Demons of the Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  Joe was certainly ahead of the game as he knocked on the suite's large door. Poquah answered, looked at the big man's face, and said sourly, I assume he's arrived?

  And how! Did he come all the way here with that outfit?

  No, actually he had me rent it a couple of days ago here in the city, and they picked him up on the edge of town. Cost a fortune, too, not to mention a lot of my time. Do you know how hard it is to find four men who not only can bear that kind of weight but also are about the same size?

  I can guess, Joe sympathized. Whoops! I think I hear them coming now!

  It was pretty unmistakable, hearing the clanging and clattering of the car arriving and then the bunch of them getting out of it. Joe chuckled. I hope they have a really heavy-duty set of springs on that gadget.

  Poquah went over, opened the double doors wide, then did a double check of the bar stock and of several large trays of pastries sitting on the kitchenette counter. Satisfied, he waited. Soon the batch of them walked in, led by the bellman. They stood there a moment while the sorcerer looked over the place. When he nodded, Poquah went over to the bellman. Arrange for the bags to be delivered as soon as possible, he instructed, and do not touch or disturb the seals on them if you value your life.

  The bellman, not easily intimidated, just stood there. Finally, out of the comer of his mouth, Ruddygore ordered, Tip him, you idiot!

  The Imir sighed, took a pouch from his belt, and gave the bellman three gold coins. Joe didn't know how much it was, but it certainly was less than the hotel man had expected, judging by his expression. More if the bags arrive quickly and in perfect condition, Poquah told him. Now—go!

  The bellman nodded glumly, turned, and left, and Poquah shut the doors behind him. At that moment they all relaxed, and Ruddygore broke into hearty laughter. The big man went over, grabbed a pastry, and plopped into one of the plush chairs, which groaned and sagged noticeably. God! he exclaimed. I've been wanting to make an entrance like that ever since I saw The Thief of Baghdad'.

  Joe was the only one who even slightly understood the comment, although he'd never seen the movie. Ruddygore, with his ability to go between the worlds, was equally at home in either one.

  So what's a D.O.G.? he asked with a smile.

  Ruddygore's eyebrows rose. Why, hello, Joe! A pleasant, successful, and uneventful trip, I trust?

  Not exactly, he responded, but that will wait.

  Yes, I do want to talk to you in a bit, after we're settled in and I find out what godawful stuff they have me doing at the convention. Poquah, did you get a program?

  They were late, as usual, the Imir replied. They only finished carving the plates the night before last. Naturally, they had lots of last-minute changes.

  The sorcerer sighed, I suppose we ought to give them the idea of the Gutenberg press, eh? I think movable type's time has come for Husaquahr. It's almost impossible to have anything accurate when it takes a team of scribes a month to carve out each page. He turned back to Joe. A D.O.G., if you must know, is a Doctor of Oddball Gimmickry. It's irritating at times, but a lot of titles, particularly in academia and the Society, have rather unfortunate initials. Try not to laugh at them when you hear them if you don't want to be turned into a toad.

  I'll remember, Joe assured the wizard.

  Ruddygore reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a cigar, lighting it by pointing his index finger at the tip. A tiny spark jumped, and he was puffing away. He sighed. It's been a wearing trip, I fear. With a week to go, I really should just take it easy today and get a decent night's sleep, but I probably won't. That was one of the reasons for the grand entrance down there, though. If I just walked through the door, I'd run into three dozen people, all of whom are either old friends not seen in a long time or people who have to talk to me or to whom I have to talk. I'd be hours just getting across the lobby.

  It was effective, Joe told him. You overawed everybody except the desk clerks.

  Ruddygore shrugged. Can't win 'em all. I assume Marge is sleeping during this pretty day?

  I guess, Joe answered. I don't know. We had private rooms last night.

