And the Devil Will Drag You Under

by Jack L. Chalker

  Dona started laughing, laughing deep and hard, as she reached over to the bowl and glowing ember.

  The screams of. the demon and the almost unholy laughter would scare the hell out of any searchers below rather than attract them. And even if they were brave enough to investigate, hell, they'd probably love to watch the bastard squirm.

  The sun was just coming up over the canyon wall, and Mac felt its warmth start to bathe the cold canyon walls and glisten off the slow, lazy river below.

  He sighed and gripped the jewel tightly in his right hand.

  "Take me to Asmodeus Mogart!" he commanded. The bright sun, the warmth, and the canyon vanished.

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  THE BAR APPEARED MUCH AS HE'D LEFT IT. THE PEOPLE had changed position slightly; the bartender was starting to pour a beer that would take a long, long time to reach the glass, but that was about it.

  Mac Walters turned but didn't leave the chalk pentagram on the floor. He spotted Mogart at a bar stool nursing a large and barely diluted Scotch.

  "Hey! Mogart! I got your damned jewel! he called

  Mogart jumped, slightly startled, then turned slowly lifting his head to see the source of the commotion.

  "Wa-Waltersh!" he called, suddenly remembering who the man was.

  Mac Walters held up the jewel and tossed it to Mogart. Drunk as the demon obviously was, he nonetheless caught it and looked at it wonderingly. "Be damned," Mogart muttered. "That makes three!"

  Walters' eyebrows went up. "Three? Then the girl got one?" He should have been elated, but it kind of hurt his male ego to have been beaten to the punch. Maybe she had a faster time line, he consoled himself.

  Mogart stood up and struggled uncertainly over to the pentagram.

  "You shertainly took yer time," he accused.

  Walters felt his sense of victory deflate and looked at the clock. They'd left at-what? Six-fifteen or so. It was now almost nine o'clock.

  The big man sighed. "Well, let's get me to the next one as fast as we can, huh?"

  Mogart stepped into the pentagram. "Up, up, and away!" he shouted.

  Both vanished from the bar that had not seen them in the first place. To those inside, less than a tenth of a second had passed from Walters' appearance to his disappearance. Time moved very, very slowly in the bar at Mogart's time rate, the fastest he could exist at and still be able to get the booze and translate it to his time speed.

  But time still moved.

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  Makiva

  1

  "AN EASY ONE THIS TIME, ALTHOUGH DEADLY DANGEROUS," Asmodeus Mogart told Jill McCulloch as they materialized around a city street scene-or, to be more correct, the scene materialized around them. It was chilly and damp, not at all what she'd been used to. She shivered.

  "Let's get on with this," she urged him. "I'm freez­ing to death!"

  He grinned and motioned her to follow him.

  It was another primitive world-non-industrial, any­way-but obviously a lot more culturally advanced and cosmopolitan than the world of the Holy Spirit. Still, the men in robes and cloaks and hoods and the women in similar garb reminded her of her previous experiences. "No gods from the sky punishing sinners around here, are there?" she asked hopefully.

  Mogart chuckled. "Oh, no. None of that. Gods and devils and spirits and spells galore, but no all-knowing, all-seeing being or system that I know of. You can lie and cheat and steal-even kill-to your heart's content here, subject only to the same thing we are used to: don't get caught."

  She passed on responding to his cynical view of crime and instead pressed him for more concrete in-formation. "Why was this world set up, and what're the details?"

  Mogart stopped in the middle of a busy street, allowing pedestrians and occasional horses and oxen-pulled carts to go through him. She was almost as blase as he by this point and didn't let it bother her.

  "Makiva is one of about a hundred or so planes set up with differing rules of magic," he told her. "Most of the worlds below the two-thousand mark are basically nontechnological, those above it increasingly more so. Most, like this one, were established to prove this or that social or economic theory or point. To be per­fectly honest, I can't remember what the point was here, but here it is all the same. Expect a lot of real elemental spirits-air spirits, earth spirits, fire spirits, and the like. Spells, curses, witches, warlocks, wizards, and sorcerers, too. If you're told somebody has the evil eye, they probably do. And if you disturb a hex sign you'll get hexed." He paused and looked around, sur­veying the busy scene, then continued.

