Demons of the Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  Marge opened her own door, looked out, saw the scene, and ran to them. Get him in on the big bed in my room!

  They did as instructed, but it was Poquah who vanished and then reappeared with what proved to be a small medical kit and tended to the wound. A nasty thing, the Imir commented. What sort of creature did this to you? A wolf? Some monster from the exhibitions?

  Joe shook his head wearily. No, it was a Pekingese, damn it.

  A what?

  He means a little hairy dog with a pug face and curled-up tail, Marge explained.

  Ah! A tansir dog. From the size and depth of the wound, I would have suspected a much larger dog.

  It was as big as it had to be, Joe grumbled. Damned thing nearly tore my leg off. I didn't even see it—I just stepped on its tail. It yelped, turned, and, the next thing I knew, it took a hunk out of my leg!

  Poquah frowned. Where did this happen?

  At the lecture on theriomorphism. I was trying to find out a few things and I'm afraid I dragged Joe into this, Tiana said apologetically.

  Umph! I think we were the only humans in the damned place, Joe added as a salve was applied. Centaurs, mermaids, satyrs, minotaurs, all sorts of creatures.

  But that is what theriomorphism is all about, Poquah noted. All of those you mentioned are half human, half beast, which means they are all theriomorphs.

  Well, how was I to know? And since when do those creatures keep fancy pets?

  They don't, the Imir replied, sounding wary. Not usually, in any case. Let me examine that wound again. He leaned down and let his curious almond-shaped red eyes focus for a moment, keeping very still. Hmmmm... Marge—will you look at this?

  She was startled to be the one he called, but she moved forward and bent down to see what the elf was talking about. At first it looked like a nice, large dog bite—they did have big mouths for such little dogs, she noted absently—but then she saw what Poquah was talking about.

  Very faintly and very subtly, the entire wound gave off a soft blackish glow, like a negative almost, but not quite, superimposed on a positive picture. It was so faint it was no wonder nobody had noticed it before, but it stood out clearly now. That's a spell of some kind, she said, puzzled.

  Poquah nodded absently. And in the black band.

  The pain had faded, but Joe started to feel a different sort of discomfort. What's that mean? How the hell can a dog bite be magic?

  I'm not sure, the Imir told him, but it most certainly is a black band spell, transmitted through the bite.

  He means, Marge explained, that the dog that bit you wasn't a dog.

  It sure looked like a dog, acted like a dog, and bit like a dog. And what's this black band business?

  Tiana sounded worried and tense. It is the color of the spell that tells its nature. Magic is a very colorful art, Joe, made up of a tremendous variety of colors. Which colors are combined, and in what fashion, determines its mathematics and thus what it does.

  Okay, I follow that. What's a black band spell, then?

  It was Marge who answered. It's a curse, Joe. And because it is only in the base color, it is transferable.

  Joe sank back on the bed. Now, let me get this straight. The dog had a curse, and because the dog bit me, I now have the curse, too. Is that about it?

  That's about it, Marge agreed.

  He considered it. And I suppose if I bit somebody, they'd get it, too?

  Most probably, Poquah said. I believe the Master should examine this, although he's fast asleep right now, and I'm not going to awaken him. The wound is still a wound, no matter what else, so we will bandage it, and then you should get some sleep yourself. Tomorrow at the dinner hour the Master would like to see all four of you in any case, so that is plenty of time to find out more of this. In the meantime, I will try to learn something about this dog.

  Sounds good to me, Joe told him. With the usual pleasantries, all but Tiana and Marge left him. He looked from one to the other. Well, if this isn't any trucker's sex fantasy, I don't know what is. Trouble is, it hurts too much in the leg to do anything about it.

  They both smiled, but neither could conceal her concern. He had to admit he didn't exactly like the idea of a curse, either—they were always pretty bad things, and in this crazy world—and particularly at this crazy convention—they could mean anything at all.

