THE ALCHEMIST AND THE WITCH

PART I

by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright © 1991

 

Anno Domini 1682

 

The wind howled around the log cottage, straining at the eaves and rattling the shutters and the door.  It made the pine trees that were gathered around the cottage moan and sway.  It pushed at the chinking between the logs, then swirled up to test the shingles of the roof.  Finally, it swept panting down the chimney.

Inside the cottage, Amer heard it and turned to close the flue.  The wind struck against the metal plates and stopped in surprise, then began to rattle and beat at them.  Final­ly it gave up and turned back up the chimney, shrieking with anger.

Amer looked up as he heard it.  He sighed, shook his head, and clucked his tongue, thinking that the wind would never learn.  He finished the seam of the brass tube he was working on and laid down his torch.

"Master," said Willow, "wha'cha makin'?"

She was a globe of light in a large glass jar.  If you looked closely, you could see, within the globe, a diminutive, very dainty, humanoid form, but only in rough outline.

"A blowpipe, Willow."  Amer looked the tube over care­fully.  He was a good-looking man, but overly solemn for one in his early thirties.

"Wha'cha gonna blow through it?"

"Air."  Amer puffed through the pipe, checking to see that there were no leaks.  Outside, the wind heard him and swept against the cracks and crevices of the cottage with a blast of redoubled fury at a being who dared mimic it.  But Amer paid it no heed.

"Well, of course you're gonna blow air through it," Willow said, disgusted.  "What else is there to blow?  What I want to know is, 'Why?' "

"To make glassware."  Amer went over to the hearth for a look at the kettle of liquid glass that was bubbling thickly over the flames.  He found the fireplace filled with smoke from the glowing coals and opened the flue to let it out.

With a joyful shriek, the wind bounded down the chim­ney again.  A second later, it came rumbling back out, coughing and spluttering with the smoke.

"Oh, I like glass!" the ball of light sang.

"It is attractive, isn't it?"  Amer closed the flue and dipped the pipe into the glass.  He lifted out a lump of the amorphous mass and began to blow gently into the pipe, swinging it in slow, cautious circles.  Gradually the glass took the form of a globe.

"It's magic!" Willow breathed.

"No, just practice."  Amer shook the pipe, and the globe slipped to the side.  Then, with a wooden forceps, he drew it away, so that the narrowing tube of glass connected globe and pipe.  He broke the tube and placed the finished object on a pile of sand on the floor, to cool.

"It's pretty," Willow said doubtfully, "but what is it?"

"An alembic," Amer said.  "It's for boiling solutions and channeling their fumes where I want them to go."  He dipped the pipe into the glass again, and soon, test tubes, flasks, beakers, and all the rest of the paraphernalia so vital to the alchemist had joined the retort on the sand pile.

"Oh, they're lovely!" the ball of light enthused.  "But why are you making so many?"

"Because I have to replace all my apparatus," Amer explained.  "The goodfolk of Salem town made that nec­essary."

The citizens of Salem had, with great civic zeal, destroyed all Amer's glassware in the process of razing his house.  Due to the unselfish dedication of the goodfolk of the town, Amer had lost everything—laboratory, wardrobe, notebooks, and dwelling—which ten years of work and wonder had won from the New England wilderness.  Barely escaping with his life, he had found his way at once to this hidden spot deep within the mountain forest, and in defiance of the rain and wind which had until then been undisputed masters of the forest, built a small house of logs and reproduced as well as possible his lost notebooks.

There was more to do, of course.  There was always more to do.

Taking up a knife and a stick of wood, Amer went to the armchair by the fireplace, sat down, and began to whittle.

'Now wha'cha makin'?"

"A model of a human skeleton, Willow."  Amer made a careful scrape along the tiny wooden bone with his carv­ing knife, held back the piece to evaluate it, compared it with the drawings in Galen's text on anatomy beside him, and nodded, satisfied.  He put it down and took up the next roughly cut blocky bone and began to whittle its details.

"Wha'cha makin' that for?"

