135

LIGHTS!

CAMERA!

HELLSPAWN!

The necromancer brought both arms down in a sharp, sweeping gesture. With a sizzling blue-violet flash and a deafening, bloodcurdling howl, the demon materialized.

Jessica Blaine let out an ear-piercing scream. She strained in terror against the chain that held her, scrambling like a scalded cat as she tried to pull herself loose. The apparition looming over her was huge, with stumpy legs that ended in shaggy, cloven hooves, and powerful, ape-like arms. Its long hawklike talons raked the air. Its fanged jaws were open wide enough to swallow Jessica whole. Currents of energy ran through the creature, sparking in multicolored discharges.

"Oh, my God . . ." said the cameraman.

"Keep rolling! Keep rolling!" shouted director Johnny Landau. " Whatever you do, keep rolling!" Jessica thrashed upon the altar, screaming herself hoarse. As Jessica tore frantically at the chain, the demon leaped, arms extended, talons glistening . . .

"Annd . . . cut! Print it!"

The Wizard of Sunset Strip

Chapters

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Epilogue

CHAPTER One

" Meshugge! " said the broom, craning around to look out the windows of the chauffeured limousine. "These people are all meshugge!"

All around them, scantily clad young people were shussing past them on the Ventura Freeway, skimming several feet above the surface of the road on flying carpets and street-boards, four-foot-long air surfers that darted in and out of traffic like dragonflies flitting among wildflowers. Aside from the carpets and the streetboards, there was the usual crush of taxicabs and buses and chauffeured limousines, all levitated and impelled by low-grade certified adepts, as well as expensive private vehicles, sleek status symbols powered by thaumaturgic batteries. But the most numerous of all were the wild streetboarders, balancing precariously on enchanted air surfers attached by thongs to leather straps around their ankles as they slalomed through the traffic like banshees whistling on the wind. Two of them suddenly collided and their bodies went flailing end over end through the air, one landing somewhere on the other side of the guard rail and the other slamming into the hood of an oncoming bus with a wet, slapping sound. It was an ugly sight. Exactly how the broom could see all this was something of a mystery, since it had no eyes. It didn't even have a face, which also rendered its powers of speech completely inexplicable. And yet, the broom did speak, in a matronly, New York Jewish accent no less, punctuating its remarks with elaborate gestures of its spindly arms. The chauffeur glanced up at his rearview mirror, licked his lips nervously, and tried to concentrate on his levitation and impulsion spells. As a certified lower grade adept driving for a private limousine service in Los Angeles, he had seen a lot of strange, unusual things, but a walking, talking sweep broom was a first. But then, from the moment he'd picked these people up at LAX, he knew that these were no ordinary tourists.

They didn't even look like people who could afford a taxicab, much less a limousine, but in L.A., that didn't mean a thing. Some of the wealthiest people in town dressed like bums and they often spent a fortune doing so. Still, he didn't quite know what to make of these three—four, if he was going to count the broom.

The young man was in his mid to late twenties, with shoulder-length, curly blond hair cascading down from beneath a dark brown felt fedora that was pulled low over his eyes. He wore a short, hooded warlock's cassock made from coarse brown monk's cloth, loose, multipocketed brown moleskin trousers, and hightop, red leather athletic shoes with blue lightning stripes on them. The warlock's cassock and long, flowing hair were a dead giveaway. The broom clinched it. The young man was an adept. And the girl beside him referred to him as "warlock," as if it were a pet name. Her name was Kira and she was a striking young woman in her late teens or early twenties, fit, foxlike, feral-pretty, with coal black hair cut in a renaissance punk style—swept back sharply on the sides and angled down over her forehead in a thick fall. She wore a chain mail and black leather jacket with a stand-up collar, skin-tight, dark red breeches, short black leather boots, and a soft black glove on her right hand. Her speech and streetwise manner clearly identified her as a New Yorker.

The boy was perhaps the most striking of the bunch— again, if one didn't count the broom. He was small and wiry, with delicate features that gave him a slightly androgynous aspect. His lips were thin and had a tendency to drop down slightly at the corners of his mouth. His nose was straight and blade-edged, his cheekbones high and pronounced. His eyes were dark and almond-shaped and his eyebrows had a thin and graceful arch. His ethnic origin was impossible to pinpoint. He could have been Eurasian, a light-skinned black, Hispanic or Creole or Indian, but his accent was thick, London cockney. He couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old, yet except for his size, there was nothing childish about him. His dark hair was worn short on the sides and luxuriantly thick and long in the center, like a horse's mane, descending in a ponytail down the middle of his back to his waist. His tatterdemalion ensemble included a patchwork leather-fringed jacket and surplus military trousers and combat boots. He wore thin black leather gloves with the fingers cut off and studded leather bracelets. The others called him Billy. As for the sweep broom, well, they just referred to it as "Broom" and it seemed to be the young warlock's familiar. A bit overly familiar, thought the chauffeur. It kept telling him how to drive. He sighed with weary resignation. Hell, you could always tell these New Yorkers, he thought. Loud, obnoxious, wired, and intrusive. All they ever did was complain about how everything was so much better in New York. If everything was so much better in New York, he thought, why the hell didn't they just stay there?

"You, schmendrick, pay attention!" cried the broom, tapping the chauffeur on the shoulder with a rubbery finger.

"Slow down already! You think this is some demolition derby here? You're going to hit somebody! I would like to survive this drive if you don't mind!"

The chauffeur shook his head, touched a button on his console and the window separating the driver's compartment from the passenger seats slid up. He sighed with exasperation. Another few minutes and they'd be at the hotel and he'd be rid of them.

"Well, I never!" said the broom. "Will you look at this? Did you see what he just did? The nerve!"

"Put a lid on it, Broom, will you?" Wyrdrune said wearily.

"Ere, does she always go on like that?" asked Billy Slade.

" She?" said Kira. "Billy, you're talking about a stick, for God's sake."

"A stick?" the broom said. "A stick? That does it! I don't have to take this! Stop the car, I'm getting out. Stop the car this instant!"

The broom started to bang on the window between them and the chauffeur.

"Stop that!" Wyrdrune said.

"California! Feh!" the broom said, sitting back with a contemptuous sniff, which was rather curious, since it had no nose. "I don't know why we ever had to leave New York. What was so terrible? We had a nice apartment—"

"We lost our nice apartment," Wyrdrune said impatiently. "I was subletting, in case you don't remember. We've already gone through all this half a dozen times and why am I explaining to a piece of wood, for heaven's sake?" Kira giggled.

"What's so funny?" Wyrdrune said irately.

"You two," she said. "You sound like a couple of yentas at the automat when you get going."

"Yentas?" said the broom. "Will you listen to this, the shiksa is calling me a yenta. A stick, a piece of wood, and now a yenta."

" And she'll be calling you sawdust if you don't keep silent!"

The voice came out of Billy, but it was not the voice of a thirteen-year-old cockney lad. Had the chauffeur not rolled up his window, he would have been surprised to hear the deep, resonant, and mature voice that had suddenly issued forth from that adolescent body. The cultured voice had a peculiar accent that was somewhere between Welsh and Celtic. The chauffeur would have been even more surprised to learn whose voice it was—not Billy's, but the entity that shared his body with him, the spirit of the legendary arch-mage, Merlin Ambrosius, court wizard to King Arthur Pendragon and father of the modern age of thaumaturgy.

Centuries ago, after falling victim to the spell of his apprentice, the sorceress, Morgan Le Fay, Merlin had been immured within the cleft of a large oak, which was kept alive for ages by the same spell that kept him prisoner. The age of chivalry and magic disappeared into the mists of time and new ages came and passed. With the rise of technology, the discipline of magic was totally forgotten, thought to be nothing more than myth and fantasy, yet all the while, Merlin slept . . . and deep beneath the earth, in a hidden, long forgotten tomb in the Euphrates Valley, others slept as well; powerful, inhuman beings of an ancient race from whom Merlin was descended. The Dark Ones, immortal necromancers entombed by the white wizards after the Great Mage War before the dawn of history. Entombed . . . and waiting.

When the age of technology ended at the close of the twenty-second century in the dark period known as The Collapse, what was left of civilization teetered on the brink. The world descended into anarchy. Cities became war zones. Rural areas became the wilderness again. One man, a retired soldier, driven to desperation by his desire to provide some warmth for his starving, freezing children, sneaked past perimeter guards and barbed wire fences into a protected area, all that was left of the denuded Sherwood Forest—a tiny grove of trees. One tree stood out among the rest, a gnarled and ancient oak that was at least ten times the size of all the others. Later on, he could not say why he picked that tree, but something in him snapped. With a cry, he attacked it with his ax and suddenly, the moment the ax blade bit into the trunk, a flash of lightning split the tree in half and Merlin was released. That was the beginning of the end of The Collapse. The start of the second thaumaturgic age. Merlin brought back the forgotten discipline of magic. He founded schools and put the world on a thaumaturgic energy standard. The remnants of the old technology were revitalized by magic-users trained in Merlin's schools. From lower grade adepts who knew only simple spells to warlocks to wizards and still more powerful sorcerers to the mere handful of adepts who had reached the vaunted rank of mage, universities with postgraduate schools of thaumaturgy turned out magic-users to support the energy base that powered the second thaumaturgic age. Spells kept public transportation running; enchantments powered the old turbines and generators, providing clean, nonpolluting energy. Slowly, the cities came back to their former glory, but in a different and more natural way, a union of the dead technology and reborn magic.