  Joe awoke feeling pretty good. There was still sunlight outside, but from its angle he could tell that the hour was pretty late and he'd slept a good, long time. He looked over and saw Tiana stretched out beside him, still sleeping. All scrunched up in a chair. Marge was out, too. He knew that Marge, at least, would be out until sundown and he quietly brought himself to a sitting position, then examined the bandages. It was odd—the damned thing had been so painful earlier it wasn't funny, yet now he could swear that there was no wound at all. Cautiously, he put his good foot on the floor, then the bandaged one, and stood up. There was no sensation, except the tightness of the bandage. Otherwise, his leg felt and moved just fine.

  He went down the hall to the John with no problems and then walked back. When he re-entered the room, Tiana turned and woke up. She saw him standing there and looked surprised. You all right?

  He nodded and grinned. No fangs or funny ears, either. The bandage is tight and it itches like hell underneath, but otherwise no problem. Want to go next door and get Durin to make us a pot of real coffee?

  She got up, yawned, and stretched, her hands actually touching the rather high ceiling as she did so. You go on over. I need to go next door and get myself a little cleaner and brush my hair.

  Okay. Marge'll wake up and join us at sundown. He went over to Tiana, nuzzled her, then kissed her. Good morning or afternoon or evening, whatever.

  She smiled. Conventions do that sort of thing.

  Being partners with a Kauri does it, too.

  She patted him on the rump and went to the door. See you in a few minutes, she said and left.

  He turned, scratched, sighed, then went out and down to the double doors and knocked.

  Poquah opened the door, looked at him, and said simply, You're early.

  He shrugged. No place else to go—unless there's business going on, in which case I can think of a way to pass the time down the hall.

  The entendre went unrecognized. No. In fact, the Master is not even here right now. He's in a Council meeting.

  Um. Then I can get Durin to make—oops! I already smell it brewing. He walked by the Imir into the room, and Durin's elfin face grinned at him from the kitchenette. Joe got a mug of coffee, then sat down comfortably on the couch.

  How is your wound? Poquah asked him, after checking on things on the bar.

  Good. In fact, the bandage is the only problem.

  The Imir pulled up a stool, stretched out Joe's leg, drew a sharp knife from its sheath on his belt, and slit the bandage cleanly. Then he removed the whole thing with a single, swift motion.

  Ouch!

  Just the dried blood. It cemented your leg to the bandage, so to speak. Durin—some hot water and a cloth, please.

  The chubby little elf was ready for him and brought the cloth over and handed it to the Imir, then scampered back to the kitchenette.

  Poquah carefully washed away the very ugly-looking caked blood, then frowned and rubbed some more.

  Hey! Joe exclaimed. Watch it! You're taking leg there!

  The Imir took no notice, but continued until the last of the blood was off. He motioned to the area of the wound with his head. Most interesting.

  Joe looked down and felt sudden amazement. Hey! There aren't even any teeth marks! That skin's as smooth and unmarked as glass!

  Poquah nodded. Indeed. That confirms it.

  Huh? Confirms what? Did I get bit or didn't I?

  Oh, yes, you were bitten, all right, just as you say. The blood alone proves that, does it not? No, it just confirms what I was able to find out from others around and at the meeting where it happened. I would like to get a second opinion, of c
ourse.

  Cut the weaseling! What is it?

  Well, last night was the last night of the full moon, which should have alerted me right away. Then, as you said, there is the question of what a dog was doing in a seminar. Now we have the total disappearance of the wound. Tentatively, I would say that you were bitten by some sort of were.

  Were? You mean as in werewolf?

  And a lot of other things. Weres come in all types, really. It certainly explains why a tansir dog should be sitting in at a seminar on theriomorphism, which means human into beast, does it not?

  Joe sat back, remembering all the werewolf movies he'd ever seen, and this didn't fit the image at all. You mean every time there's a full moon from now on, I'm going to change into a Pekingese7

  Possibly. Possibly not. Although the spell is totally concealed now, I am positive that it was strictly black band— most unique for any sort of werebeast. A werewolf or weredog would also have to have the codex for its particular creature, and this was not at all evident. My tentative diagnosis is that you have become the most rare of all theriomorphs, a true and pure were.

  Huh? A were what?

  A were, period. As there was no codex, it must be externally supplied.

  Plain speech, please. Short words, too, so I can understand what you're saying.

