DG5 - Horrors of the Dancing Gods

by Chalker, Jack L

  "Absolutely. Would you like to do it now?"

  Oh, hell! "Yeah, I think so."

  "You understand that a curse requires a demon to modify it. Come on back and I'll treat the spell, and then we'll summon someone appropriate. Um, leave your shoes and cloth outside. Nothing but you inside, please; we wouldn't want anything to contaminate the work."

  The proprietor took him in the back, where there was a small, dark room lit with candles and with a small altar in the center. "No pentagram?" Irving asked him.

  "In Yuggoth? Whatever for? I mean, demons can just as easily walk in off the street and do. It's only when you're dealing with the really powerful ones, the ones of a kind even their fellow demons can't control, that you need any sort of protection along those lines, and usually in that case a mere pentagram is inadequate." He fumbled under the small altar, and then there was a hissing sound under it. The little man struck something, and a fire caught under the bowl sitting atop the altar, which he adjusted with some sort of curved rod control. It seemed for all the world that he had a gas flame there, and maybe he did.

  The proprietor handed Irving a small ceremonial awl.

  "I'll need at least two drops of blood," he said, as if that were totally routine.

  "I'm not sure I like giving anything of myself to one like you." the boy responded. "No offense, but there's a lot of control in this."

  "Oh, relax! I'm bonded! Besides, it will all be consumed. And anyway, the authorities have everybody's hair and nails and skin and whatever. It's routine for coming here."

  Irving didn't like that idea one bit. Still, he said, "Okay, okay. Let me jab ..." He made a small puncture, and the man grabbed his finger and shook it over the bowl. A drop or two splashed down and sizzled. He then added a few small potion-type ingredients and stirred with a whisk, as if he were making an omelet. Soon there was a very small burned ball there, round and surprisingly shiny, which the proprietor picked up with tongs.

  "Looks like it's good," the magician told him. "You are welcome to take this with water or wine if you like. I have some over here of either."

  Irving looked at it. "You mean swallow it like a pill?"

  "Exactly so. It will decouple the spell. It is quite cool now, but I would prefer if only you touched it. I want no contamination."

  Irving took it, examined it, shook his head, then took the offered water and swallowed it as best he could. It was a little tough getting it down, but with enough water he made it.

  He handed the cup back to the proprietor and waited. "I don't feel any different," he said.

  "Of course not. And you won't, not right away. It will dissolve and circulate through your body. You'll start feeling it soon enough. In fact, if you've never had these feelings unrestricted before, I would take it easy tonight. Now, for the other. Stand over on that symbol on the floor and relax."

  Irving looked down and saw an area where some kind of hex symbol had been drawn on the floor, looking like a stylized bird's head of the sort you'd see in Egyptian hieroglyphics or something. He went over and stood on it and almost jumped off. The spot was uncannily cold on his feet.

  "That's natural," the dealer told him. "Now, just stand there and do not move. I will have to go out before this can happen. It's just between the two of you, but he'll know exactly what the problem is and how to fix it."

  "He?"

  "Mysteroth, a demon of the tribe of Prince Leviathan. I told you not to worry. This is a demon who could just as easily do whatever he willed to you if he met you on a sunny street. This is strictly business. He couldn't care less about you or what you want this for; he's simply doing me a service and will take it out in trade."

  Before Irving could say another word, the little man departed, leaving him alone to wonder if he was indeed doing the right thing or something incredibly stupid.

  He was just about to call it off—after all, he already had cold feet—when he felt the whole atmosphere of the room change. He knew that feeling; he'd felt it in Ruddygore's study in Terindell. No matter what, he couldn't walk out now. The demon was there.

  Mysteroth did not, however, believe in dramatic entrances. Instead, the curtain over the door was pushed back and he walked in rather casually, kind of like a dentist walking into a room to examine your teeth.

  He was about six feet tall, thin, and very birdlike, just as his symbol suggested. In fact, he had bird's eyes and a short but curved ibislike bill. His skin, however, showing through his dark robes, was a mottled purple and green and somewhat reptilian.

  "Hmmm," the demon said thoughtfully, examining him. "Been kind of limp up to now, eh? You'll enjoy this. Kind of an impressive little curse you had stuck on you, too, but rather juvenile. You're old enough now to really appreciate the power. Okay, I'm going to put you into a kind of stasis. Don't panic; it's no big deal. It'll feel a little weird, maybe tickle. As with all curses, it will hurt for a short bit when I pull it away, but it shouldn't be unbearable and won't be for very long—sort of like pulling a sticky bandage off body hair. Then I'm going to rewire it and put it back. Ready?"

  Irving wasn't at all sure about this now, but he could only nod.

  Suddenly he felt himself drop away from the floor, and he felt as if he were flying in some dense, liquid atmosphere. He could breathe and he was aware, but he couldn't move, couldn't talk, and was entirely helpless, suspended there in, well, whatever.