Old, damaged asphalt was gradually replaced with grassy causeways. Acid-free rain slowly washed the ancient buildings clean. City streets became park rambles with shade trees and flowering gardens filled with birds bred by thaumagenetic engineering, creatures that not only sang sweetly, but also spoke and helped to keep the cities free from litter.

Yet not everything was rosy in this new thaumaturgic dawn. Human nature was nevertheless still human nature. There was still crime. There was still violence. There were still greed and jealousy and envy and all the spiteful, hateful feelings that went with them. And with magic in the air once more, the Dark Ones awoke within their tomb. They broke free of their eons-old confinement and now they were loose upon the unsuspecting world once more. And only four people possessed the power to stop them—a dropout warlock, a thief, a street urchin, and a mysterious professional assassin who was known by many names.

The authorities knew him only as Morpheus, named after the mythic God of Dreams, because he put people to sleep. Forever. Some knew him as Michael Cornwall. Others knew him as Mikhail Kutuzov or Phillipe de Bracy or Antonio Modesti or Maurice Le Fay, the list went on and on. Yet only a handful of people knew him by his truename— Modred, the immortal bastard son of King Arthur Pendragon and his half sister, the sorceress, Morgan Le Fay.

All were brought together by a spell that was embodied in three living runestones, enchanted talismans imbued with the life force of the Council of the White, the Old Ones who had defeated and entombed those among their kind who had been seduced by necromancy. They had given their lives to empower the spell that held the Dark Ones prisoner:

"Three stones, three keys to lock the spell,

Three jewels to guard the Gates of Hell.

Three to bind them, three in one,

Three to hide them from the sun.

Three to hold them, three to keep,

Three to watch the sleepless sleep."

Only one among the Council of the White was left alive after the others fused their life force with the runestones. His name was Gorlois and he was the youngest of the immortal white archmages. He went out into the world and lived among the humans. With a girl of the De Dannan tribe, he had a son whom he named Merlin. Years later, with a Welsh maid named Igraine, he had three daughters named Morgause, Elaine, and young Morgana, who became Morgan Le Fay. And now, two thousand years later, their descendants had been reunited. Kira, the orphaned thief, was descended from Elaine. Wyrdrune, the bumbling warlock, descended from Morgause. And descended from Nimue, the De Dannan witch who had been Merlin's lover, was young Billy Slade—now possessed by the spirit and the powers of his legendary ancestor.

Hidden by the glove on Kira's right hand, embedded in the flesh of her palm, was a shining sapphire runestone, a living gem animated by the souls of the immortal archmages who had lived before the dawn of time. Beneath his hat, embedded in his forehead over his "third eye," Wyrdrune wore a gleaming emerald runestone that gave him powers far beyond those of a bumbling warlock who had never finished thaumaturgy school. And set into the flesh of his chest, over his heart, Modred wore the third runestone, a darkly glistening blood ruby, uniting him with the spirits of his inhuman ancestors. Together, they formed the living triangle, the ancient spell made real, and Merlin—who had died in their first encounter with the Dark Ones—had returned once more, his spirit living on in Billy Slade, the scrappy little cockney street urchin from Whitechapel.

The limousine pulled up in front of the Beverly Hills Hotel and the chauffeur got out and held the door open for his unusual passengers, never suspecting how truly unusual they really were. Nor did they suspect what awaited them in the City of the Angels, a town which they would soon discover had been ironically misnamed. She was very, very beautiful and very, very dead. Her sightless eyes were wide open and bright red from blood vessels that had burst. A trickle of coagulating blood ran down from the corner of her mouth, which was open in a never-ending, silent scream.

Ben Slater stared down at her nude body and slowly shook his head. "My God," he said. "Twenty years on the police beat and I never saw anything that looked like that."

The look on the dead girl's face was unforgettable. It was as if she had seen the most horrifying thing imaginable at the moment of her death. But as unsettling as the expression on her face was, that was not what Slater meant. He was referring to her wounds.

"I've never seen anything like it, either," said Detective Sergeant Harlan Bates, standing beside him. "I don't know what to make of it."

Both men stared down at the body with a grim, uneasy fascination as the police photographer methodically snapped it from a variety of angles. The victim's name was Sarah Tracy. She was an actress. Neither Bates nor Slater had ever heard of her, but that was not surprising in a town where every waiter was really an actor and every exotic dancer read the trades. She had been discovered by Victor Cameron, who described himself as her "agent/manager," a title which both Bates and Slater took to be merely a euphemism for boyfriend. Cameron had been so distraught that he'd been taken to the hospital. Which did not, as far as Bates was concerned, serve to eliminate him as a suspect. The nude body of Sarah Tracy was lying on its side, close against the wall. Slater noticed that it was almost directly opposite the rumpled bed on the other side of the studio apartment. There were some peculiar marks around the dead girl's narrow waist, above her hips. The entire area between her hips and breasts was heavily bruised, the discolorations running in three narrow bands, like horizontal stripes, almost all the way around her torso. And then there were the wounds. Three deep holes in the approximate center of her abdomen, one above the other, at the point where each discolored band ended. It was as if someone had taken three large railroad spikes and driven them into her body, almost clear through to the spine. Midway up the wall, there was a large splatter mark of blood, as if she had been picked up and hurled all the way across the room.

Bates had been a Los Angeles police officer for about ten years and Slater had spent the better part of two decades covering crime and corruption in the city before he went on to write a hard-hitting, streetwise opinion column, yet each time they saw a dead body, there was always that peculiar moment, that strange, indefinable sensation when for an instant, everything just stopped. Slater, who thought about such things more deeply than most people, called it

"the moment of involuntary silence."

"You want to say something," he'd explain over a shot of whiskey and a beer at Flannagan's, "or even if you don't, you feel as if you should. You feel like you oughta shake your head and groan or something, anything, but you just can't. You stand there, maybe you swallow if your mouth hasn't gone dry, and for a minute you simply stare at this thing that used to be a person. It doesn't look real, somehow. It's like a mannequin. Not only is the spark gone, but it looks as if it was never there at all. And there it is, the mystery, staring you right in the face. The only thing that makes you different from that body is that spark and you could lose it anytime. Sooner or later, you're going to look like that. Maybe sooner than you think. And there's nothing you can do about it. Most people never have to confront their fate that way, but cops do it every day. Cops, pathologists, and a few reporters. They all share that moment of involuntary silence. Then they start cracking sick jokes."

It was one of the reasons why cops like Harlan Bates liked and respected Benjamin J. Slater. He was the barometer of their reality. He was their poet. He gave voice to their feelings in a way that most of them could not express themselves. Most of them would never, even in the direst of circumstances, consider seeing a shrink, but they would gladly stand Ben Slater to several rounds at Flannagan's and moodily unburden themselves, because the rough-hewn, dark-haired, plain-spoken reporter understood and, what was even more important, he was "all right." Those two simple words encompassed an entire litany of codes, both written and unwritten, and what it all came down to was the simple fact that Ben Slater could be trusted. If it was personal, it stayed that way. If he agreed that something said was off the record, Ben Slater never printed it. He protected his sources with the fierce tenacity of a junkyard dog and he had done the jail time to prove it.

However, Ben Slater was not universally liked by the men and women on the force. In particular, he was disliked by many of their senior officers, especially those with political aspirations. This was because Ben Slater had a nasty tendency to write the truth and, as the city's most popular columnist, he often flavored it with strongly held opinions. He did not, in the parlance of the upper echelons, "play ball." And those members of the force who cared more about moving up into administration than they did about fighting crime regarded Ben Slater as anathema. Therefore, Slater was not at all surprised when he heard the tone with which Captain Farrell addressed him when she came into the room.. What surprised him was that the redoubtable Rebecca Farrell was even on the scene.

"Slater! What the hell are you doing here?"

Rebecca Farrell's personality was as fiery as her bright red hair, which she wore short in a shaggy, feathered geometric cut. She had a thick forelock that always had a tendency to dangle down over her eyes, lending her the aspect of a cocky bantam rooster. She was slim, leggy, and pretty to the point of almost unbearable cuteness, which had led her to develop an extremely aggressive and often abrasive demeanor in compensation for an appearance that she felt kept people from taking her seriously. However, as Slater knew only too well, anyone who did not take Rebecca Farrell seriously was making a serious mistake. She was the youngest police captain on the force, with the most ambition and the most to prove. Rebecca Farrell had been promoted through the ranks and she had built a reputation for being hard as nails, but she was far tougher on herself than on any of the people under her command.

"I'm just doing my job, Becky," Slater replied, in an offhand tone. "What about you? What brings you out from behind the desk?"

"The name is Rebecca," she said tersely. "And I'll thank you to address me as Captain Farrell."

"Sure. Just as soon as you start addressing me as Mr. Slater."

There had been a time, not very long ago, when it had been Ben and Becky—a close and intimate relationship, despite the twenty-year difference in their ages, but that had changed when Becky was made captain. Slater had always thought that Becky Farrell was one of the best street cops he'd ever known. He had a high professional regard for her and a very warm, personal regard, as well. But he thought that her being mired in administration was a waste of her considerable abilities. She thought of it as career advancement, although she missed the streets, which made Slater's intolerance rankle that much more. And then there was the added complication of Slater's natural antagonism toward what he referred to as "the high command," a hierarchy of which she was now a part. She took a deep breath and then turned on Bates. "Who authorized Mr. Slater's presence at this crime scene?" Bates shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, Captain, I didn't know there was any order barring the press."

"Don't give me that," she said. "I don't see the press here. I see only Mr. Slater. Now where do you suppose the rest of them are?"

"I don't know. Maybe they didn't get the word yet," Bates said innocently.