"To better understand human anatomy, my dear."

"Why in firedamp do you want to understand that?"

Amer smiled.  "So I can write a book about it."

A miniature skull began to grow out of the wood under his knife.  On the table at his elbow lay a diminutive rib cage, a pelvis, and an assortment of other bones.  There was also a large stack of drawings and pages, all written in the alchemist's hand.  Amer was preparing his own text on anatomy.

"Oh," said the ball of light, "I'm writin' a book, too.  I'm gonna call it Bizarre Behavior of the Bipedal Beast"

"Indeed!"  Amer looked up from his work.  "And where are you finding your information?"

"From watching you.  You're about as bizarre as they come.  Let's see ... 'makes little skeletons…' "

Amer smiled, wondering what his little captive was using for pen and ink—or paper, for that matter.  He, of course, had never heard of electricity, let alone the concept of rearranging electrical charges to store her words.  "You're not exactly a conformist yourself.  Will-o'-the-wisps aren't supposed to write books, you know."

"Must be the company I keep."

"Touché."  Amer smiled.  "I am a trifle eccentric, I sup­pose."

"No 'suppose' about it.  You do a lot of things people aren't supposed to do."

"Do I really!"

"Uh-huh."  The ball of light bobbed.  "Like, for one thing, they're not supposed to go messing around with smelly ol' potions and things.  They're also not supposed to catch will-o'-the-wisps and keep 'em in bottles!"

"Beakers," Amer corrected automatically.  "You wouldn't want me to be lonely, would you?"

"Yeah," the will-o'-the-wisp said pensively.  "That's another thing people aren't supposed to do."

"What?  Be lonely?"

"Uh-huh," said Willow.  "They're supposed to live in towns, or maybe farmhouses, with other people—but not high up on mountainsides, all alone."

"Well, yes," Amer conceded.  "I must admit that's true.  But the people of Salem didn't want me there, Willow."

"Aw, I'll bet they did.  You just think they didn't."

"No," Amer said, frowning, "I'm afraid they made their opinion quite clear.  They burned my house and notebooks, and broke my instruments.  I barely escaped with my life."

"No," Willow said, shocked.

"Why, yes," said Amer mildly.

"But why. Master?"

"Because," said Amer, "Samona told them I was a war­lock."  He frowned.  "Actually, I don't think they'd have taken action on her unsupported word—she's never been terribly well-liked, except by the young men, and then in the worst possible way.  She must have had some help, some others telling the goodfolk that I had made a pact with Satan."

"Master!" Willow gasped.  "You didn't, did you?"

"Of course not, Willow.  I'm an alchemist, not a war­lock."

The will-o'-the-wisp sounded puzzled.  "What's the dif­ference?"

"A warlock gains magical powers by selling his soul to the Devil," Amer explained.  "An alchemist gains magical results by studying the phenomena of nature and mind."

"By how?"  The will-o'-the-wisp was totally at a loss.

"By constructing logical generalizations encompassing ever more natural and supernatural phenomena."

"If you say so."  But the will-o'-the-wisp sounded doubt­ful.  "You sure you're safe here, though?"

"Oh, yes," Amer murmured.  "Quite safe."

For Amer had done more than merely rebuild.  He had set an elaborate network of traps and warning devices around his cottage in a wide circle, for it was highly possible that the good colonists would not rest until they had hunted him down and burned him at the stake.

"It is possible," he told Willow, "that the Salem folk may still be pursuing me.  I'm quite certain that Samona, at least, will not rest until she has settled with me."

"But who is this Samona?  And why'd she say you're a whosiwhatsis if you're not?"

"Samona," said Amer, "is a very beautiful young witch who lives in Salem—only they don't know she's a witch.  And she told them I was a warlock because she hates me."

"Hates you?" Willow demanded, incredulous.

"Hates me," Amer confirmed.  Not that he had ever done anything to Samona that should cause her to hate him—indeed, he was supremely indifferent to any being that walked on two feet, and especially so to those who wore skirts.  Samona despised him for this; but then, she held the whole colony in contempt for similar reasons.