  It didn't tickle. It itched. Itched like all get-out, and he couldn't scratch it. He knew better than to trust a demon. But if it itched like hell, then what would the curse removal feel like, really? The anticipation was almost worse than the real thing, which was a very short but severe stabbing pain. Still, it hurt enough that he would have cried out if he could have done so, and he felt tears come to his eyes as the aftereffects of the pain washed over him.

  There was sound now, the crackle of strong electricity, and the vision of swirling multicolored bubbles all around, then joining, congealing in the crackling liquidity, then spiraling, creating threads that began to wrap themselves around him. At least it didn't hurt or itch; in fact, this tickled.

  Suddenly it was over. He was out of it, and aside from a little dizziness and an aftermemory of the sensations his body had undergone, he felt okay, even normal.

  The demon was still there.

  "Now, let me tell you," Mysteroth said, "to anyone but an expert looking at and for some changes, this looks to be the same curse. Nobody will know what you had done here today. The effects are simple, and I know a lot of men who would sell their souls for this—and you didn't have to do that. The default now is off, not on. You must consciously turn it on. It will take a little practice, and you should concentrate if you have specific women in mind, but it will work. In fact, if you concentrate it all on one individual, you may find that she loses any will of her own and will do whatever you command. It will work on any female designed to have sex with a human male, so that means many faerie as well."

  "You mean somebody could be like a slave?"

  "Absolutely. No limits. They would be love slaves, absolutely doing what you commanded even if it meant their own destruction or the destruction of others. You could even do it, then command as your last command that they not remember it at all. Perfectly safe to you and useful for fending off jealous husbands and those who can't keep secrets. It should be a fun toy."

  "And the downside?"

  "For you? Only if they catch you at it! That is not my problem. Very well, that is all. Put on your clothing when you leave and pay at the front door."

  And with that the demon turned and walked out.

  Irving felt too excited at the possibilities here to worry much about it. He still would look the same to Poquah, and now he had some control over that nonsense. He wasn't sure if he'd like turning people into love slaves, but then again, who knew?

  He wasn't so naive about sorcery, though, that he didn't realize that the curse, no matter how it looked, hadn't merely been modified but removed
and that another far stronger and darker one that looked pretty much like it had been left in its place. No matter what the monetary cost here, there was always some other cost, too, when you got that kind of power from a demon. As Mysteroth had said, some men had probably sold their souls for this kind of power.

  He looked around for the demon or at least a sign of where the creature had gone but saw none. The little man was waiting for him near the front of the store, though, and examined him carefully.

  "Very good," he said approvingly. "I believe this is going to be the sort of transaction which all merchants hope and dream they will do, where everyone profits and everyone is satisfied. That begins with my own charges. Would you like a receipt?"

  "Urn, no, I don't think so," he told the sorcery salesman. "That's all I need—for Poquah to find that." He thanked the little man and walked out into the sunlight once more.

  The proprietor watched him stand there and then walk up the street, and he smiled. Yes, go ahead. Use the power. It will become almost a drug the more you do. And every time you do, you will become more and more a part of our side.

  If the Kauri and the boy could be so easily converted, the Imir would pose no problem, not outnumbered like that.

  At least the demon Mysteroth, in his disguise as the proprietor of the shop, felt certain of it.

  He chuckled in fact at what was awaiting the poor kid, who would find that the thing worked exactly as promised and that the only one it wouldn't work on was the only one the kid really wanted. It was really one of those perfectly delicious little spells, at that.

  Walking up the street, Irving spotted a woman coming the other way. She was fairly ordinary-looking and he normally would never have given her a second glance, but now he decided to test out his high-priced power.

  He stared at her and willed that she feel the attraction.

  It was as if a thunderbolt had struck her. From virtually not noticing him at all except as an obstacle to avoid while walking, she suddenly gasped, smiled the dreamiest of smiles, and could not take her eyes off him.

  He felt the power and the control, and it was really strange—he felt it there. He felt it in his loins, which were giving off strange sensations and also undergoing involuntary stiffening as he watched.

  He was suddenly a little scared and said to her, "Forget it. You did not see me at any time, nor will you ever think of or remember me," and sent that with an additional bolt of mental force.

  She seemed to almost shrivel, shook her head in sudden puzzlement, and started to walk on some more, a very concerned, confused look on her face.

  His own new sensations weren't so easily controlled, and it worried him. Not that he wanted to do anything with that strange woman, but it also struck him with sudden force that he really didn't know how to do it, at least not all the rules and procedures and things a woman would expect. He wanted to be able to do it right, to do it perfectly, if he could.

  He needed a teacher.

  A COMPLICATION IN THE RULES

  Native guides can be neither fully hired, nor fully trusted.