  The Imir got up, took the bandage over, and discarded it, then returned and took a seat opposite Joe. All right. You've been through this before, if I remember. The Circean turned you into a bull.

  Joe nodded, recalling the incident with a slight shiver.

  Well, were curses are generalized forms of that sort of thing. Volume Four Sixty-Four of the Rules, if I remember correctly, treats them in some detail but never actually comes to grips with them. Nobody really knows how such curses originate, and the Rules prohibit originating new were curses of a communicable nature. Think of them as diseases, perhaps—not only skin contact, but actual saliva or blood transfer is required.

  But you or Ruddygore can read this volume whatsis and give me the cure, right?

  Poquah shook his head sadly from side to side. No. Since their origin and exact nature are unknown, so is their cure. They can mostly be arrested through the regular injection of exotic herbs, different ones from different types, but this is unique to me.

  Get to the point.

  Well— At that moment the door opened and Ruddygore entered. At first he seemed preoccupied, but then he noticed Joe over on the couch.

  So! Feeling better, I hope. Now, what's this about a werewound? He walked over, bent down, and looked at the area on Joe's leg that was now distinguishable only by the marks left from the bandages. He nodded, then turned to Poquah. You've told him?

  No, he hasn't! Joe snapped. He's done everything but. Would you mind telling me what all this is about?

  Well, you stepped on a were's tail, it bit you, and you caught the disease. Of them all, I'd say you were the luckiest, Joe. It's incredibly rare.

  That's what Poquah keeps telling me, but nobody tells me what it is I've got a rare case of! You guys are worse than doctors!

  Ruddygore nodded. I managed to get hold of the woman who bit you. If it's any solace, she's very, very sorry about it, but she just reacted in pain. She's actually a very nice person, and you're the first person she's ever bitten.

  She's a bitch as far as I'm concerned, Joe growled.

  Well, she was last night, or she wouldn't have been able to bite you, but that's beside the point. Joe, you always said you wanted a little taste of magic, and now you have one. A rather unusual one, I admit, effective on only three nights a month on the average, but somewhat controllable. You see, Joe, you are now a were, but you're not a were anything. Just a were.

  Huh?

  To put it bluntly, for every night of the full moon you will turn into whatever you're closest to at moonrise. It might be a good idea to carry an almanac from now on.

  Joe sat bolt upright, a funny feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. Let me get this straight. Whatever I'm closest to?

  Ruddygore nodded. It's very unusual, but there's only the were curse, no codex attached; so when the curse is activated, it derives its form from whatever is closest.

  So this one who bit me—she was nearest a Pekingese at moonrise last night? And if she'd been nearest a cow, she'd have turned into a cow?

  Ruddygore nodded again. An exact duplicate, with everything in place. The curse works on a modified fairy pattern, so you won't turn into a tree or grass or anything like that; but if it's animal or fairy and that's closest, you're going to duplicate it from moonrise to sunrise—unless the moon's already out in the daytime, in which case it will be sunset to sunrise. If you remember your lunar calendar, you can usually control what it is, anyway. It's not a good idea to be riding a horse when it happens, for example. The change is pretty well instantaneous.

  Joe whistled, not quite believing what he was hearing. This woman who did it—how'd she get it?

  Oh, the fellow was a spider and she walked into the web. He felt so guilty about it afterward he courted and married her. That pretty well solved their problem, since most of the time they just turn into each other. They seem to think it's fun. At least it's appealingly kinky. Unfortunately, her husband fell ill yesterday and she had to go get some medication in town. She lost track of the time, there was this fellow with a dog nearby, and, well, you know the rest.

  Oh, great. This is all I needed. Hey—wait! Poquah says there are herbs and stuff to keep it off, right?

  For most types, yes. But pure weres are so rare, thanks to their conscious control, that nobody has ever done any research on them. I'll put a couple of good people on it right away, though, so we might get lucky. Unfortunately, I can't wait for the results of the research.

  Oh, no! Wait just a minute, here! You're not sending me out on some mission with this. I mean, it'll happen in—what?