And this Amer could never understand, for though Samona loathed the Puritans for their reserve, she was her­self extremely reticent, so much so that more than a few of the stern young men still bore the scars of her fingernails for their boyhood audacity in paying her a courtly compliment.

"Why does she hate you, Master?"

Amer made a guess.  "Because she hates all men, I guess."

"Well—yeah, I can understand that.  But why you espe­cially?"

"Because my magic is just as powerful as hers."

"But that's no reason to hate you!"

"That's just the way women are, Willow."  Amer sighed.

"Aw, it is not!" Willow said stoutly.  "I'm not, and I'm a woman!"

"That's different," Amer explained.  "You're a will-o'-the-wisp."

"What woman isn't?" Willow returned.  "There's gotta be another reason why she hates you, Master."

"Well, there is, really.  You see, she sold her soul to the Devil, and I didn't."

Notwithstanding his refusal to sell his soul, Amer had garnered more knowledge of magic through his experiments than Samona had gained through her pact with Satan.  "I think we were both born with the ability to work magic, actually—it was just a matter of learning how.  She thought she paid a much lower tuition than I, but she's begun to realize that the bill will come due eventually, and will be rather exorbitant.  Mine took longer, but is paid in full as it goes."

"Oh."  That gave the will-o'-the-wisp pause.

"No wonder she hates you."

Amer looked up, surprised.  "I don't see any logic in it..."

"That's all right, Master," Willow assured him.  "There isn't any."

"Then it is absolutely necessary that I keep an eye on her."  Amer put down the tiny bone and went back to the hearth.  He placed the new glassware on a tray and took it over to a keg-spigot he had hammered into one of the logs that formed the wall.  He twisted the handle, and clear, sparkling water gushed out, though the spigot met only solid wood within the log.  It was fed by a clear mountain stream, a mile away; the alchemist had learned well from his research.

He washed the new glassware with water and sand, then set it up on metal stands on a bench that ran the full length of the wall.  He lost no time in setting an alembic bubbling merrily into a cooling tube with a beaker at its end, to collect the distillate.

While he waited for the beaker to fill, he turned to anoth­er workbench, one that bore racks of vials, another alembic, several glass tubes, and a small crucible.  It was backed by shelves of jars and boxes, each carefully labeled.  Amer took another, larger beaker, filled it with water, and set it over an elaborately carved alcohol lamp.  Then the alchemist began to ladle powders into a beaker.  "Let's see... green pepper... sugar... cinnamon..."

"Sounds good, Master."

"... powdered batwings..."

"Gaaaaaack!"

"Oil of ambergris..."

"Uh, Master..."

"Eye of eagle..."

                        "Master..."

"Monosodium glutamate..."

                                                "M-A-A-A-A-STER!"

"Oh."  Amer looked up, blinking.  "Yes, Willow?"

"Wha'cha makin'!?!"

"Making?"  Amer looked down at the frothy liquid in his beaker.  "A far-sight potion, Willow."

"A what?"

"A far-sight potion.  So I can watch Samona, wherever she is."

Willow gasped.  "You're a peepin' Tom?"

"Willow!" Amer remonstrated, scandalized.  "I am mere­ly performing a vital mission of strategic reconnaissance."

"That's what I said.  Wha'cha wanna look at her for, anyway?"

"I'm afraid it's necessary," Amer said, thin-lipped.  He peered into the beaker.  "You see, she's always trying to find some way to enslave me."

"Enslave you?  What's she want to do that for?"

"Because she's a woman."

"That's no reason," Willow maintained.

"Samona thinks it is," Amer explained.  "As I've said, she hates all men."

"And you most of all, 'cause you're not a warlock?"

"For that," Amer said judiciously, "and because I'm the only man she can't enslave with her magic."

"Why's that?"

"Because I've got magic, too."

Willow sounded puzzled.  "I thought you said you weren't a witch."

"Warlock," Amer corrected absently.  "That's the male equivalent.  And no, I'm not.  I'm an alchemist."