  —Rules. XXIII, p. 104(d)

  IT HAD BEEN A STRANGE AND DIFFICULT NIGHT FOR Irving. Dreams of a kind he'd never really known before came vividly to his head and remained with him when he awoke. It wasn't merely that they were sexual fantasies, which he at least had understood before on a more academic level; it was the nature of them. They were ugly—not him at all: domination fantasies, extreme power trips, scenarios detailing vignettes where he treated women in ways he'd never treat them in real life or even want to, or so he thought.

  And they were turning him on physically, a process that wasn't nearly as comfortable or pleasurable as he'd imagined but was making him feel like a tense and tightly coiled spring demanding release as if from some great pain or agony.

  He was getting all at once what almost everybody else got in stages through adolescence; the brain chemicals and bodily sensations that by his age would normally be under some kind of control were all rushing in upon him in a single night. He awoke drenched with sweat, stiff as a board, and scared to death.

  The worst part was, there was a little bit of him thinking—always thinking but in this case following the flow of sensations in his body—reminding him, as it were, that unlike most men, he actually did possess the power to accomplish in real life what his dreams demanded and his conscience recoiled at doing. How the hell could he turn this off now that it was on? How could he possibly with stand the temptation to use his strange powers to fulfill those fantasies even though he'd hate himself for doing it?

  Who could he turn to for help? Not Poquah, certainly. If the Imir knew that he'd squandered so much on this, there was no limit on the spells and curses that might come down upon him. But who else was there? Marge? Hell, she looked a lot like the kind of girl his dreams could easily accommodate, and she was built for it. She was a creature of sex; how could she possibly help him control or overcome it?

  Larae—no, that would be even worse. It was a good thing for now that they were off later this very morning, or else they might well wind up alone again, and then who knew what would happen? And yet those people were the only ones he knew and could fully trust in all this bizarre land. He'd been naive enough to get himself into this mess, but he wasn't so naive that he believed for a moment that anyone in this city would help him, even the magic shop proprietor, without the payment of even larger sums than he'd paid to get into this fix. That was how bargains with demons worked, didn't they?

  Somehow he'd have to deal with it. Somehow he'd have to learn control, at least to a degree. Otherwise he would turn into a monster, a rapist, or something equally suitable to Yuggoth but not to anywhere else or to his soul.

  He got up, although it was still before dawn, and walked out onto the small balcony, forgetting he was stark naked. It wouldn't matter, anyway; there was nobody below or directly across at that point in the morning, and he just needed some air, some cool sea breeze, to comfort him and let him get a grip. It wasn't a lot of good, though. This was the tropics, and the weather was strictly hot, hotter, and hottest.

  More comfortable in the predawn heat was Marge, who flew now over the city, heading toward the hotel, intent on getting some sleep before she'd have to be mused for the move to the new ship. She wouldn't be in any great shape during daylight, but she could manage by force of will the couple of hours needed for the move if she turned in a bit early.

  Marge, too, was disturbed and not sure exactly why. She'd tried to contact the Earth Mother to draw strength and wisdom while in this place, and it hadn't worked, at least not in the way it always had. Oh, she still felt the link, and there was comfort in that, but it seemed distant, far away, and direct mental communication appeared to be impossible, as if she were too distant to make out any of the words. It had been a long time since she'd been cut off from such contact, and it made her uncomfortable, all the more so because she felt stronger and more powerful than she ever had before. In fact, she felt tremendous.

  She banked around toward the hotel window and then suddenly realized that Irving was standing naked on the little balcony outside the window. She wondered why he was up but also noted that the kid was really a sexy hunk, far more than his father had ever been. Funny, she hadn't really noticed that or thought about it before.

  It didn't take much to see what his problem was, either. In faerie sight, one quite literally burned when one had this kind of lust, and this kid was worse than any sixteen-year-old boy she'd ever seen.

  Wait a minute! He shouldn't burn like that! He's got a spell ...

  And it was clearly still there, too. Either the kid had burst right through it, so strong were his impulses and drives, or he'd been playing a little magic trick himself. She wondered why Poquah hadn't noticed it but then realized that he wouldn't see it in Irving—those of the nymph family would be the ones with that sort of sight.

  She hesitated to disturb the kid, but there were still a number of potenti
al threats able to fly around these parts, and Irving was frankly standing between her and security. She decided to come in via the direct approach to give him time to either duck discreetly back in or at least be prepared for company.

  Irving did start when he saw Marge coming in, but not because she was out there. Rather, she didn't look, well, right for some reason. All those shimmering reds and stuff seemed dulled out, and it was almost as if she were somebody or something different Still, he didn't fear what he saw and allowed the flying creature to approach until he was able to see quite clearly that it was Marge.

  Or, rather, opaquely. Frankly, there seemed to be two Marges there, one the old one and the other a larger, differently colored variation that seemed somehow darker.

  Marge settled down next to him and said, "You got it bad, kid. I can tell. You can't hold that in for very long, not out in a place like this. Not unless you're Superman, anyway."