  The sorcerer frowned and looked thoughtful for a moment. Finally, he sighed and got up. I think perhaps we'd better have our little talk now. Come on into my room. He looked questioningly at Poquah, who indicated which door, then grabbed several more of the gooier pastries, opened the side door to his bedroom, and walked in. Joe followed, deciding he might grab one of the pastries himself on the way.

  The master bedroom was truly huge, with a massive bed, a full parlor area, its own water closet, and a mini-bar. Ruddygore slipped off his coat and boots and tossed the hat on the bed. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back and stuck his head into the parlor. Poquah, when the bags come, prepare some of what's in the red canister, he instructed. Then have it brought in. He then slid the door closed, indicated a chair to Joe, and took one himself, sprawling comfortably. For a while he said nothing, just looked at the big man across from him. Then he sighed. I gather you do not approve of the new Marge.

  Joe shrugged. What can I say?

  Just be honest, that's all, particularly with me. Joe, before I started this operation, I consulted a series of oracles who are pretty good at seeing future trends. Trends only—I've yet to find a reliable perfect predictor, and I'm not sure I'd like the implications of one if I found him or her. The trend was entirely the Dark Baron's way, and it was highly unpleasant in the extreme. The threat went far beyond Husaquahr to the entire world and from it even to yours. It's an end-around to millennia of darkness, even if it fails beyond this world. At the very least, millions of lives were at stake, their children's lives, and their children's children's, not to mention my own ancient hide. Most of what I organized to fight them—and it's a vast and complex system—is better for you not to know, but in all those predictors I kept hitting a blind spot, an irregularity that skewed anything that might be in my favor and reinforced the Baron. It took no great deduction to see that he was being backed by forces from Hell itself, directly, on stage, in violation of every agreement between Heaven and Hell ever made, but it was so clever, so subtle, I couldn't get the proof I needed.

  Joe nodded. I met that demon, remember.

  Indeed you did and you escaped when none should have. That's what I saw as well. If the Baron had a joker, a real demon prince, to help him, then I needed a wild card of my own. That wild card, Joe, is you.

  So you've said. But I'm not magic, and I'm no match for demons.

  Oh, but you are, Joe, the sorcerer told him. You are indeed. And so is Marge. I couldn't stand up to a demon prince, Joe—but you not only could, you did. He had no power over you, and, if you had been able to strike at him, you might have actually wounded him. That's because any demon prince coming through to Husaquahr is attuned to Husaquahr. Things, people, even souls are very subtly different between worlds, Joe, and they must be on the right frequency, so to speak. The demons of your world could harm you, but not one here. That's what I was looking for when I went shopping, as it were, over Earth way.

  But magic works on me here, Joe pointed out. I'm as vulnerable as anybody else.

  No, Joe. Your body is vulnerable, since flesh is flesh. But if the flesh were all that mattered, then the Baron would have no need of a demon prince, would he? No, Joe—the demon can't even perceive flesh, believe it or not. He sees that permanent part of you, your soul, your true self. It's on that level that demons get you, twist you, corrupt you, often in spite of yourself. Not you, though, Joe—or Marge, either, for that matter. That doesn't mean you can't be corrupted, but you can't be reached on that level against your conscious will here, and that's a vital but very fine point. When that demon saw you both, it reached out to command your souls—and it couldn't. Thus, you were able to break free, use the Lamp, and escape. And, because of that, the Baron was deprived of the Lamp and its powers, and we were able to win the battle. All because you were there, Joe, as predicted—you and not o
ne of this world.

  Yeah—but why me?