  "Since ignorance of magic by the common people is magic's greatest strength-along with belief in magic, of course-most people don't know any more about it than you do. Just take every little piece of super­stitious behavior and belief you see and hear literally, and you have it. Big-time practitioners of magic train for years to do it right. They better, or they're dead!"

  Mogart seemed to get some amusement from that. "It's all very mathematical, very logical, and very pre­cise-but don't worry about it. Come."

  They walked up the street, continuing to ignore and be ignored by the crowds of the city's streets and mar­ketplaces. Finally they reached the harbor-small but deep and picturesque, filled with exotic-looking sailing ships of all shapes and sizes. Low mountains ringed the harbor, and the city's houses and streets went right up the sides. Mogart stopped by the stone sea wall and the road down to the harbor and pointed up to the highest peak on the other side.

  "Look up there," he instructed. She followed his gaze and saw a massive castle of black rock sitting almost on top of the peak; for perhaps fifty meters below it there was a sheer cliff before the land started to taper, and even then it was some distance before there were roads and houses. "That is Castle Zondar," he told her. "It is the seat of government for the city and surrounding lands, and also the treasury building. Few people live there, though, since it's not very comforta­ble and is guarded by all sorts of spells. The doors and gates, for example, are so well protected that no one not there on proper business may enter. They just can't get through, even if the door is opened for them."

  She gulped. "You mean my man is in there?"

  He nodded. "Yes, indeed. Asothoth is his name, but that hardly matters. He is there, kept there, because of his unique anatomy. The locals consider him a demon. He's no threat, though. Long ago, to ease his boring exile, he took to powerful drugs as I seized upon alcohol. They supply him with enough to keep him in a permanent stupor. After a couple of hundred years of this they've come to believe that terrible things will happen if they should not keep him drugged, and he is a hopeless addict, anyway."

  She nodded. "Then what makes you think he still has the jewel?"

  Mogart shrugged. "I don't know if he has it or not. But we are drawn to the things like bees to nectar. I feel its magnetism even from here, far away and out of time sync. Indeed, it is only this force that keeps me from just walking in and grabbing it myself. It is keyed to Asothoth, therefore I could not touch it without his permission, unless it were given to me far from him by a third party. A safeguard, you understand."

  Jill McCulloch understood. "I'm the third party, then."

  The demon nodded. "It is easier to scout this place because of his disability, however. I'm considered sort of a god of drinking here, and so I know the place well. Follow me."

  They walked a short way from the harbor and en­tered an inn whose bar and cafe seemed to be doing a fair business. It wasn't to the eating and drinking part of the establishment that they went, though, but up the stairs and down a long, dark hall past numbered rooms. It was a fairly large inn, probably serving seamen and tourists-if there were such things here-equally. Finally they reached a door near the rear, Number 16, and Mogart did the usual act of walking right through the door. Jill was prepared this time and followed.

  It was a small room, a single. There was a small nightstand with an oil lamp and a pan half filled with water, a small flowered
rug, a shuttered window, and a low, narrow bed that rested on a hardwood frame. The mattress, at least, seemed to be thick and filled with feathers-no straw this trip.

  On the bed a woman lay asleep. She was young, lithe, with a fine athletic figure. Her legs were long and well developed; she might have been a dancer or a gymnast. Her hair was cut short, making her face look like that of a young teenage boy, although she was clearly in her early twenties. The fact that her skin had a slightly weathered look and that her hands and feet bore tough calluses indicated that she was not just a demure young woman in town on a holiday-that and the fact that she was in this inn, in a room such as this, alone, and sound asleep at midday.

  "This is Yoni," Mogart told Jill. "She's been useful to me once or twice, although the time rate here is such that people come and go too quickly to form lasting attachments. You get a little over four days here to the hour back home, so you have some lee-way."

  Jill nodded. "She is an athlete?"