"And maybe somebody tipped Slater in advance and let him slip past the police line?" she said. Bates looked uncomfortable.

"Now, take it easy, Becky. . . ." Slater said.

"Look, don't you condescend to me, Ben Slater!" she said, spinning around to face him, though condescension was the farthest thing from his mind. Slater flinched and backed away and, for the first time, Rebecca Farrell's gaze fell on the corpse.

The moment of involuntary silence struck.

"Oh, my God ..." she said softly after the initial shock.

"What do you figure made those wounds, Rebecca?" Slater said. "And those marks around her waist?" Rebecca Farrell knelt down by the body for a closer look. Her entire demeanor seemed to undergo a drastic change. Little frown lines of concentration appeared over the bridge of her nose and her jaw muscles tensed as she examined the wounds. For a long moment, she said nothing, then, as if suddenly remembering that Slater had spoken, she said,

"I don't know. I've never seen anything like this before."

It was almost exactly the same thing Bates had said. Almost exactly the same thing Slater himself had said, but something about the way Rebecca Farrell said it didn't quite ring true.

Slater watched her carefully. "You know, I think you have," he said.

She glanced up at him sharply.

"You always were a rotten liar, Becky," Slater said. "Maybe that's because you always were an honest cop. You used to be a hell of a fine detective before you tied yourself down behind a desk." She stood and turned to face him. "I'm still a hell of a fine detective, Slater."

"I know," he said. "But the trouble is you don't work at it anymore. You've seen this sort of thing before, Becky. I can tell. I saw your face. I know you."

"What are you trying to say, Ben?" she said in a level tone.

He chose not to respond directly. Instead, he asked a question.

"What do these wounds look like to you?" he said. "Speculating, purely off the record?"

"I don't know. I told you, I've never seen anything like it."

"You're are a liar," he said.

She flushed and the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. Bates watched them both uneasily. No one spoke to Captain Farrell that way. No one.

"Suppose I tell you what it looks like to me," said Slater quickly, before she could reply. "It looks as if something grabbed her and threw her clear across the room. Something huge and incredibly strong. Something with three large claws ... or maybe talons."

Farrell stared at him long and hard. "That's your considered opinion, is it?" she said. "Are you going to print that?"

"I don't know, Rebecca," he said. "What do you think? You think maybe there's a story here? I mean, something more than just another L.A. murder? What do you think the coroner's going to say about those bruises and those wounds? And just supposing that you have seen something similar to this before, but you've kept it quiet, you think maybe that would be a story? You think if I hung around here long enough, I might even see an investigator from the B.O.T. show up?"

"Why should the Bureau of Thaumaturgy be interested in this case?" Rebecca said, a touch too nonchalantly.

"You tell me, Rebecca. Did somebody just kill this girl, or did someone summon up somet hing to do it?"

"What are you getting at?" she said tensely. "What are you going to say in your column, Ben?"

"What do you think the rest of the media will say when they learn the particulars of this case?" countered Slater.

"The particulars?" said Rebecca, pursuing her lips and trying to look innocent. "I'm really not sure what you mean, Ben. What we have here is a young woman who's been stabbed to death and we've got a suspect in custody, under observation at L.A. County Hospital."

Slater frowned. "You know damn well that's not what happened."

"Do I? Then you tell me, Ben. What did happen? What forensic evidence have you got? This is hardly the time for wild speculation that could cause a panic in this city. I want to know what you're going to write, Ben."

"Well, if you're going to insist on following this tack, Rebecca, I think I may just write about a cover-up," said Salter flatly. "About the L.A.P.D. trying to keep from the public certain facts that indicate that someone in this city is practicing necromancy. That's black magic, Becky. The kind that kills people."

"Sergeant Bates, I want you to place Mr. Slater under arrest," Rebecca Farrell said.

" What?" said Bates.

" What?" echoed Slater with astonishment. " On what charge? "

"Interfering with a homicide investigation," said Rebecca curtly. "That'll do for starters."

"You can't be serious," said Slater, staring at her with disbelief.

"Cuff him, Bates," Rebecca said. "Read him his rights."

" Becky!"

" Bates! I gave you an order!"

"I'm sorry, Ben," said Bates awkwardly, putting the cuffs on him. "You have the right to remain silent. ..."

" Becky!"

She turned and walked away.

" Rebecca!"

"Anything you say could be held against you in a court of law—"

"Oh, shut up, Harlan!"

"I'm sorry, Ben, I've got to read you your rights—"

''Oh, for cryin' out loud, I understand my rights!" snapped Slater. "Just book me and get me to a goddamn phone!"

CHAPTER Two

"And . . . action!"

As the cameras started rolling, the necromancer raised his arms high above his head and blue fire crackled around his fingers. The effects team went to work as simulated lightning lit up the cyclorama behind him and wind machines made his long white hair and star-bedazzled robes billow dramatically as he stood on a reinforced papier-mache rock promontory in a howling storm.

"All right, tilt down to Jessica! Cue Jessica. ..."

As the camera framed the leading lady, she started to writhe upon the carved stone altar as if with terror. It was a blatantly sexual display. She was strategically garbed in a clinging, white off-the-shoulder shift that was slashed to her hips, the better to show off her admirably well-shaped legs as she lay on her side in an attitude calculated to display them to best advantage. With her loosely closed fist held up to her open mouth in that timeless and entirely artificial gesture of screen heroines showing great alarm, she pulled her shoulders back so that her breasts were thrust against the thin, sheer fabric of her dress. To facilitate all these gyrations and further add some spice to the scene, instead of being bound to the altar hand and foot, Jessica was held prisoner by an iron collar attached to a short length of chain embedded in the "rock."

"Yes, yes! Good, Jessica, good!" the director encouraged her as if he were praising a pet dog. "You're terrified! He's going to unleash all the powers of Hell at you! Horror! Utter horror! More! More! That's it, give it to me! Give it to me!"

What she gave him wasn't exactly horror, but it was eminently watchable, all the same. The camera crane pulled back, widening the shot so that the malevolently gesticulating necromancer could be seen standing atop the fake rock promontory above the fake carved stone altar, where Jessica faked it with everything she had.

"Annnnnd . . . Cue demon!"

The necromancer brought both arms down in a sharp, sweeping gesture and a sizzling, bright blue bolt of thaumaturgic energy lanced down toward the ground at the foot of the alter where Jessica was acting her little heart out. There was a bright, blue-violet flash, a lot of sparks, and clouds of billowing smoke shot through with heat lightning . . . and then a deafening, bloodcurdling howling filled the studio as the demon materialized.

" Jee-zus Christ!" whispered Johnny Landau, the director. He stood slack-jawed, rooted to the spot, momentarily forgetting to direct the scene as he stared wide-eyed at the fearsome apparition.

Jessica let out an ear-piercing scream and this time, she wasn't acting. She strained in genuine terror against the chain that held her, no longer writhing suggestively, but scrambling like a scalded cat as she tried to pull herself loose. The apparition looming over her was huge, with two stumpy, muscular legs that ended in shaggy, cloven hooves. It had a wide, V-shaped torso with a gigantic rib cage, massive shoulders, and long, powerful, apelike arms. Its three-fingered hands had long, curving, hawklike talons that raked the air as it howled like a runaway express train. Its face was mostly mouth, with fanged jaws open wide enough to swallow Jessica whole, and its eyes were catlike, burning orbs of green fire. The creature was semitransparent, with currents of energy running through it, sparking in bright, multicolored, thaumaturgic discharges.

"Oh, my God. ..." said the cameraman.

" Keep rolling! Keep rolling! " shouted Landau, recovering from the shock of the demon's appearance. " Whatever you do, keep rolling! "

Jessica thrashed upon the altar and screamed herself hoarse as the creature howled and wailed, and then it gathered itself for a leap. As Jessica tore frantically at the chain, the demon leapt up into the air, arms extended, talons glistening, and an instant before it would have landed on the altar, the necromancer gestured sharply and the creature disappeared like smoke, leaving only the ecohes of its bone-chilling howls.

"Annnd . . . cut! Print it!" the director yelled jubilantly. "God, that was incredible! Amazing! Un-be-lievable!

Jessica, darling, that was absolutely fabulous! Jessica?"

The leading lady was sprawled out on the altar, motionless. The director and several crew members rushed over to her.

"Jessica?" said Landau, standing over her and looking down with concern. "Jessica, honey, are you all right?

Jessie—Jesus, somebody get a doctor!"

"She's all right," one of the crew members said. "I think she only fainted."

"Jessica? Jessie, come on, honey, snap out of it!" Landau slapped her lightly on the cheeks while one of the crew members held her propped up slightly. "Jessie?"

She opened her eyes, gave a violent start, and then sagged back down with a sigh when she saw that everything seemed to be under control. She closed her eyes, took a deep, ragged breath, then let it out slowly and opened her eyes once more.

"Hey, Jessie, honey," Landau said, "for a second there, you really had us worried!" She sat up slowly and turned to one of the crew. "Get this damn thing off me," she said, indicating the collar. The moment it was removed, she suddenly lashed out and gave Landau a hard, stinging slap across the face.

" Jessie!"

"You miserable son of a bitch!"

"Jessie! What the hell?"

"I almost had a goddamn heart attack, you bastard! Jesus! It was so real! Why the hell didn't you tell me it was going to be like that?"

"I'm afraid that was entirely my fault, Miss Blaine."

The man playing the necromancer had climbed down from his promontory and stood behind them, holding his high, conical hat under his arm and looking contritely at Jessica Blaine. His long white hair hung lank and damp below his shoulders and his beard and whiskers obscured most of his deeply lined, pale face, which showed the strain of the scene he'd just completed.