  Twenty-seven days, for three nights. So? It might actually come in handy, if you can learn to control and use it. Look on the bright side, Joe. You've just increased your survival factors by a tremendous amount. There's no external sign on a pure were. Even a top sorcerer would have to know exactly what he was looking for to see it at all. But for all practical purposes, you're invulnerable.

  Joe brightened a bit. Oh, yeah. Silver bullets, right? And they don't have bullets here. Hmmm... Maybe this thing has possibilities, after all. And this invulnerability works all the time, even when I'm not, ah, you know?

  All the time. But don't feel totally cocky about it. A truly powerful sorcerer will spot it after a while, or deduce it the first time your invulnerability shows. You're still subject to certain spells from the fairy folk and other sources, too. Silver is the key, not just bullets. Silver of any kind can wound you;

  if it hits a vital spot, it can kill you. A silver sword or dagger— or the silver hilt of a weapon or walking stick used as a club— will be more dangerous than any blade you've known.

  Joe thought about it a moment. Well, the club might be a problem, but I don't remember seeing any silver swords around here. Silver would make an expensive and pretty lousy blade, except for show stuff.

  True. But total security lies in an enemy's not knowing until it is too late. With that the sorcerer stretched out his hand; there was an electrical like flash, and he held in his hand a broadsword of what appeared to be solid silver. Otherwise, a transmutator can do this. He lowered the sword, twirled it, and it became a wooden cane.

  Joe heard someone coming down the hall. Uh—listen. Okay, I'll go along with you, at least for now, but promise me you won't tell anyone else, huh? I want to break it to the others myself.

  Ruddygore nodded. That's all right with me, but—be cautious! Telling the wrong person might prove fatal; but if you tell no one, then you're going to have a tough time explaining it when it happens.

  I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I—

  There was a knock on the door. Poquah sprang to open it, and Tiana walked in
. Hello, she greeted Joe. How is it?

  All well, he told her.

  She frowned. All well so soon? And the curse?

  Some other time, he responded nervously. Let's relax for now. It's nothing I can't handle.

  As you say. She sounded uncertain and worried, though, and it didn't escape Joe that her mother had died from a curse, one that she feared she carried but did not know for certain.

  Marge joined them within another few minutes; last to arrive was Macore. Durin set an excellent table, and all ate, enjoying the truly magical touch of the elfin chef, except, of course, Marge. After Ruddygore's promptings, however, she found she could still enjoy good wines and the taste of fancy desserts, even though she didn't need them and couldn't fully metabolize them. Still, it made her feel a little more human and a part of the social group that a fine dinner formed. She was also inwardly very grateful to Poquah for calling her in for consultation on the wound. It was, she knew, because they were both of faerie and he had known instantly that she could see the fine magical pattern that most could not because of that fact, but that was a very important thing to her.

  Although fairy races usually didn't get along very well and were rife with jokes and rivalries, when it came down to practicality, it was we faerie in Poquah's mind. It meant a lot to her, although she was sure the Imir hadn't even realized he was doing her such a service. She was Kauri, yes, but she was more. She was a member of an entire family of living, thinking creatures. She was faerie.

  There was conversation at dinner, of course, but it was of a social nature and generally concerned with the convention. Joe told the sorcerer that he'd seen two of his matches against adepts. Nothing like that battle over the Valley of Decision, though.

  Oh, no, this was a lot of sound and fury and clever parries and thrusts, but little more, Ruddygore responded. None of the challengers were very taxing, and all of them have a long way to go to get any real command, if they ever do. In a sense, it's like giving two people a math problem to solve, only one of them has studied and practiced calculus for years, while the other is just learning algebra. That's all magic really is—topological mathematics combined with concentration and willpower. First you must have the talent to be able to understand and construct the complex patterns which we call spells, then the concentration to hold them at all cost against all distractions, and finally the force of will to impose those patterns on a person or object precisely as you wish. An adept can impose such things, usually from the Rules and other references, by memorizing a lot of standard stuff, but that's about it. A true magician can form what he or she needs without references, and tailor it to the specific requirements of the situation. The best can hold and create multiple original patterns. The more you can do at the same time, the stronger you are. One like Kaladon, for example, might be able to create and maintain as many as ten separate temporary and permanent spells at once.