agent Finister will become chief in my place."
The younger man stared, looking from one to another. Finister gave him only a small, gloating smile. He reddened and turned away. "As you say, chief." The door closed behind him.
"Now," Finister purred, reaching down.
Almost mechanically, the chief rose and followed her, his eyes burning. She led him through an inner door, into his own suite.
The next morning, they held his funeral. It was very sumptuous, by Gramarye standards-Central Agent Finister made sure of that. It wouldn't do to undermine respect for the office.