"Same thing."

"Not at all."  Amer sighed, striving for patience and trying to find a slightly different way to explain something he'd already explicated.  "A witch gets her power from the Devil.  But an alchemist learns his magic by working experiments."

"Gotta get this down," Willow muttered.  "Chapter Four: Magic, Male and Female…  Now—you're an alchemist?"

"That's right."

"And she's a witch?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"And that's why she hates you?"

Amer looked up, startled.  "You know, Willow, you may have something there.  If I got my magic from the Devil, she probably wouldn't even notice me."

"Why not?"  The will-o'-the-wisp was totally perplexed.

"That, my dear," said Amer, "is one of the peculiarities of the female mind."

"You mean," said Willow, "you don't know."

"Precisely."

A gentle bubbling announced that the beaker was ready.  Amer recited an incantation and peered into the fluid.  "Now let me see..."  He found it filled with a swirling of unearth­ly colors.  He sighed patiently and muttered a refinement of the earlier spell—with no results.  He tried a second and a third spell, and then, losing patience, slapped the side of the beaker.  Instantly the colors swirled together, stretched and wriggled, and snapped into focus in the form of Samona.

She was dressed in a low-cut, red velvet gown with a high Elizabethan collar that framed her head in a scarlet halo.  The bodice was molded to her as though it had been born on her and had grown as she had grown, narrowing as her waist had narrowed and flaring out into the skirt as her hips had become wider and fuller, curving softly, and then sweeping up in a futile attempt to hide her high, swelling breasts.  But where cloth had failed, long shimmering hair had succeeded, flowing down to hide her in soft, luxuriant black waves.  Her face was smooth, gently tinted, with slanting black eyes and wide, full, blood-red lips.

All this Amer noted, and had noted every day of his childhood and youth almost without knowing it.  She'd changed her eyebrows again, and the mahogany highlights were back in her hair.

"Still so easily bored," he murmured, staring into the beaker.

"Not you, Master!"

"No, no!  Samona."

"Master!  You really shouldn't!"

"No," Amer said, frowning at what he saw.  "I think I should."

For the miniature Samona's hands were moving lightly and quickly among the bottles on the shelves alongside her fireplace, measuring their contents into a small cauldron that boiled and chortled softly over an unearthly green flame.  She stirred the brew, dropped in a pinch of a white, glittering powder, and stood counting her pulse-beats as she watched the thickening liquid.

"What's she doing, Master?"

"I thought you said spying was wrong, Willow."

"Well, yes, but gossip is another matter.  Tell me!"

Amer smiled.  "She's making a potion, too.  But what kind?  Let's see... she's using essence of sweet zephyrs... pow­dered tears... rhadlakum...  What can it be?"

"That's what I was wonderin'," Willow muttered.

"My heavens!"  Amer looked up, eyes wide.  "Another aphrodisiac!"

In the beaker, the miniature Samona, judging the time to be right, swung the cauldron off the flame, let it stand for a few minutes, and then skimmed the surface with a ladle and poured the skimmings into a small vial.  She held it up to the light; it glittered with ruby liquid, steaming.  Her eyes glowed; she eyed the vial with a smug smile, then began to laugh.

Suddenly, there was a flash of green light, and she was gone.

Amer stood looking into the beaker for a few seconds more.

"What is it, Master?" Willow cried.  "Master?  Master!"

For Amer had taken a clean beaker and started pulling powders off the shelves.

"What kind of potion is an aphro-whatever?" Willow demanded.

"An aphrodisiac, Willow."

"What's it for?"

"Me, I'm afraid."

"No, no!  I mean, what does it do?"

"Stra-a-a-a-ange things," Amer said.

"Like what?"

"Well," said Amer, and "well," again.  Then, "It will, uh... make me, uh... like her."

"Wonderful!  Then you'll be friends again?"

"Well, something like that, yes."

"Master," me will-o'-the-wisp accused, "you're not bein' honest with me."