His voice was young, however, soft and faintly accented. He passed his right hand over his face, as if pushing back a veil, and the years magically fell away from him. He suddenly stood revealed as a much younger man, in his late thirties or early forties, slim, darkly handsome, clean-shaven, with shoulder-length black hair and pale blue eyes. Beneath the ornate Hollywood version of a necromancer's robes, which he had unfastened, he wore a simple black tunic and trousers, the costume of a cleric or a monk.

"Please forgive me, Miss Blaine," he said, his voice sounding at the same time both soothing and compelling, ''but not even Mr. Landau knew exactly what the effect would look like, so you see, there really was no way that he could have prepared you. And you must admit, having seen it, that it would have been rather difficult to explain what the effect would look like in advance."

Jessie Blaine expelled her breath in a sharp little gasp. "God, I should say so! But, dammit, you could have warned me just the same, Khasim! You might have given me at least some idea of what to expect! That. . . that horrible thing! It scared me half out of my mind! My God! I still can't believe how real it was!"

"Merely a magical illusion, Miss Blain," Khasim said. "You were in no danger whatsoever, I assure you. However, had I suspected that you were truly in such great distress, I would have canceled the illusion at once. I merely assumed that you were acting. Since your acting is always so utterly convincing, I fear that it simply never occurred to me that you were actually terrified. I don't know what to say. I feel terrible. Can you please forgive me?"

"Well ... I wasn't exactly terrified, Brother Khasim," she said, warming somewhat now that her vanity had been appealed to. "But of course I'll forgive you."

"Jessie, you should have seen yourself!" Johnny Landau said. "Wait'll you see the rushes! You were incredible!

Totally convincing! And Khasim, my man, that was truly spectacular! You even had me believing it was real!

Incredible! Just incredible! Best special effect I've ever seen! You're a genius! A genius! Okay, people, that's a wrap!

Strike the set! Nice job, everybody! See you all at the wrap party tonight!"

The effects team watched Brother Khasim as he walked away, the wardrobe department's star-bespangled costume billowing behind him like a cape. Their expressions were not very friendly.

"That guy's gonna cost us our jobs if this keeps up," one of them said.

"So what're you gonna do?" one of the others said with a shrug of resignation. "You can't hardly do a picture anymore without a special effects adept. It cuts costs and the audience expects it. Besides, you saw that effect illusion. How the hell can we compete with that?"

"Heck, Joe, we could've duplicated that effect."

" Live? You want to tell me how, Mort?"

"Well ... no, of course not live, but—"

"But nothing, Mort, that's just the point. No matter what we could come up with, an adept like Brother Khasim could do it in a fraction of the time and at a tenth the cost, even with the huge salary the studio pays him. It lets them bring the picture in quicker and with a smaller budget. Face it, he's good. The best I've ever seen. We just can't compete."

"Yeah, but there's still things they need us for," Mort said. "Like today, with the lighting effects and the wind machines. We can still do that a lot cheaper than it would cost them to have Khasim whip up a thunderstorm."

"Yeah? And how long before that turns into a conflict with the electrician's union?" the first man said. "You don't have to be a special effects man to flip a switch, Mort."

"Bert's right," said Joe with a heavy sign. "We're being squeezed out. Used to be wizards were too high-and-mighty for special effects work in films and all we got were lower grade adepts that weren't much of a threat. But now with sorcerers like Brother Khasim coming into the motion picture business, they just don't need us anymore."

"There must be something we can do," said Mort, looking worried.

"Maybe there is," said Bert thoughtfully. "There's been a lot of talk about this Brother Khasim character. Story is he's only doing this to help his mission, but he's cutting into a lot of people's territory. I think maybe I'll call in a few favors and find out what the deal is with this mission of his. Talk to some people I know and see what I can pick up about our mysterious adept."

"Want us to ask around as well, Bert?" Mort said.

"Yeah, why not? Let's see what we can learn about him. Find out where he came from; where he studied; who his teachers were and how come he can do things none of the other effects adepts can do."

"Like that demon, for instance?" Mort said.

"Yeah," Bert said, nodding. "Like that demon."

"Hey, Bert? Come here for a second."

Joe stood next to the fake stone altar in the spot where Khasim had made the demon effect materialize.

"Take a look at this," he said.

He pointed down at a several large scuff marks and indentations in the floor.

"So? What is it?" said Bert.

Joe glanced up at him with a strange expression. "Looks like hoofprints," he said.

Good God," Rydell said softly. "Morpheus."

"Please, the name is Michael Cornwall, if you don't mind. It would be safer for both of us if you didn't use that other name," said the well-built man with the dusty blond hair and neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were hazel and he wore tinted gold-rimmed glasses, an archaic affectation. His dark, custom-made suit was elegantly cut in the latest neo-Edwardian style, showing a touch of lace at the throat and cuffs. His voice was crisp, with a slight accent that sounded faintly British.

Ron Rydell was not happy to see him. Ten years earlier, the young producer/director had been on his way to becoming one of the fastest rising stars in the film industry, the hottest wunderkind in the business. But he was also way over his head in debt to some savage loan sharks. His first two films, independently produced and directed by himself, had been critical successes, but financial flops. He had overextended himself and his nervous backers had stopped answering his calls. Bankers were polite, as bankers always are, but equally intractable, especially when it came to a relative newcomer to the business with a less than impressive commercial track record. Frustrated, Rydell had turned to less conventional sources. And things had gone rapidly downhill from there. He went over budget on the film and his new backers started squeezing. Rydell soon found himself bone dry. He had managed to dance around creditors before and he had thought that this would be no different. After they broke his leg, he got scared. But when they brutally beat up his girlfriend in his presence, his fear was driven out by stone-cold rage. He burned every card he had to make contact with "the best man in the business," a business that did not advertise through normal channels. He incurred some obligations to people he would rather not have been obligated to, but fury drove him and he didn't care. It was pay-back time and he eventually found just the man to do it. Ten years ago, Ron Rydell had been very happy to see Modred, whom he knew only as Morpheus, but he was not very happy to see him now. Not now that he was a successful producer of slick action/adventure films. And certainly not in his own living room, in the middle of the night. He had just come home from a late night at the studio, supervising the editing of his latest film. His house was dark, and when he turned on the lights, he was brought up short by the sight of Modred relaxing in the leather-upholstered armchair and smoking a cigarette.

"It's been a long time . . . 'Mr. Cornwall.' Or should I call you Michael, since we're such old friends?" Rydell said, staring at him uneasily. He licked his lips nervously. "What's it been, about ten years?"

"About that. Michael will do, or Mike, if you prefer. I see you've done well in the meantime."

"I've done all right."

"Oh, I'd say you've done rather better than 'all right.' You've become an important man in this town. What is the old phrase . . . someone who pulls a lot of weight?"

Rydell gave a small snort. He compressed his lips into a tight grimace and nodded. "I knew it," he said. "I always knew it would come one day."

"I assume you recall our arrangement?"

"Arrangement?" said Rydell with an ironic smile. "Oh, yeah, I recall our 'arrangement.' I remember like it was yesterday. How the hell could I ever forget? I asked you for a little time. I said the bastards squeezed me dry, but I swore that whatever it took and whatever it cost me, even if I had to sell my goddam soul to pay you, I'd do it somehow." He paused. "And you said you'd take my soul. As collateral."

"Almost word for word," said Modred, smiling. "You have an excellent memory, Rydell."

"Yeah, well, some things are more memorable than others," Rydell said wryly. He exhaled heavily and went over to the bar to pour himself a stiff drink. He still walked with a pronounced limp. "You know, I read about what you did in the newspapers. And then I waited ten years for the other shoe to drop. Scotch?"

"Please."

"You take it neat, right?"

"As I said, an excellent memory."

Rydell smiled wryly. "My friend, I've never forgotten anything about you."

"Trouble sleeping nights?"

Rydell handed him the glass of whiskey. "No, funny thing about that. I lose sleep over other things sometimes, but never that. It's funny. I had three people killed and, you know, it doesn't bother me a bit. I've often wondered about that. Truth is, those scum bastardd shad it coming, and I'm glad they're dead." He paused slightly. "I gues that makes me a pretty cold blooded son of a bitch, doesn't it?"

"It makes you human." Modred said. "And you were right, they certainly had it coming. Which reminds me, whatever became of the young lady?"

"You're kidding." said Rydell, sitting down on the couch. "You really don't know?" Then he nodded. "That's right, I remember. You read books. No movies, no TV, no theater. None of that lowbrow stuff for you, eh? Well, Jessie had to have her face worked on quite a bit, but she came out of it okay. More or less okay, anyway. She got her looks back, but she's been insecure about it ever since. Always out to prove she's still got it, if you know hwat I mean. And she's still jumpy as all hell. But I suppose she got what she wanted in the long run." Rydell stared down at his glass. "Funny thing. Only reason she ever went out with me was because she wanted to get into one of my films. Unfortunately, by the time I found that out, she was already in the hospital with her face all busted up, and I felt like it was all my fault. So I paid for her new face, complete with improvements, had a thaumaturgic surgeon brought in to assist the team, first cabin all the way, deeper and deeper into debt, and then I gave her the lead in the first cheap quickie that came along. Hell, I was broke and I figured you'd come knocking pretty soon, wanting to be paid, and you were the one man I did not want to have financial problems with, believe me, so I grabbed the first film I was offered. I didn't give a damn what the hell it was."