  You fitted the bill. You were a big man with a strong ego, an independent with no real ties, and the probabilities said you would be killed in an accident that very night we met. I set up the conditions to divert you to me, and you were diverted. Somehow, inadvertently, those conditions also brought Marge first to you and then to me as well. I didn't expect her, but I couldn't complain, either. But I was prepared for you, not for her, and that caused some problems. Unlike you, her ego, her self-esteem, and her self-image were extremely weak, and never so weak as at the point when we crossed over. Forces that are too complex to explain operated, and while you, with a little help from me, were able to shrug them off, they took hold of her. This is a world of magic, and magical forces are strongest on the nonintellectual level, on the emotional line, as you can see in your own world, in the example of religious fervor. To Marge, back then, the intellect had failed. Her college availed her nothing, her knowledge and skills went unneeded or unappreciated, and the only thing she'd done, once she'd sunk very low, that worked was selling herself, turning herself into an object, a thing for the momentary gratification of strangers. This was the pattern she brought with her as she crossed the Sea of Dreams.

  Joe nodded, following him on at least the intellectual level, although finding it impossible to see how somebody so bright and capable could have sunk so low. He said as much to Ruddygore. I sure had everything thrown at me and I just kept fighting.

  That's true, but you already had a profession, a skill, and the tools to get by. You were also older, more experienced, and had traveled all over the country. She'd never been out of Texas.

  Yeah, maybe, but I never got to college, either. In fact, the army was the only reason I got my high school equivalency.

  The sorcerer sighed. Joe, you're like a lot of smart but uneducated people. You always had that little glimmer of inferiority when you met somebody with all that education. I can tell you right now that most people with degrees, even doctorates, are dumber and less qualified to make their way than people like you. Consider the fact that I have been educated up the rear end, and a lot of it was interesting but very little was useful. One of my degrees is in music, for example, although I'm only adequate at the piano. It gives me a better appreciation of opera, for example, and opens up new entertainment pleasures to me, but it's just that—pleasures. It's not worth a damn in the real world, not even as entertainment, since I lack the inborn talents that would require. My talents lay in a different direction, and the way I learned how to use those and master the intimate secrets of magic was not by any university experience but by a lot of hard, degrading, and backbreaking toil as an apprentice—read that as a virtual slave— to somebody who'd learned it the same way.

  Ruddygore could see that Joe wasn't quite accepting this, and knew the man never really would, but it would have to do.

  All right, the sorcerer continued, let's just say she blew it both because of her own wrong choices and because of things beyond her control. The fact was, the forces that played on her played on those parts of her that were the most primal, the most basic. They reinforced those elements, while everything else about her was weakened. As a result, despite my efforts to keep her human, she entered here a changeling, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  That was interesting, not only because it implied that Ruddygore's powers had real, clearly defined limits but also because Marge and everybody else believed it was hardly natural. Everybody thinks you caused it. Even the witch she likes so much.

  Ruddygore chuckled. She would. No, I had no idea at the time—since I neither knew nor expected Marge, and knew nothing about her. When I realized it, after acclimating you to this world, I tried to block it by sending her to Huspeth and her witch order, which are, as you well know, celibate.

  Yeah, I know, Joe said glumly.

  Well, that only slowed the changes a bit, and the time she spent among the djinn broke the last restrictions. That's why I decided to get her to Mohr Jerahl to complete the process as quickly as possible. Otherwise she might have gone quite a long time, perhaps years, with a Kauri nature and a basically human body bound by that celibacy oath. She would have either gone nuts or had her newly established self-esteem crushed. By completing the process, it's all right for her to be that way, you see. It's the Kauri nature. And so her self-esteem is intact, her confidence actually strengthened, and she's whole and healthy. She belongs. Now do you understand what happened?

  I guess so, Joe responded hesitantly. I think I follow you, anyway. You're saying that, if this hadn't happened, she'd have gone nuts or killed herself, and I can follow that, but it's really not my problem. She belongs, sure, but I don't. I dunno, maybe it was mean and rotten of me. I guess it was. Son of misery loves company, I guess. As long as she was, well, somebody else who didn't fit... Oh, I like Macore, and Grogha, and Hounna, and even Poquah—although I'd never tell him that. But they've never seen a football game, don't know Pittsburgh from Peoria, and think Clint Eastwood's a magic spell for curing warts.