"Very well, Willow."  Amer sighed, looking up from his work for a moment.  "An aphrodisiac makes a man desire a woman carnally.  And the particular kinds that Samona brews are also love philtres."

"A love filter?  What's it do, take the love out of the carnal-whatever?"

"Desire.  And no, a 'philtre' adds love in to where it wasn't before."

"That doesn't make much sense to me."

"Nor to me, either," Amer confessed.  "But here's the manner of it: if she can trick me into drinking that potion, I'll become her slave."

"I thought you said her magic didn't work on you."

"It hasn't—so far.  And only because I counter her spells and potions with my own.  But there is always the possibility that she might be able to concoct a new potion that would work on me."

"So what're you doin'?"

"Making an anti-aphrodisiac, Willow."

"A what?"

"A protective drug," Amer explained.  "It will ward me from the effects of her potion.  Let's see... where did I put the saltpeter?"

"But," said Willow, "don't you want to fall in love with her?"

"Willow," said Amer, "don't ask embarrassing ques­tions."

"But I don't understand."

"That makes two of us."

"Why does she want to make you like her?"

"Because she's a woman."

"No, no!  I mean, besides that!"

"Willow," Amer said between his teeth, "it is not tactful to remind a scholar of just how much he doesn't know."

"Well, I'm sorry!  Y' know, this whole thing seems really silly to me.  She mixes a potion so you'll fall in love with her, and you mix one so you won't.  You could save a lot of time and trouble if neither of you mixed the potions."

"Very true," Amer agreed.  "Unfortunately, Samona doesn't see it that way."

"Why not?"

"Well... I suppose it's that if she can't enslave me one way, she'll try another."

"And an aphro-whatsis will do that?"

"It's a good start," Amer allowed.

"I don't understand," said the poor, confused will-o'-the-wisp.

"I only wish I did!" Amer said fervently.  "Let's see... wormwood... a pinch of gall... wolfbane..."

"Love potions."  Willow was engraving in her book of energy impulses.  "Protective drugs...  Wait till Harvard hears about this!"  She spoke of the College that had been established for many years.

Amer gave the potion a final stir, lifted it to his lips, and drank it off in a single draft.  His face twisted in a wry grimace; he coughed, and came up smiling.  "There!  I'm safe!"

A tone, so low that it was more felt than heard, filled the room.  Willow vibrated with panic, but Amer breathed, "Just in time."

"Good afternoon, Amer," murmured a low, husky voice.

"Good afternoon, Samona."  Amer noted that her tones were deeper and fuller than usual, sending a shiver through his system; he reminded himself that his potion needed a few more minutes to take its full effect.

She came over to the side of his chair, and the flowing skirts clung to her as she came.

"You aren't very polite," she said.  "A host usually offers his guest some refreshment after a long journey."

"Of course," Amer said.  "Forgive me." He rose and took two glasses from the mantel.  "Will amontillado do?"

"Quite well," Samona said, and a smiled flickered for an instant over her lips.  It lasted no longer than the tick of a watch, but that was long enough for Amer to be certain it had been there.

He filled the glasses and gave her one.  "To your power— may it increase."

"Hypocrite!" she said.  "Toast something else, Amer, for you know as well as I that I'll never be stronger than I am now."

"Oh, come," Amer said.  "You're young yet."

"Yes, but I've reached my peak.  You're young, too, Amer, but somehow your power keeps growing.  I should know, I've been trying to defeat you long enough."

"Oh, now, Samona!" Amer protested.  "You mustn't give up so easily!  You might win yet, you know."

"Indeed?  It doesn't seem very likely."

"Don't believe her, Master!" Willow whispered, just behind his back.  "Remember her potion!"

That jarred Amer out of his shock.  "Yes!  Well, uh, Samona—I'm glad to see you've finally given up chasing a will-o'-the-wisp."

Someone cleared a miniature throat behind his back.

"I beg your pardon, Willow," Amer hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

Samona didn't notice; she had turned away, pacing toward the hearth.  "You're right, Amer.  I've become wise in the hard school of frustration.  I know when I'm beaten."