He smiled and swirled the ice around in hi glass. "That was Curse fo the Necromancer. Most gadawfl fucking script you ever say. Made Jessica Blaine a star and me a multi-millionaire. I promptly humg up my artisitic principles and made a sequel. The critics crucified me, but the picture earned out in the first week of rlelease and I haven't looked back since." He tossed back the rest of his Scotch. "But you didn't come here to hear the story of my life, right? I'm sure you'd rather get down to business. I'll say one thing for you, when a guy asks you for some time, you sure as hell give him some time. What took you so long? Hell, forget it, I can't complain. I'm sure you had your resons. Anyway, I can afford it now, but you'll have to give me 'til tomorrow to get the cash. I don't keep that much around."

"I don't want your money, Rydell." Modred said.

"What?"

"I said, I don't want your money."

"What is this, a joke?"

"No joke. I'm absolutely serious."

Rydell stared at him apprehensively. "What, then?"

"A Favor."

"I see," Rydell said nervously.

"No, I don't think you do." said Modred. "Ten years ago, you were in trouble and you needed me, but you could not afford my price. I told you then that I didn't work for just anyone. I took that contract because those people needed to be dead and I thought there was a chance that at some future time, you might be in a position to do something for me. I've done that on occasion, when I thought the situation —and the client—merited such consideration. You don't need to concern yourself, Rydell. I'm not trying to get my hooks into you. Think of it as a simple trade, a barter. I provided my professional services for you, and now I would like you to provide your professional services for me."

Rydell frowned. "I'm not sure I understand. What are you telling me, you want to make a movie?"

"No, I want you to make a movie." Modred said. He shrugged. "Or not make it, as the case may be. Simply going through the preliminary stages may be all that is required. I'm not quite sure how it works." Rydell shook hi head. "I'm confused. What exactly is it you want me to do?"

"I need access to the Hollywood community and the social set surrounding it." said Modred. "The sort of access that only an insider could enjoy. And I need you to arrange it for me."

Rydell moistened his lips and went to pour himself another Scotch. "I think I'm beginning to understand." he said, his hand slightly unsteady as he poured the drink. "You've got a contract on somebody in the business, and you want me to help you get next to him, is that it?"

"No," said Modred. "Although I can understand why you would come to that conclusion. I'm not in that particular line of work anymore, Rydell. I don't really need the money. I'm a very wealthy man. In fact, I could probably finance your next film out of pocket if I chose to. Come to think of it, that might not be a bad idea. It could be the best approach."

"Finance my next film?" Rydell said with a snort. "Look, I'll grant you that I don't make epics, far from it. I can do more with a low budget than anybody in this town, but with all due respect, I'm not sure you realize just what it costs to—"

"Would twenty-five million do?"

"Twenty-five mil—" Rydell had to clear his throat. " Twenty-five million dollars? "

"If that's not enough, you could have more. I could have it deposited to your account tomorrow." Rydell tossed back the drink and poured himself another. "I think I'd better sit down," he said, coming back to the couch and bringing the bottle with him. He sat down, glanced at the bottle, then pushed it aside.

"On second thought, I'd better keep completely sober. Listen, what the hell is this about? You trying to run some kinda con on me?"

"If I was, I'd hardly admit it, now would I?" Modred said, smiling. "In any case, if you don't believe me, give me the name of your bank and wait until tomorrow. By close of business, you should have twenty-five million dollars more in your account."

Rydell shook his head in disbelief. "You're really not kidding? You've actually got ready access to that kind of money?"

Modred nodded once.

"Jesus. Your ... uh ... former business couldn't possibly pay that well, could it?"

"Let's just say that I've invested wisely over the years," said Modred, wondering what Rydell would have thought if he knew that he was referring to centuries rather than decades.

"AH right, it's none of my business anyway," Rydell said. "And I suppose if I did ask any questions, you could tell me anything you wanted. Either way, I guess I'd just have to trust you."

"I trusted you," said Modred.

Rydell grimaced and nodded. "Yeah, that's right, you did." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "That still doesn't make this any easier. I mean, I owe you, but—"

"I know. I quite understand," said Modred. "After all, I was a professional assassin. A 'hitter,' as you Americans say. For all you know, I still am. And I could have a contract on one of your friends. Perhaps a very close friend. However, ask yourself, if that were the case, then why would I need you? I could easily track down my quarry without your help. Besides, if I'd been hired to do away with someone in the business, then chances would be that it was someone in the business who had hired me and then, if necessary, I could easily use my client to introduce me to Hollywood society."

"Yeah, I suppose you could at that. Except chances are you'd wind up running into me," Rydell said.

"And what would you do?" said Modred with a smile. "Give me away? Tell them that I was an infamous international 'hit man' known as Morpheus, wanted by every nation from here to China? They'd be bound to wonder how you knew."

"I could make an anonymous phone call," said Rydell.

Modred smiled. "And the police might come and question me, but I have not remained at liberty for all these years without taking elaborate precautions. I promise you they'd find no reason to detain me. However, I would immediately know who'd called them. Honestly, Rydell, if I really believed you'd be a liability to me, do you suppose that I'd have let you live?"

Rydell swallowed hard. "No, I guess you wouldn't. But I still don't understand. Why the hell give me twenty-five million to make a movie?"

"You don't think it would be a good investment?"

"Come on, I'm serious, for God's sake."

"So am I," said Modred. "I'd hate to lose my money."

"Look, I've made films that lost money and I've made films that made money. Believe me, by now, I know the difference. I've made films for a lot less than twenty-five million and they've made a fortune. But it doesn't make any damned sense. What, you want to go to a few parties? Fine. I could introduce you around. No problem. You don't have to drop twenty-five million for that. So what's the angle?"

"Perhaps I simply want to become a successful film producer now that I've retired," Modred said. "And working with someone who's already an established name in the business is simpler than starting from scratch."

"Uh-huh," Rydell said. "Sure." He took another deep breath. "Look, I owe you. If it wasn't for you, I'd probably have been anchored to a channel marker out at Santa Catalina. I figure if you waited ten years before you came to me, then whatever it is must be important. I'll do it, and not just because I'm afraid of what might happen if I don't. But I could help you better if I knew what you were after."

"I'm not sure you would believe me if I told you," Modred said.

"Try me."

"Very well," said Modred. "I'm out to trap a necromancer."

"Come on, Ben," said Sergeant Bates, opening the cell door.

"It's about damn time," said Slater, furiously, as he stormed out of the cell. "I don't know what in God's name she was thinking of! If she thinks—"

"Uh . . . I'm afraid you're not getting out just yet, Ben," said Bates awkwardly. Slater came to a dead stop in the corridor. "What?"

"I'm supposed to take you up to one of the interrogation rooms," said Bates. "Somebody wants to see you."

"What somebody?"

"A guy from B.O.T.," said Bates.

"Damn, I knew it!" Slater said, hitting his palm with his fist. "I knew it! If the Bureau is involved, then it sure as hell isn't a routine murder case. So that's what this is all about, is it? They're trying to figure out a way to make me keep my mouth shut."

"Look, Ben," said Bates, "for what it's worth, I'm not sure how much Captain Farrell had to do with this. She's really being pressured. It's coming down hard on all of us. Real hard. Somebody upstairs has clamped down real tight on this."

"You mean a cover-up."

"All I know is that this B.O.T. guy, Gorman, has practically taken over the precinct. We've got orders not to talk to anybody. Everyone's on edge. And there's some new V.I.P. who just showed up—"

"Harlan, you've got to make a call for me," said Slater. "Call the paper. Tell them I'm here and being denied due process. You don't have to give your name. Hell, half the precinct saw me brought in wearing handcuffs. I've got a lot of friends here. There's no way the brass will know who called."

"It's okay, Ben, the call's already been made."

"It has?"

"It's like you said, Ben, you've got a lot of friends here. Believe me, I don't like this any more than you do. Nobody does. This is not the way we work things."

"Yeah, I know," said Slater. "But it looks like the Bureau is really throwing its weight around. That means somebody's running scared. And I've got a pretty good idea why."

Bates escorted him upstairs to one of the interrogation rooms, then handed him over to the people inside. Before he turned to leave, he gave Slater a quick wink.

There were three people inside the interrogation room. One was Rebecca Farrell. She stood leaning against the wall, looking tense and drawn. The other two were men. Slater quickly sized them up. The man from the Bureau he spotted right away. He was the one on his feet, pacing back and forth, looking every inch the bureaucrat. Middle thirties, Slater figured, medium build, dressed well in a conservative, three-piece neo-Edwardian suit. No lace and only a hint of cuff showing. Not too stylish, just enough to present the proper corporate image. Most of the Bureau's personnel were former corporate wizards from the private sector. This guy had a high forehead, a neatly trimmed beard, and his light brown hair was thin on top and worn traditionally long in back, down to the shoulders. Just enough to socially signify he was a wizard, but not an inch longer or shorter than it had to be. Everything about him was crisp and proper, from his tailoring to his demeanor. Anal retentive, Slater guessed. Just the sort to make a big production out of everything.

The other man sat quietly at the table with his hands clasped in front of him. He was slightly older than Slater and exceedingly thin, almost to the point of emaciation. He was clean-shaven and his cheekbones were very prominent. His hair was gray and worn tied back in a loose pony tail. A sorcerer. However, he was not wearing the formal, full-length robes. His suit was impeccably tailored, light gray with a fine dark stripe and a very stylish cut. The coat hung to mid-thigh, with a full stand-up collar and lapels. He wore a silk jabot at his throat and a generous amount of lace at his cuffs. The large fire opal he wore on his ring finger must have cost a fortune.

"Do you people have any idea what you're letting yourselves in for?" Slater said. "Bad enough you—"

"Sit down and shut up, Slater," said the B.O.T. man.