  The sorcerer nodded. Joe, you may find this hard to believe, but I do understand. Yet I think you're missing the point yourself here. Let me ask you something, and I want you to be absolutely honest with me.

  Shoot.

  Are you in love with Marge? I mean, really in love with her?

  Joe thought a moment, searching his feelings, and he had to admit that he'd never really thought about it before. Was he? The fact was, he hardly knew her. He'd picked her up, at least partly with the idea of maybe making it with her, and he'd wound up feeling sorry for her. That was—how long? A couple of hours' drive between Ozona and Fort Stockton, and she'd been asleep half of that. Then they'd gotten waylaid by Ruddygore, slept most of the way across, gone through his magic stuff, then separated. He'd spent many long weeks in training; she'd spent them off with Huspeth learning to be witchy or whatever. In fact, the only real time he'd had to get to know her, and this was the new her, so to speak, was on the expedition to Stormhold, and off and on after the battle. They'd had maybe two or three serious talks during that whole time. Once back, she'd taken off again for the Glen Dinig, returning only for what they'd just gone through.

  He didn't really know her at all, and she didn't really know him, either. Yet he'd treated her as wife, girl friend, consort, whatever, in his own mind at least. But—love?

  No, not love. At least I don't think so. I'm all mixed up about that, he answered truthfully. I guess it was more that I needed her, particularly here, and she needed me.

  Ruddygore nodded. And now you still feel a need for her, but she no longer needs you. That's what it's all about, Joe. It gripes your independent trucker's soul that you need somebody and it gripes you even more that they don't need you. But it's not Marge you're really mad at, Joe—it's yourself.

  Joe sighed. I guess you're right as usual, Ruddygore.

  Not guess, Joe, and you know it. I am right, and you'd better face that fact, if only for your own sake. Don't let your ego, your self-esteem, get low, Joe, or you'll sink into that same pit she did way back when. I need you, Joe. This world needs you—and you have a real opportunity here to carve out anything you want. Anything, Joe! Pirate or king, merchant or adventurer—you have the potential for all of it. The only one who can stop you is you.

  There was a knock at the door, and the sorcerer called out for whomever it was to come in. It proved to be Durin with a pot of something on a silver tray and two mugs. Joe sniffed it, and his face showed total amazement. That's coffee'.

  Ruddygore grinned. Yep. Good stuff, too. A private blend. I had to duck over to New York a couple of weeks ago; while there, I picked it up just for you. I bought a twenty-pound sack and I brought five pounds here.

  It was the perfect gesture and it was well timed. Although it was possible to grow coffee in this world—in fact, it was supposedly grown on other continents—it was not native to Husaquahr, and there was nothing Joe had missed m
ore. He savored the mug as if it were filled with some fine, expensive wine, and his morale was lifted accordingly. Ruddygore was able to resume the talk after a bit with the atmosphere much relaxed.

  Joe, we're having this talk because I have some important work for you to do, the big man told him.

  Joe nodded. I figured as much.

  Let's wrap up our discussion of the lay of the land, though, first. You ever wonder why the fairy folk exist?

  No. I haven't given it much thought. Kind of like why everything else exists. Just the way things turned out, I suppose.

  Nope. When things were set up, evolution was supposed to be the perfecting mechanism, such as it was, but some hedges were included. Intelligently directed redevelopment, it's called in my trade. To ensure that vital pollination was carried out, there were more than a hundred and sixty different races of pixies, each ensuring that certain types of plants grew and dominated in certain areas. The land was protected, particularly in the key areas, by the kobolds, who control vital volcanic areas and can make certain that soil is renewed, especially in areas where there is heavy erosion. I could go through the catalog of thousands of fairy types, but you get the idea. I admit that sometimes it's tough to figure out the vital service of a particular race; in a few cases, like the Imir, they are the guardians and protectors of other races performing essential services, but they all have their niches. That's their primary function—one thing each that guarantees that things will develop in certain ways.

  Seems to me, bees pollinate things pretty good, Joe commented.