"Surely..."

"No," she said, bowing her head forlornly, "I've come to admit defeat, Amer."

For a moment he panicked, thinking she meant it.  But then he remembered the fleeting, gloating smile as he pour­ed the wine, and said, "Well, I'm glad to see that you've finally become wise, Samona.  It's not good for you to keep wearing yourself out getting nowhere."

"So I've learned," she said with a touch of bitterness.  "No, I've come for a truce.  And to prove that I mean you well, I've brought news of danger."

"Danger?  From whom?"

"From Death."

Amer smiled.  "There's always danger of that, Samona."

"You don't understand."  Samona turned away impatiently.

"I'm willing to learn."

"Yes, and eager, too, I know," she said, bitter again.  But she smoothed her face with a smile.  "Then learn, scholar, that in this eldritch world we inhabit, Death is not a force, but a being."

"Fantastic..."

"But real enough, for us."  Samona turned to face him again.  "Death doesn't come in the usual way when he comes for a witch.  He comes in person, and you may never know he's there until you feel the cold, damp bones of his hand clutching your shoulder."

"Come now," Amer said.  "Surely, with all your powers, you could invent some sort of protection for yourselves."

"True," she said, "but if we ever relax for so much as a second, he is upon us.  If we forget ourselves in our delight with our own cleverness, if we lose our heads in glee as we watch a victim shudder, we will almost certainly feel the chill on our shoulders and feel it creep to our hearts, and will hear a cry of triumph as we sink to the depths of Hell."  She stood gazing at the fire, pale and trembling, as though she could see the hollow eyes of Death staring at her.

"But if Death is always lying in wait, as you say," said Amer, softly, "how is it that you have never thought it necessary to speak of him until now?"

"Because he struck among us last night," Samona said in a hushed, almost strangled voice.  This morning Goody Coister was found sitting in the old rocking chair in front of her fireplace.  She was stone dead."  Samona's eyes reflected the fire burning quietly on the hearth.  "I saw her myself," she whispered.  "You could still see the marks of his fingers on her shoulder."

"Goody Coister?" Amer whispered in shock and dis­belief.

Samona smiled with malicious satisfaction.  "Yes, Goody Coister, that virtuous old hag.  That venerable symbol of New England purity.  Shall I tell you how many bastards she and old Moggard have spawned?"

"Moggard?"

"Yes, Moggard.  Warlock-General of New England, and Vice-Chairman of the Universal Brotherhood of Sorcerers.  He begat quite a few on the old biddy—not that any of them lived to know of it, of course."  For a moment, Samona seemed sad and forlorn.

"But Goody Cloister taught me my catechism!"

"Of course.  The worst ones always look to be the most respectable.  Shall I tell you about Sexton Karrier?"

Amer shuddered.  "Please don't!"

Samona's eyes gleamed, and her smile deepened with satisfaction.  She turned away, and when she turned back to face Amer again she looked quietly humble once more.

"Ah, well," she said, "I just wanted to warn you.  Come, Amer, fill my glass again, and let's drink to friendship."

Amer shook off the mood of apprehension and forced a smile.  He nodded and took the decanter from the mantel­piece and poured them each a glass.  "As red as your lips, my dear, and as sparkling as your eyes."

"Gallant," she noted, and lifted her glass.  "To our truce."

"Pax nobiscum," Amer said, and drank.

Samona nearly choked on her wine.  "Please!" she said between splutters, "must you use Church language?"

"I'm sorry," Amer said.  "Really I am."  He patted her back gently.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, and turned on him like a cornered vixen.  For a moment, Amer could have sworn that he saw the Devil looking out at him from her midnight eyes.

But she regained her composure immediately.  "I'm sorry, Amer.  But you know I could never bear to be touched.  And it's become worse since I... joined the coven."

"Yes, quite so."  Amer had a brief, nightmarish vision of what her initiation must have been like, and how much of herself she had lost.  He shuddered.  "I'd forgotten.  My apologies."