"That's sit down and shut up, Mr. Slater. And it wouldn't kill you to say please."

" Sit the hell down! "

Slater sat down at the table. The sorcerer cast a brief, sidelong glance at Gorman, but said nothing.

"I want a lawyer," Slater said.

"There'll be plenty of time for that," said Gorman. "You haven't been formally charged yet. What I—"

"I want a lawyer right now," said Slater.

"I think you'd better understand something, Slater," said Gorman. "You're in no position to be making any demands here. You're being charged with a very serious crime. Interfering with a homicide investigation and resisting arrest is—"

"Look, son, I was working the crime beat in this city when you were still playing with your first magic kit," said Slater. "I forgot more about interrogation techniques than you'll ever learn, so I'm not about to be intimidated, all right?

Now if you think you can really make those charges stick, then be my guest and take your best shot. But if I were you, I'd rethink my position pretty damn quick, because you're on very shaky ground already." He saw Rebecca Farrell give Gorman a look as if to say, "I told you so," and was surprised to notice a faint smile flicker across the sorcerer's face. He wondered who the man was. A senior B.O.T. official? He didn't look the part. Some independent that the department was consulting? Unlikely. He wouldn't be sitting in on an interrogation then. Someone from the mayor's office? No, there weren't any sorcerers in city politics. State? His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door of the interrogation room. A patrolman stuck his head in.

"Excuse me, Captain Farrell, but there's an attorney out here demanding to see Mr. Slater at once. And there's some media people outside, too."

"I told you this was a dumb idea," said Rebecca Farrell to the B.O.T. man. "Now it's all going to blow up in your face, whether you like it or not."

"Now you listen here, Farrell—" Gorman began, but the sorcerer interrupted him.

"No, I think you'd better listen, Gorman," he said, speaking with a British accent. "She's absolutely right. The way to achieve cooperation with the press is to work with them, not antagonize them. I suggest you release Mr. Slater immediately. I fear you've overstepped your bounds."

Gorman's jaw muscles tensed visibly and he stiffened. "With all due respect, sir, I'm not sure that—" The sorcerer casually glanced at him and raised his eyebrows. He didn't say a word, but Gorman shut up instantly. He licked his lips and looked away.

"Yes, sir. Captain Farrell, you may inform Mr. Slater that there's been a mistake. He's free to go."

"Inform him yourself," she said. She turned and left the interrogation room.

"That's all right, I got the message," Slater said, standing up. "Gorman. How do you spell that, with one 'n' or two?"

Gorman was about to reply, but the sorcerer spoke first. "Mr. Slater, you are, of course, under no obligation to remain here a moment longer, but I would personally be very grateful for a few minutes of your time." Slater glanced at Gorman. "Sure," he said. "Why not?"

He sat back down.

"Mr. Gorman," said the sorcerer, "would you be so kind as to inform Mr. Slater's attorney that no charges are being filed against him and he will be out momentarily?"

Gorman left without a word.

The sorcerer shook his head. "Nervous chap, wouldn't you say?"

"I think I'd use a stronger adjective," Slater said. "So, between you, me, and whoever's on the other side of that mirror, why should both the B.O.T. and the I.T.C. be interested in a so-called routine homicide?" There was no doubt in his mind now that the sorcerer was from the International Thaumaturgical Commission. Gorman's deference to him clinched it. Bureau adepts took a backseat to no one—except agents of the I.T.C. The sorcerer smiled. "Allowed me to introduce myself, Mr. Slater." He held out his hand. "My name is Thanatos."

"Thanatos?" said Slater, taking his hand. "That's another name for Death, isn't it? Somehow, I didn't think I'd be meeting up with you so soon."

The sorcerer chuckled. "It is, of course, not my truename, but my mage-name."

"I figured. But I thought most adepts didn't go in for mage-names anymore," said Slater.

"Oh, a few of us still do," said Thanatos. "Those whose true-names have never quite pleased them for one reason or another, or those with a flair for the dramatic or those who simply like to see themselves as purists."

"Which one are you?"

"Oh, a bit of all three, I suppose," said the sorcerer, with a smile. "The truth is I have a nostalgic fondness for that name. I didn't choose it myself. It was bestowed upon me by my old professor, whose patience I often tried back when I was a graduate student. He often said I'd be the death of him, and so he named me Thanatos. It was none other than the late Merlin Ambrosius, himself."

"Nothing like learning from the best," said Slater admiringly.

"Yes. He'll be sorely missed," said Thanatos. "Mr. ' Slater—"

"Ben."

Thanatos smiled. "Ben. I asked for but a few moments of your time, so I will get right to the point. I've only just arrived here, but I've already managed to get something of a handle on this situation, as you Americans say. It's my understanding that Captain Farrell had you placed under arrest only so that you would be brought here before you could communicate with anybody else. A bit irregular, perhaps, but apparently she hoped to explain the situation to you as a captive audience, if you'll excuse the pun, and prevail upon you to cooperate voluntarily, which is precisely what I now hope to do."

"I'm not making any promises," said Slater.

"I wouldn't ask you to," said Thanatos, "at least not until you've heard me out. You should know that it was agent Gorman, and not Captain Farrell, who decided to actually threaten you with those charges, apparently thinking that you could be intimidated. Captain Farrell insisted that it was a foolish idea, guaranteed to cause them trouble, but Gorman is young, ambitious, and rather impetuous. And, although he won't admit it, he's also genuinely frightened. When I learned of the situation, my inclination was to order you released at once. Even though, technically, I have no official standing here, Gorman would not have been able to refuse me."

"Yes, I know," said Slater. "As I understand it, the jurisdictional boundaries are a little vague in this area, but the police tend to defer to the Bureau when it expresses an interest in a case, mainly because it probably involves a magic-user and high grade adepts don't usually go in for police work. It doesn't pay enough. And the Bureau defers to the I.T.C. because if they don't, you guys can yank their registrations and there goes all that postgraduate training in hocus-pocus."

Thanatos shrugged. "A bit oversimplified, perhaps, but basically an accurate assessment of the politics involved. We are essentially a regulatory agency, and theoretically, we don't have an enforcement branch. Officially, we must defer to the local laws and, thereby, the local law enforcement agencies. But local law enforcement agencies, even one such as the Bureau of Thaumaturgy, cannot in practice cope with situations which are international in scope. Which brings us to the crux of this matter."

"The fact that you're here," said Slater. "It means we're talking about something very serious. Such as magic used to commit murder. In other words, necromancy."

"Exactly."

"You admit it!"

"Absolutely. Only you have it rather backwards. More precisely, necromancy is murder used to commit magic. Ritual murder, accomplished in a manner which allows the necromancer to absorb the life energies of his victims, or to use them in casting a powerful spell. Sometimes the necromancer actually performs the ritual murder. At other times, it may be accomplished by another person in the power of the necromancer, an acolyte, or an entity. A sort of demon."

"With claws?" said Slater, thinking back to the wounds he'd seen on Sarah Tracy's corpse.

"Not necessarily, but yes, it could indeed have claws. Such as the creature that murdered Sarah Tracy."

"The creature?"

"Oh yes. I have seen the body and sensed the trace emanations within it. They were very faint, but they were unquestionably there. Sarah Tracy's life energy—or her soul, if you choose to think in those terms—was savagely ripped away from her in a manner calculated to excite maximum terror."

"Why maximum terror?"

"Because the life force is at its most vibrant at times of sexual excitation and mortal dread. At such times, the aura

—to one sensitive to such things—throbs visibly."

"And you can see that? An aura, I mean," Slater said.

"I can. It is a rare talent. One does not have to be a sorcerer to have it. It must be something you are born with."

"Can you see mine?"

"Yes."

"Really? What does it look like?"

"It is a bright, cerulean blue," said Thanatos, "very intense and closely outlining your form."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, among other things, that I can trust you."

"Well . . . thanks."

"Don't thank me, I simply read them as I see them."

Slater grinned. "What is this, some sort of magic-user's version of good cop/bad cop? First Gorman rails at me and threatens to lock me up and throw away the key, then you cozy up to me and tell me I have a nice aura? Come on, you'll have to do better than that."

Thanatos smiled. "And so I shall. Tell me, Ben, have you ever heard the legend of the Dark Ones?"

CHAPTER Three

The Beverly Hills Hotel had seen much better days, but then so had most of the city of Los Angeles. Located at the intersection of Sunset Boulevard and Beverly Drive, the hotel boasted a tradition dating back to the early twentieth century, even though nothing was left of the original pink palace that had once been the gathering place of the rich and famous. At various times since the last days of the twentieth century, it had been a hotel, a private residence, a psychiatric hospital, an exclusive luxury apartment complex, and a gambling casino and resort. It had been extensively remodeled several times and most of it had burned down in the riots during the Collapse, but a consortium of private investors had rebuilt it to capitalize on the "new nostalgia." Now, it was once again the place to be seen for the power brokers and the deal makers of the resurgent entertainment industry.

"We're going to be staying here?" said Kira as they got out of the limousine.

"This is where Modred got rooms for us," said Wyrdrune, looking equally bewildered as they went through the lobby doors, with the broom struggling along behind them with their bags.

"What in the bleedin"ell is that?" said Billy, gazing at the giant golden statue standing in the lobby. It was an abstract figure of a man standing on a round obsidian pedestal. Twin jets of water shot out from his ears into the pool below.

"I think that must be Oscar," Wyrdrune said.

"Oscar who?" said Billy.

"I don't know Oscar who. He was someone famous in the old pre-Collapse days. They sell little foot-high statues of him in all the nostalgia shops. I understand they used to give them out as awards."

