Roger Zelazny - Bring Me the Head of Prince Charming

Azzie, driving the two broomsticks at full throttle, saw the flying carpet ahead of him, outlined fantastically against the full moon, and he closed in, his eyes slitted against the airstream. His rage seemed to power the broomsticks even faster. He gained rapidly on the flying carpet, and then, coming up behind and above it, nosed the broomsticks over into a power dive.

The first thing Achmed Ali knew about this was when he heard a great sound that surpassed even the roar of the slipstream and, turning, saw a fox-faced demon astride two blazing broom­sticks, diving down on him from above. Achmed threw the carpet into a sideslip, hanging on to Scarlet with one hand as the carpet fell through the sky. Scarlet shrieked because they seemed certain to crash. But Achmed pulled out only a few feet above the shining sea. He turned the carpet to bring its spell-powered thunderbolts into play. Not for the first time did he wish he had the new super thunderbolts, but the Grand Turk, profligate in matters concerning his seraglio, was stingy when it came to updating the armament of his flying carpets.

Before Achmed Ali could bring his standard-issue weapons to bear, Azzie was firing at him with jagged lightning bolts, the short, explosive, painful kind. Achmed dodged and swerved, but the bolts of lightning came closer and closer, singeing the edges of the carpet and spoiling its meager airflow character­istics. Achmed found that no matter how hard he tugged, the web and woof lines would no longer control the craft. The carpet tilted precipitously and Achmed had to grab an edge with both hands. Released from his grip, Princess Scarlet slid to the edge of the carpet, now tilted almost to the perpendicular, over the side, and into the air.

She fell, and so great was her terror that not even a scream could come out of her paralyzed lips. The sea came up fast, and there was a steep little island in the middle of it rising at her with incredible rapidity.

Death seemed certain. But at the last possible moment, as the needle-pointed rock pinnacles were reaching for her with hard granite fingers, Azzie swooped beneath her and scooped her up, draping her over the broomsticks like a sack of flour on a terrestrial pack animal. Scarlet could feel the g-forces build as Azzie barrel-rolled around the mountain and tried to break out of the dive that seemed sure to take them into the white-mouthed sea. And then he had pulled them out of it, and they were soaring into the air again, safe!

"Oh, Uncle Azzie," Scarlet said, "I'm so glad to see you! I was so frightened!"

"You were very naughty," Azzie said. "If it weren't so late in the game, I'd let you go to the Grand Turk's seraglio and make myself a new Princess Scarlet. My young Prince deserves a faithful heart!"

Scarlet said, "I'll never run away again, I promise. I'll nap quietly in my chamber and await his coming."

"At least a moral point about obedience has been made from all this," Azzie said, and turned the broomsticks in the direction of the enchanted castle.

After recovering his credit card and putting Princess Scarlet back where she belonged, Azzie continued on to Paris, long one of his favorite cities. He had decided to stay away from Augsburg for a few days in order to give Prince Charming a chance to moon over the miniature of Prin­cess Scarlet which he had been forbidden to touch, and so fall in love with her according to the rules of psychology.

What better way to pass some time than in riotous living in one of the satanic clubs that Paris was famous for even then?

The one he chose, the Heliogabulus Club, was in a cave under Paris. After going down an endless flight of stone stairs, he came out in a grotto furnished with skulls and skeletons. Torches flamed in their iron wall-holders, casting gloomy shad­ows here and there. The tables were sarcophagi brought in by some ingenious entrepreneur from Egypt, where they have a never-ending supply of them. Coffins of the more ordinary sort served as chairs. Drinks were served by menials dressed in priests' cassocks and nuns' habits. These wretches also served as complaisant bodies for the orgies that climaxed most eve­nings' entertainments. Sex and death: it was one of Europe's first theme bars.

"What'll you have?" a heavyset man in priest's garb asked Azzie.

"Give me an expensive imported beer," Azzie told him. "And do you have anything to eat?"

"Nachos," the servitor said.

"What are they?"

"Something which François the Expeditious brought back from the New World."

So Azzie had the nachos, which turned out to be oat chips covered in a smelly Camembert with tomato sauce over them. He washed them down with a piggard of dark ale imported from England and started feeling better at once.

As Azzie was eating he had the feeling that someone was watching him. He began looking around the room. There was a table in a far corner which was dark, unlighted even by a candle. He could perceive movement in the gloom. The sense of being watched seemed to emanate from there.

Azzie decided to ignore it at first. He ordered up another plate of nachos and switched to wine. After a while he began to grow tipsy. Then, as the evening rollicked on, Azzie became drunk. Not just pig drunk, but demon drunk. That was very drunk indeed. He began to sing a little song that demons from Canaan sing when they are having a good time. The lines went:

Oh, I am feeling no pain

And I haven't any name

For the fine old fun

That often doth come

When I'm drunk and feeling no pain.

The song had several other verses, but he was having difficulty remembering them, or, indeed, anything else. It was very late. He had the feeling he'd been in this place a long time. Looking around, he saw that the other patrons had fled. What had they put into his wine? He was dizzy now; far more than tipsy, he was staggering drunk. There was an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he wasn't sure he could stand up. Finally, with great deliberation, he brought himself to his feet. "Who's doing this to me?" he said, but the words came out all garbled.

"Hello there, Azzie," a voice said behind him.

Azzie had the feeling he'd heard this voice before. He tried to turn around. But just then something heavy crashed into the back of his head, near the left ear, always a delicate spot in demons. Normally he could throw off the effects of a blow like that. You don't put a demon down easily. But this time, com­bined with the strong spirits and with whatever somebody may have mixed into the drink, he had no resistance. Damnation! He had gotten himself into a spot. And that was all he thought at the moment, because he passed out so quickly he wasn't aware of doing so until much later.

Azzie awoke some undetermined time later. He came back to consciousness groggily and not too happily. He had a hangover which was monumental in its size and extent. He tried to roll over to ease the aching in his head and found that he could only move slightly. His arms seemed to be tied. Also his legs. And he himself was strapped to a very large chair.

He opened his eyes two or three times, experimentally, then opened them definitively and looked around. He was in a sort of underground grotto. He could see the walls of the cave, shining with phosphorescence from the mica in the rocks.

"Hello!" he called. "Is anyone there?"

"Oh, yes, I'm here all right," a voice said.

Azzie strained and after a while perceived a figure in the gloom. It was a small figure, and it had a beard. He recognized the features, such features as were visible under all the facial hair.

"Rognir!" For it was indeed the dwarf whom he had gotten to give him the felixite and his treasure.

"Greetings, Azzie," Rognir said. His voice was bright with malice. "Not feeling too good?"