"Accepted," she said, looking up at him, and, "Oh, Hell!" in a slightly reverent tone.  "I've spilt my wine all over you."

"That's all right," Amer said, recovering himself with equal rapidity.  "I've plenty more.  Would you care for another glass?"

"Yes, please," she said.  She put her hand to her forehead.  "Yes, I—I think I need it"

"Why, you're pale," he said.

"No, I'm all right," she said.  "It's nothing."

"Sit down," Amer said, pushing an armchair toward her.  She all but fell into it.  He picked up a notebook and fanned her gently.

"Just a moment's rest..."

There, there," Amer soothed.  "Too much excitement, that's all..."

"Yes. I—I'm fine now.  Thank you."

Amer put the notebook down, took Samona's glass to the mantel, and filled it from the decanter.  He knelt and gave it to her."

But as she took it, he noticed a ring on her hand, a ring with an exceptionally large stone—a huge emerald with a deep, almost liquid luster.  In all the time he had known her, Amer had never seen Samona wear such a ring.  "What a beautiful gem!"

"I—I'm glad you like it, Amer."  Her eyes were wide with surprise and—was it alarm?

"That—uh—friend I've heard you speak of... Lucretia… ?"

"Yes, it was a present from her."

He smiled sadly as he looked at it.

"Amer..."

"Yes, of course."  He tore his gaze away and went over to a cabinet that stood next to the table on which Willow rested.  "You'll need something stronger than wine."

As soon as he'd turned away, Samona sat up, pressed the stone out of its setting with feverish haste, and emptied the drop of potion it contained into his glass of wine.

"Master," Willow hissed, "she's pouring something into your wineglass."

"I thought she would," Amer muttered.  "Fortunate that I didn't drink it all."

"Aren't you worried?"

"No, not especially, Willow.  Let me see... I suppose I've given her enough time..."

Only just; Samona had scarcely replaced the stone and fallen back into the chair before Amer returned.

He took a glass from the mantel and filled it from the bottle of whiskey he'd taken out of the cabinet.  "Here."  He pressed it into her hand, which trembled as she brought the glass to her lips.  Amer took his wineglass from the table and raised it, wondering what kind of spell the potion was supposed to cast over him.  "To your quick recovery," he said, and downed it.

Samona watched him out of the comer of her eye and muttered a short incantation as he drank.  Then she leaned back in the armchair and sipped her whiskey slowly, waiting for the potion to take effect.  Beneath the dark waves of hair that covered them, her breasts rose and fell softly with her breathing, and Amer was shocked when he realized that he'd been wondering just what the low-cut gown would reveal if she wore her hair back over her shoulders.

Finally Samona set down her glass, took a deep breath, bit her lip, and said, "Amer, I—I don't feel too well.  Would you see how my pulse is?"

"Certainly," Amer said, and he took her wrist, frankly puzzled as to what she was up to.  He probed for the large vein, probed again, and frowned.  "I can't seem to find it."

"I never seem to be able to, either," she said, "not there.  See if you can feel my heartbeat."  She slid his hand under the heavy black tresses, and Amer found that the gown was cut very low indeed.

For a moment he was stunned, completely at a loss.  Then, with a sort of numb amazement, he realized the purpose of the potion, and began to be very glad he'd taken the antidote.  For one way or another, Samona meant to have his soul.  He would play along to see if she had more tricks prepared.

Amer caressed her, slowly moving his hand to part the rich black waves and stroke them away to her shoulders; then  he  let  his hand slide over the swelling softness of her.  He felt her shiver under his touch.  He knelt and watched her cream-white breasts as they rose and fell, straining against their velvet prison.

Then he looked at her face, and it was dead white.  He realized with a shock that he was the first ever to touch her with tenderness, and that her trembling was not from passion alone.  Finally, with a sense of awe, he realized her courage.

Then she looked at him with fear in her eyes, and her trembling tips parted softly.  He slid his free hand to her back, between her shoulders, and pressed her to him.  Their lips met in moist sweetness.