"What for?"

"Oh, best film, best actor, best restaurant, that sort of thing. He's the official symbol of Los Angeles."

"What, a skinny bloke with no clothes on?"

Wyrdrune shrugged.

"What's 'e got in 'is 'ands then, a glass o' whiskey?"

"I think it's a sword."

"G'wan! It don't look like no sword."

"It's sort of abstract, see ... he's holding it pointing downward with the hilt up against his chest and—"

"Will you come on, already?" said the broom. "I'm standing here holding a ton of luggage and you two are shmoozing over a statue making with a do-it-yourself bris."

The desk clerk cast a dubious eye upon them when they came up to check in, but his attitude changed markedly when everything turned out to be in order.

"Oh yes, of course, Mr. Cornwall's party! We've been expecting you."

He immediately summoned a bellman to conduct them to Bungalow 1. The bellman seemed at a loss when he confronted the broom, holding all the suitcases. He hesitated, glancing from Wyrdrune to the broom and back to Wyrdrune again.

"What, you never saw a suitcase before?" said the broom, dropping the luggage on the floor. "Here. And watch the brown one, it'll give you a rupture if you're not careful."

They were conducted through the lobby and out onto the garden path leading to their private bungalow. A purple para-cat sat in one of the little palm trees, swinging its bushy tail back and forth and singing "My Way" in a squawk-voiced imitation of Frank Sinatra. It was clashing rather badly with a green kittyhawk doing "New York State of Mind" in imitation of Ray Charles. There were more thaumagenetically engineered hybirds singing in other trees around the garden, the cacophony rendering the lyrics indistinguishable.

"Does this sort of thing go on all the time?" said Wyrdrune.

"Fortunately, they tend to quiet down at night," the bellman said, as if he'd answered the same question a thousand times before. "The idea was to teach them a dozen or so nostalgic songs from old pre-Collapse recordings and have them all singing in chorus, but it seems they each have their own favorite song which they insist on singing over and over again." He shrugged. "It gets a bit noisy sometimes. There doesn't seem to be anything that we can do about it."

"Have you tried a BB gun?" said the broom.

Wyrdrune gave it a warning glance and it kept silent till they reached the cabin. Bungalow 1 turned out to be an extremely well-appointed cottage, with luxurious furnishings and a lot more room than their old East Fourth Street railroad flat.

'"Gor'blimey!" said Billy as they entered. "This is really nice, in'it?" He glanced uncertainly at Wyrdrune. "Can we afford it?"

The bellman gave him a strange glance but said nothing. Wyrdrune tipped him, generously, he thought, but the bellman stared at the tip with distaste and left without a word.

"No, we can't afford it, but Modred certainly can," said Kira.

"That still doesn't make me feel any better about staying in a fancy place like this," said Wyrdrune, taking off his hat and cassock and going to the closet. "I don't care how many billions he's got stashed away, I just don't feel comfortable living off his money."

"Let me get this straight," said Kira. "You don't mind stealing, but it bothers you when someone else picks up the tab for a hotel room?"

"It just makes me feel like I'm being given an allowance," Wyrdrune said. He opened the closet door and stepped back in surprise. It was full of clothes. "Hey, I think they gave us the wrong cottage," he said. "Someone's got their clothes in here."

"No, those clothes are yours," said Modred, from behind them.

Wyrdrune turned to face him and Kira gasped.

"Your stone ..." she said.

The emerald runestone in his forehead was glowing faintly. Kira quickly tore off her glove. The sapphire runestone set into her palm was glowing softly, as well. She glanced at Modred.

"Yes, mine, too," said Modred, coming into the room. He unbuttoned his shirt. The ruby runestone in his chest was glowing, a bit more brightly than theirs.

" They're here!" said Kira.

He nodded. "Yes, I know. I felt it as soon as I arrived. I didn't tell you because I wanted to see if you would feel it, too."

"I didn't feel anything," said Kira, shaking her head. "Not like the last time." She glanced at Wyrdrune. "Did you?" He shook his head. "No, but his descent from the Old Ones is much more direct than ours. He's more in tune with the spirits of the runestones."

Modred nodded. "It was as if something drew me here," he said. "A powerful feeling, a compulsion. ..."

"Exactly how we felt when we stole the runestones," Kira said. "Irresistibly compelled."

"At least one of them is definitely here," said Modred.

"But he must not be very close," said Wyrdrune. "Otherwise, the reaction of the runestones would be much stronger."

"That's the puzzling part," said Modred, frowning. "The runestones' response would seem to indicate that the Dark One isn't in close proximity to us, and yet I sense a dark power very close, indeed."

"What does it mean?" said Kira.

Modred shook his head. "I don't know."

"It could mean that the Dark One has one or more acolytes nearby," said Merlin, speaking through Billy. The difference was remarkable. Billy still looked the same, but his voice became much deeper and lost its cockney accent. His entire demeanor changed—his posture, the way he held his head, the way he moved. His tone of voice, gestures, and mannerisms were instantly recognizable to someone who had known Merlin when he lived. Though it was no longer new to them, it was still a bit unsettling to see the sudden shift in personalities, to interact on a daily basis with someone who was possessed.

"An acolyte?" said Kira. "You mean like Al'Hassan was?"

"Yes, or like those poor creatures in Whitechapel," Merlin said. "The necromancer often uses acolytes and catspaws against his adversaries, working through them, investing them with his power. In this manner, they become not only his tools, but his shield, as well. Through Al'Hassan, they came perilously close to defeating us the first time. We will have to search out and destroy these servants of the necromancer before we can find the Dark One himself."

"Or before 'e finds us," Billy added.

"That's why I've booked us all into this hotel," said Modred. "It's a focal point for much of the business of the entertainment industry, and that's where the power structure in this city lies."

"But how do we know the Dark One is involved with the entertainment industry?" said Kira.

"We don't, of course," said Modred."However, we know the Dark Ones are enthralled by power and power, whether economic, social, or political, provides a certain measure of protection. And in this town, that kind of power centers around the entertainment industry. Becoming part of it will ensure that all doors will be open to us."

"How do we become a part of it?" said Wyrdrune.

"Very simple," Modred said. "We're going to make a movie."

" What?"

"How the hell do we do that?" asked Kira.

"With the greatest of ease," said Modred. "In the old days, a strong right arm, a keen sword, and a thick head could win you a kingdom, as my father amply demonstrated. However, these days, one no longer wins a kingdom; one simply buys it."

"I get it," Wyrdrune said. "You're going to become a film producer, which will get you in just about anywhere in this town."

"Slight correction," Modred said. "I'm not the only one. You're going to be a film producer, as well."

" Me?"

"And Kira and Billy shall be our executive staff," added Modred.

"But we don't know anything about making movies!"

"You don't have to," Modred said. He indicated the closet. "All you really need to do is dress the part and act suitably eccentric. That shouldn't be very difficult for you. There's a film producer here named Ron Rydell who's going to help us."

"Ron Rydell?" said Wyrdrune. "You mean the one who produced and directed Curse of the Necromancer? That Ron Rydell?"

"Yes, he owes me a favor for a service I performed for him a few years back. He's consented to act as coproducer in our mutual venture."

"Wow, he's one of the biggest names in the business!" Wyrdrune said. "He made Curse of the Necromancer, Return of the Necromancer, Revenge of the Necromancer, Bride of the Necromancer, Son of the Necromancer. ..."

"Abbott and Costello Meet the Necromancer, " Modred said wryly.

"Who? I don't remember that one," Wyrdrune said, looking puzzled.

"Never mind, it was a joke," Modred said. "Before your time. The point is, we are merely going through the motions. Rydell will be doing all the work. In fact, he's actually excited about it. He tells me there's a project he's been wanting to do for years, only his backers have always pressured him to do more Necromancer films." He glanced at Billy with a smile. "It seems that what he really wants to do is the story of Merlin the Magician."

"You must be joking," Merlin said.

"I'm quite serious," said Modred. "I told Rydell that he could do any sort of film he wanted and what he wants to do is a film about Merlin." He turned to Wyrdrune. "I told him you were something of an expert on the subject, that you'd actually studied with him. Rydell was positively thrilled."

"No," said Merlin. "Absolutely not! I won't allow it!"

"Come now, Ambrosius," said Modred mockingly, "don't you want to leave behind a record for posterity?"

"I've already been through that. I have no intention of seeing my life reduced to another shallow, popular amusement," Merlin said.

"Bit late for that, isn't it?" said Modred.

Billy drew himself up stiffly and gave Modred a haughty look, which on Merlin would have looked imposing, but on a teenager punked to the core, it simply looked snotty.

"It's bad enough I've had to suffer Malory and White and that wretch, Disney, who actually had the temerity to turn me into a fish, to say nothing of all the others, but I shudder to think of what your friend Rydell will bring forth. I've seen Curse of the Necromancer. They once showed it at a film festival the students ran in Cambridge. A more ludicrous spectacle I've never witnessed in all my life!"

"Well, look at it this way," Modred said, "this will be your chance to set the record straight."

"Y'know, it sounds like fun to me," said Billy.

"Who asked you?" Merlin said.

"Well, who bloody well asked you?"

"Now you listen here, you young guttersnipe—"

"Ey, sod off!"

" What?"

"You 'eard me, I said, sod off!"

"How dare you speak to me that way?"

"Yeah, an' what're you gonna do about it, ya bleedin' old wanker?"

"A man at war with himself," said Modred, chuckling.

"I should have drowned you when you were still a child," said Merlin, scowling at Modred.