  "You might say that," Mogart replied. "She is a thief. A damned good one. If she could bring me the jewel I'd hire her, but it's not possible. Only someone from another plane may hold a jewel for long without it shorting and killing them. It has to be that way-otherwise somebody clever could lift one, and then where would the University be? And, of course, with you I know you'll bring the jewel to me, not try it yourself. So into Yoni you go, all your old skills com­ing into play to go steal the jewel."

  She hesitated. "Wait a minute, Mogart. First of all, if the gates are hexed closed, how do I get in? Second, where in that Gothic monstrosity is the jewel? And, finally; why did you say this one was easy but dan­gerous?"

  Asmodeus Mogart laughed dryly. "All right, all right. First, the jewel just has to be somewhere in the black tower that faces the sea and doubles as a lighthouse. More specific I cannot be. It's easy because you won't have to worry about Asothoth, and danger­ous because the tower and castle are guarded by both human and demonic forces. This inn's a thieves' hang-out after dark. You're an outsider-a newcomer-so they won't expect you to know much of anything. But you have the Thieves' Guild mark there-see on her left thumb? It's a magical sign, so nobody but other Guild members can see it. Look at it and remember it-so you'll know who's who yourself."

  She leaned over and looked. On the woman's thumb was an unmistakable but intricate star pattern, geo­metric and elaborate. She wouldn't have to remember it, though, since it would be there for her to see-she and no one else but a fellow thief. Good enough.

  "I'd suggest pumping for information about the cas­tle," Mogart advised. "It's a tempting target because of its great treasury, its gold and precious gems."

  Jill turned and looked him squarely in the eye. "If that's so, why aren't they all burgling it?"

  Mogart shrugged. "A few have succeeded-those capable of scaling the walls and cliff. Then you have to get past the human and supernatural guardians and raps. I fear you will have to kill on this trip. It's just too dangerous. Most thieves dream of doing it but don't have the guts."

  "No guide?" she asked him.

  He shook his head. "Recruit your own. Get your information, then act. Get help if you think you need it, or go it alone. But be prepared to show your bravery and agility, even to your fellow thieves. They respect only strength, skill, and a good blade. Now, touch her and let me get a drink."

  Jill turned back to the sleeping woman, reached out and touched her shoulder.

  There was blackness.

  2

  She awoke, feeling pretty good, a little after sunset. Although the shutters had kept out most of the light, enough had come in to illuminate the room slightly. But now it was almost pitch-black, and she sat up on the side of the bed and tried to remember where everything was in the little room.

  Feeling her way cautiously, she located the nightstand and the lamp and water basin. Feeling around-and almost knocking the basin over-she felt what seemed to be several long, thin wooden matches. She struck one against the wooden wall and it flared immediately to life. She touched it to the wick, and soon the room glowed and took form. The amount of light the lamp threw off was surprisingly good.

  After washing her face with the stale water to wake up completely, she looked around for clothes, which she found over a chair. Clearly these people didn't take baths often, and Yoni traveled light. The outfit smelled. A small leather purse hanging from a black belt showed that it was bulging with gold coins, though. Simple system. When you needed a new outfit, you just stole enough to buy it and tossed the other one away.

  The clothes were tight-fitting and reminded her of ballet or gymnastics uniforms-a black cloth pullover shirt with long sleeves, black pants of the same ma­terial, and high slip-on black boots. In addition to the coins, the purse, which was designed to hang from the belt, contained a rolled-up pair of black gloves, a mir­ror and comb, and some boot-black. She guessed that that last item was used as much for darkening faces as for polishing boots.

  Also on the belt, hanging down from the buckle it-self, was a sheath containing a small and nasty-looking sharp-pointed dagger.

  After donning the outfit she removed the dagger and evaluated its balance, heft-all the things she thought she might have to do with it. It felt very good and natural in her hand, almost as if it had a will of its own. She practiced drawing it a few times and sur­prised herself with the speed at which she had it out and ready.

  She'd inherited the beggar girl's gift for getting money in that first body; now, hopefully, she'd in­herited Yoni's skill with dagger and perhaps sword. She reminded herself that the owners of these bodies were still there, somewhere, in the back of her mind. Yoni's reflexes and sense of self-preservation would be essential in a pinch.