They broke apart, and he pulled her head down onto his shoulder.  "So," he said, with wonder, "that's what it's like.."

"What... ?" Samona half-gasped.

"Your scapula," Amer breathed.  "It articulates with your clavicle by ligament!  And I thought it was connected by cartilage..."

For a moment, Samona sat very, very still.

Then she was out of the chair and over against the wall with a wildcat's scream.  "Take your hands off me and get away from me, you tin-bellied machine!"  She clasped at the wall behind her with fingers hooked into claws, glar­ing at him and hissing, "I wish you were in Hell!"  And, for a moment, Amer could have sworn he saw hellfire in her eyes.

Then a cloud of green smoke exploded.  When it cleared, she had vanished.

"Thank Heaven!" Willow sighed.  "Master, she's gone!"

But Amer only stared at the place where she had been, murmuring, "Strange... strange, very strange..."

"What, Master?"

"My emotions, Willow."

"Why, Master?" the will-o'-the-wisp cried in alarm.  "What's wrong?"

"I must write this down," Amer hurried to his writing desk and snatched up a quill.  "It's priceless information... I'll probably never have the same experience again."

"I'll say!" Willow said fervently.  "But what's the mat­ter?"

"Well, Willow..."

"Now, now, Master, you've had a nasty shock.  Just lie down and relax.  You've had a hard day.  I'll write it down for you."  Willow prepared to make alterations in the electrical potentials within her.

Amer took her at her word, going over to the narrow cot against the wall and lying back, head pillowed on a horsehair cushion.  "It started when she told me that she'd come to declare a truce..."

"Just let it flow, Master," the will-o'-the-wisp said, oozing sympathy.

"She looked up at me, and her eyes looked so innocent, and she seemed so submissive..."

"Mm-hmmm."

"... and she said she'd come to surrender..."

"Yes, Master..."

"And, well, Willow, for just a moment there, I felt panic!"

"Really!"

"And, Willow—that worries me..."

 

*           *           *

 

The wind swept around the cottage, infuriated at being balked.  But it was gaining strength, because other winds were coming, ushered by the towering black clouds that drifted from the west, obscuring the moon.  The wind wel­comed its kin, and together they tore at the cabin, howling and tearing.  Then a great black cloud arrived and broke open a drum of rain, with a huge crack of thunder.  Torrents gushed down, lashing the little cabin, and the winds howled in glee.

Inside, Amer slept on in blissful but disturbing dreams, unheeding of the winds.  Enraged, they redoubled their force.  Still Amer slept—until Willow came to attention, startled.  She listened, was sure she'd heard right, and called, "Master!  Wake up!"

It came again, from the door—a knocking.

"Master!  Wake up!  There's someone here!"

"What?  Here?  Where?"  Amer lifted his head, dull with sleep.

"At the door!"

"Here?"  Amer stared at the portal.

It shook as the knocking sounded again, louder and quicker.

"Oh, my heavens!  And at this hour of the night!"  Amer shoved himself out of bed, shuddering as his feet touched the cold boards, shoved them into slippers, and stood.  He shuffled over to the door as the pounding came gain, insist­ent, impatient.  "Patience, please!  Patience!  I'm coming!"  Finally, he pulled out the bar.

The door slammed open, and the wind howled in tri­umph, whirling toward the doorway—and swooping away as something blocked it from entering.  It howled in frus­tration, but a flash of lightning drowned it out with a huge clap of thunder—and showed Amer the robed and hooded silhouette standing in his doorway.

The alchemist froze.  Then he turned to catch up his dressing gown and don it.  Knotting the sash, he turned back to the doorway.

"Please excuse my appearance," he said, "but I must admit that I was not expecting you."

"That's perfectly all right," the figure said.  "Very few ever do."

Amer frowned.  "I hope I'm not being too presumptuous," he said, "but would it be too much trouble for you to tell me who you are, and what you've come here for?"

"Not at all," the figure said, and, in sepulchral tones, "My name is Death, and I've come for you."

 

TO BE CONTINUED…

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