The Warlock in Spite of Himself

Rod forced a shout out of his terror. "Fess! Sixty cycles!"

His head clamored with the raucous buzzing, and the fear evaporated. His light flicked again, found Loguire. Rod sprang, struck him in the midriff. The breath went out of the old lord in a whoof ! and he doubled over Rod's shoulder—the good one, fortunately.

Rod turned and ran, stumbling, hoping he was headed in the right direction.

Behind him, Durer was shrieking, "Clap your hands to your ears, fools! Fools! Fools!"

Rod blundered about in the dark, Loguire's weight dragging heavier on his shoulder. He couldn't find the door! And now he heard staccato steps in short, quick bursts—Durer, trying to find Rod by blind chance. And now that he had his earplugs in, Durer would once again be a formidable enemy. Also, Rod couldn't fight with one shoulder shot and the other under Loguire.

Cold air fanned his cheek, and a dim white form brushed past him. "Follow!" boomed Horatio Loguire.

Rod followed.

He ran after Horatio, his good arm out like a broken-field runner. It didn't help; his wounded shoulder slammed against the stone of the doorway and spun him around with a wrench of pain. He gasped, almost dropping Loguire, and stumbled back against the wall of the narrow passage.

He leaned against the wall, breathing horsely.

"Quickly, Man!" boomed Horatio. "The slab! You must close it!"

Rod nodded, gasping, and groped for the lever, hoping Loguire would stay balanced on his shoulder.

His hand found rusty metal. He hauled upward; the door grated shut.

He stood hunched over, just breathing.

After a small eternity, Loguire began to struggle. Rod called up the energy to lower him to the floor. Then, still panting, he looked up at Horatio.

"Many thanks," he wheezed, "for this timely rescue."

Horatio waved away the thanks, coming dangerously close to a smile. "Why, Man, how could you fulfill your oath to me dead?"

"Oh, I dunno." Rod sagged against the wall. "You seem to manage all right. I'd love to know how you pulled the fuse on those torches."

"Pulled… the fuse?" Horatio frowned.

"You know, the trick with the lights."

The ghost's frown deepened. "Was that not your doing?"

Rod stared. Then he raised a hand, palm out. "Now, wait a minute. Wait a minute. Now. You thought I did it… and I thought you did it."

"Aye."

"But, you didn't do it?"

"Nay."

"And I didn't do it."

"It would seem not."

"Then"—Rod gulped—"who… ?"

"Who is this?" Loguire rumbled at Rod's elbow.

A beam of light stabbed through the peephole.

Horatio gave one moan of fear, and winked out.

Rod put his eye to the peephole. The torches were lit again. Durer was on the dais, stabbing the air about him with his dagger and screaming, "Where? Where?"

Rod lifted his head away from the peephole and smiled up at Loguire thinly. "I don't think we ought to stay to find out, my lord. Shall we go?"

He turned to go; but Loguire's fingers dug into his shoulder. Rod gasped. "Please, milord—would you mind—the other shoulder, please…"

"What man was that?" Loguire growled.

"Man?" Rod looked about him. "What man?"

"Why, he who stood before us in white!"

"Oh." Rod scanned the old man's face. Apparently Loguire was still in shock, not quite yet ready to face reality, such as it was. "Uh, just a relative, milord."

"Your relative? Here?"

"No, milord. Yours." He turned away, groping down the passage.

After a moment, Loguire followed.

The light from the peephole fell off after a few yards. Rod groped his way, cursing; it would be pitch dark when they turned the corner to go down the narrow steps.

He turned the corner, fumbling out his dagger—and saw a ball of fox-fire before him. He stared, an eerie tingling nesting at the base of his neck; then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim glow, he made out a face and a body (it was impossible to see them as a unit, since each was worthy of independent study), one arm extended, with the fox-fire sitting on her palm. Her face was tense with worry.

"Gwendylon," he stated.

Her face flooded with relief and joy, but only for a moment; then the light of mischief was in her eyes.

She bobbed in a mock curtsy. "My lord."

"My Aunt Nanny!" he growled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her eyes widened in offended innocence. "I followed you, lord."

"No, no, no!" Rod squeezed his eyes shut. "That's not in the script. You were supposed to hate me now. You were supposed to quit following me."

"Never, lord." Her voice was very low.

He looked up to see if she was joking. No luck. Tom's line about farm girls ran through his mind.

"What," he said, nodding at the ball of fox-fire, "have you got there?"

"This?" She glanced at the ball of light. "Only a little spell my mother taught me. 'Twill light us through this maze, lord."

"Light," Rod agreed. "And may I ask how you killed the torches in the great hall?"

She started to answer, then frowned. " 'Tis not quickly said, lord. Have we time?"

Rod studied her face with his lips pursed. "But it was you who did it?"

"Aye, lord."

"Just another little spell that…"

"… my mother taught me, yes." She nodded brightly.

"Oka-a-a-y!" He shrugged. "Why not? Let's go, babe."

He started groping his way down the narrow stairs, wincing as his shoulder brushed the wall.

"My lord!" Gwendylon gasped, her hand darting out to touch his shoulder. "You're hurt!"

He half-turned toward her, lurching against the wall, still groping for the stone; but the full, firm mound that his hand found was anything but granite.

He jerked his hand away. She stared at him a moment, surprised; then her lids drooped, she smiled lazily, and caught up his hand, pulling it toward her. "Milord, you need not—"

"Yegad!" He pulled his hand away, shrinking back against the wall. She swayed toward him, lips parting.

"My dear lady… !"

"I ha' ne'er claimed that title," she murmured, her voice warm, rich, and husky. Her body pressed softly against him.

"Woman, please!" Rod made a valiant attempt to push his way into the stone. "I can't imagine a less aesthetic atmosphere."

"Neither time nor place matter to me, lord, when you are near," she breathed into his ear, and nibbled.

And I thought I had some lines , Rod told himself. "Look," he said, wriggling, "we don't have time, we don't have room…" He gasped and shivered as she caught just exactly the right spot. "Look, baby, just get us out of here, and I'm yours to command!"

She caught her breath and stood just far enough back to look up at him. "Truly, lord?"

"Well,uh…" Rod backpedaled furiously. "For twenty-four hours, anyway."

"That will do," she murmured smugly, with a similar quality in her smile.

He glowered down at her for a moment; then, "Take those canary feathers out of your mouth," he growled, "and get us out here!"

"Aye, lord!" She turned in a swirl of skirts and ran lightly down the mossy steps.

He watched her run for a moment, a gleam coming into his eye.

He caught up to her in three bounds and swung her around to face him.

She looked up in surprise, then turned on the sultry look again. "My lord, we must not delay…"

"This won't take long," he answered, arid pulled her hard against him. Her lips were moist and warm, and parted…

She gave a happy little sigh and pushed him away. "Wek! And what was that for?"

"Promissory note." He grinned.

She giggled, then spun away, tugging him down the hall. "We must hurry!"

He freed his arm and watched her run.

A deep, warm chuckle sounded behind him.

Rod threw Loguire a look of disgust. "Dirty old man," he growled, and ran after Gwen.