  She checked herself out and liked what she saw. Now, this woman was close to her in size, condition, and athletic ability-and was younger. She felt almost normal. She walked to the door, opened it, blew out the light, and moved down the hall and descended the stairs. The bar and cafe were becoming crowded. A peak period was obviously coming up. She could tell even from this distance that Mogart had underrated this place as a thieves' hangout-it seemed as if everyone, even the bartender and serving maids, had a black mark on his thumb.

  If anything, this was the Thieves' Guild Union Hall. They came in all shapes and sizes. Men outnumbered women about three to one, but there still seemed a fair share of female customers with black marks, daggers or swords, and business on their faces. They were also from different lands. Some odd tongues floated in the atmosphere thick with smoke and the odors of heavy eating and drinking, and even odder accents were discernible in the conversations she could understand.

  Most of the people of the city had been short to medium and dark. In here she saw individuals who could have been Scandinavian, or Irish and Italian, English and Slay.

  She spied a small table that had just been vacated, headed across the room toward it quickly, then sat down and surveyed the scene as a serving woman cleared away the remains and wiped the table. Knives were there in abundance, and some spoons of an odd depth and squarish shape; but forks were not a part of the culture, that was clear.

  The sandwich, though, seemed to have been invented here in a way. Several people were munching on meat thickly sliced between halves of large hard rolls.

  "A roast beef sandwich and an ale," she told the waitress, and that was that except to wait, look, listen, and reflect that this was one hell of an improvement over the enforced piety of Zolkar. Basic, even somewhat primitive, this world might be-but it was a liv­ing, breathing primitivism, such as might have existed in ancient Greece or Rome.

  She let the threads of conversations float to her. Most were sheer nonsense, but they conveyed the life and vitality of this place, and that, for now, was enough.

  "... Ningauble and Sheela! Ningauble and Sheela!" a huge Nordic-looking man was complaining to his partner, a small, dark man dressed in gray cloak and hood. "By all the black gods, aren't we ever going to be left alone . . .
?"

  "... well, we got on the mathematics of magic, and, suddenly, there I was, in the middle of Spenser's Faerie Queene. So I-what? Who's Spenser? Well, I-never mind, just drop it ..."

  A huge Germanic type was singing a little ditty fox some friends.

  Three brave hearts and three brave lions ..."

  "Oh, knock it off," a tall, blond-haired man snapped to the singer.

  The big man laughed. "By Crom, Holger, you got no sense of humor when it comes to you!" General laughter.

  " . . I like not the look of this place," a tall, strik­ingly beautiful woman told her male companion. "It is a thieves' den, I think."

  "Judge not, my lady," her handsome and bearded companion reproved. "Remember that Christos Himself was nailed between two of them."

  There was more, none of it clear and all of it, somehow, vital and alive. These people had seen a lot and experienced enough excitement for a dozen lifetimes. Their energy swirled and congealed in the smoke and odor of the room; there was a spark, a sizzling presence here because of them.

  The ale and roast beef came, and the latter proved excellent despite an unordered addition of fried green peppers and onions and some sort of hot sauce. The mixture tasted wonderful and fresh, so much a con­trast to the plastic food of her own world. She felt as if she belonged, could live here happily the rest of her life.

  And that was a trap as sinister as any demon, she realized, for she dared not live here. She must get the jewel from that dark tower out there and return to Mogart as quickly as possible, or she would abandon her world.

  A man entered, dressed in dark green from head to foot and with soft boots of the same color. He wore a short-sword on a belt and had on a small green hat with a feather in it. He reminded her of a short Robin Hood.

  He surveyed the scene, apparently looking for someone he knew or at least an empty seat near someone he'd feel comfortable with. His eyes fell on her and on the conspicuously empty chair across from her, and then he started across She crowded cafe in her direc­tion. She watched him, more curious than alarmed. Still, she shifted her sandwich to her left hand and let the right drop to her lap, near the dagger.