"Behave yourself, Ambrosius," said Modred, "or I may call a priest and have you exorcised."

"Hah!"

"In any case, we will be having dinner with Rydell this evening, so I will ask you to be civil, because we need his help."

"How much does he know?" asked Wyrdrune.

"Very little," Modred said. "He suspects my motives, but twenty-five million dollars make for strong persuasion. Still, he wanted to know what I was really after. I told him that I was here to trap a necromancer. Needless to say, he thought I was joking. However, he is not a stupid man, so for his own safety, it might be best if he knew as little about our plans as possible."

"You gave Rydell twenty-five million dollars?" Kira said with astonishment.

"I thought it might not be enough, but it seems he's made films for much less," said Modred.

"That I can believe," said Merlin sourly.

"At first, I thought that merely going through the motions would be enough," said Modred, "but I think that actually making a film would provide a much more solid cover for us. Who knows, I might even make a profit. And, as Billy said, it might be fun. But let's not lose sight of our objective. It will be dangerous, as well. Especially if the necromancer is alerted to our presence before we're ready to make our move. If that happens, it could well prove fatal."

The Lost Souls Mission was located on Sunset Boulevard, just west of Fairfax Avenue in the area known as "the Strip." It was an apt location for a mission with that name. During its heydey in the twentieth century, the Sunset Strip was two miles of swank nightclubs and restaurants, production company offices and talent agencies, souvenir shops and cafes, recording studios and boutiques, and giant, garish billboards overlooking everything. It had gradually degenerated into a combat zone of sleazy bars and sex parlors and during the Collapse, it was quite literally a free-fire zone. Back then, some part of it was always burning. The street gangs took it over in the early post-Collapse days and it had taken years to drive them out so that the area could be redeveloped, but bit by bit, they drifted back to their old stomping grounds.

The result was that the Strip now possessed a bizarre split personality. During the daylight hours, it was a busy commuter business district surrounded by modular clusters of low-rent residential apartments that looked like geometric cliff dwellings or ominous hives for giant killer bees. As night fell, the offices on the Strip were closed and locked securely, the sidewalk cafes hastily retracted all their chairs and tables, and the restaurants that catered to the daytime crowd shut down tight behind steel shutters. Establishments that had remained closed throughout most of the day opened their battered metal, graffiti-covered doors as the nocturnal creatures from the slums up on the hills began to stir. The Strip slowly sloughed off its Dr. Jekyll facade and, as darkness fell, stood revealed as Mr. Hyde, drooling like a hydrocephalic and searching for some sleaze.

The garish, multicolored lights came on as the strip erupted into neon and the billboard war began. The advertising companies who owned the giant billboards had reached a novel compromise with the youth gangs in an effort to keep their signs from being defaced. During the daylight hours, the billboards proclaimed whatever message the renting advertisers desired, whether it was the promotion of a new film, a product, or a personality. At night, the billboard owners made arrangements with the gangs to proclaim whatever message they wished free of charge, in return for which each gang became fiercely protective of "their" billboards. A simple transmutation spell placed on the billboards activated the change, so that a huge sign advertising "Natural Magicola, for an instant energy lift!" became a beautiful, young, reclining nude, moaning and writhing slowly while letters of dripping blood formed upon her body, proclaiming "Morlocks Rule!"

The streetboarders clogged the thoroughfare, staging highspeed, violent "freestyle" competitions and raw, driving music would throb from renaissance punk bars and nouveau medieval clubs like Bullwinkle's, Dulang-Dulang, and Spago-Pogo. Hookers of both sexes, often runaways recruited by remorseless pimps, plied their trade without restraint and dealers hawked black market magic potions for power, sex appeal, temporary transmutations, or simply getting high. At such times, the police withdrew discreetly, knowing that discretion was the better part of valor. They had learned their lessons during the Collapse, when most of the city burned. Street violence in combat zones merely served to control the population of the screamers. If the violence erupted into fullblown riots, as it sometimes did, it was far easier and safer to simply gas the crowd into submission than to risk controlling it with riot squads. It was in this maelstrom of the wild and the aimless that Brother Khasim had established his nonsectarian Lost Souls Mission and it was here he came each night, to minister to the demented and the wayward. The money that he made working for the film production companies as a special effects adept all went to support the mission, which provided food and temporary shelter to anyone who needed it. He referred to his flock as "the children of the streets" and he was tireless in his efforts to solicit contributions to support his work on their behalf. He was well known on the Strip and the street people considered him a saint.

They could not have been more wrong.

The Lost Souls Mission had an unprepossessing exterior. It was a simple, four-story converted office building with a dark brown stone facade. A brass plate mounted on the wall beside the arched entrance to the lobby was the sole identifying sign. Upon entering, one encountered a receptionist who was part of the small permanent staff of the mission, all of whom had once been on the street themselves. All the other help were volunteers, drawn from the streets. The cost of a bed in the shelter was assisting in the kitchen or the laundry, or helping with some small repairs. Occasionally, there were donations, deposited anonymously in the cash box in the lobby or through the metal slot at the entrance. There were always gratefully accepted and if the money came from ill-gotten goods that had been fenced, well, the donations were anonymous and there was no way of questioning the source. Between such "irregular donations," occasional charitable contributions from wealthy individuals and corporations and Brother Khasim's salary, the mission managed to get by. In fact, it made a considerable profit, but this was carefully concealed and no one would suspect the selfless Brother Khasim of being anything but totally aboveboard. Every hooker who worked the Strip always made a point of setting "a little something" aside for Brother Khasim and his mission. And Brother Khasim was always so warmly grateful, the one man they could talk to who would not use or abuse them, the one man who did not judge them, the one man they could call their friend. Every pimp and every dealer made it a practice to donate something to the mission, too, if not out of respect for the good brother's work, then out of fear of those above them in the criminal hierarchy of the Strip, who always asked if they had donated something to the cause and always knew somehow if they did not. Every businessman and woman who worked the Strip was squeezed a little, if not through Brother Khasim's charm in asking them directly to "please give anything you can," then through the gangs, who threatened to trash the place if' the brother wasn't taken care of." And the gangs themselves threw in a cut of whatever they took in, which was often a considerable amount, all of which, together with the legitimate contributions, added up to a very tidy sum. It could easily be said that the Lost Souls Mission was the most profitable operation on the Strip.

It was already dark when Khasim came through the door into the lobby. The pretty young receptionist looked up and smiled warmly when she saw him.

"Good evening, Brother Khasim," she said, her eyes practically glowing with adoration.

"Good evening, Kathy," he said.

"How did the filming go today?"

"About the same as usual," Khasim said. "We finally wrapped the film. Quite honestly, I find it tiring and demeaning, but it does help us carry on our work. That makes it all worthwhile." Her face was shining. "You're always thinking of others," she said, "never of yourself."

"One must always think of others, Kathy," said Khasim. "Especially of those who are less fortunate." He came up 44 Simon Hawke

close to her and gently touched her cheek. "Always remember, it is by serving others that you best serve yourself."

She trembled.

He briefly visited the free clinic and the crisis center, exchanged a few words with the volunteers there, then went up to the fourth floor, bypassing the shelter dormitories on the third and second. He walked down the corridor to his administrative offices and private residence. He smiled a greeting at the staff as he came through, saying, "I must do my meditations. Please see that I am not disturbed." Then he gestured to open the spell-warded door to his private quarters.

On occasion, such as when the media wanted to do a profile on "the Sorcerer Saint of Sunset Strip," these rooms were opened to outsiders, so that everyone could see how simply and how frugally Brother Khasim lived. The spell-warding was explained by the fact that all the mission funds were kept there, as well as all the records, many of which concerned the intimate details of the broken lives that Brother Khasim tried to patch together. And as Brother Khasim patiently explained, the neighborhood that they were in was, unfortunately, known for its high crime rate and they did not ask questions of those whom they took in.

Indeed, there seemed no other possible reason for spell-warding the premises, which were spartan in the extreme. There was Brother Khasim's private office, which was little more than a small room containing battered, secondhand office furniture and some tattered books. Then there was the consultation room, in which Brother Khasim conducted private meetings with those who sought his help and guidance. Here again, the room was small and dark, with all the space taken up by a used couch, an old wooden desk and chair, a secondhand armchair, a lamp, and a small, stained wooden coffee table. Behind these two small rooms was Brother Khasim's tiny apartment—which invariably humbled those who saw it.

It was like a monk's cell, tiny, cramped by the small, secondhand bed, nightstand, and lamp, with bare walls and no windows. The bathroom was a simple shower cabinet, a toilet, and a sink, the fixtures obviously scavenged from some junkyard. And there was nothing else, except for a battered chest of drawers and a small closet that contained what little clothing Brother Khasim owned. Not even a kitchen. He took his meals, he said, with the other inhabitants of the shelter, any one of whom could testify that he ate as sparingly as a cloistered Buddhist. To all appearances, Brother Khasim was, indeed, a saint. But appearances could be deceiving, especially in a sorcerer's case. He gestured to close the door behind him. The spell-warding ensured that the only way anyone could gain entrance would be to break the door down, but forcible entry activated another, very different spell, one that only Khasim knew about, since he had cast it. If such an attempt was made, the person making it would never survive to tell about it.

Khasim went directly to the tiny closet in his bathroom and opened the door. He shoved aside the coat and the two spare suits that hung there, both identical and plain, both black, the same as the suit that he now wore. He stepped into the closet, ducking his head beneath the hanger rod, and closed the door, He touched a hidden button and the floor of the tiny closet started to descend without a sound. This special private elevator did not appear on any plans or blueprints and the workers who had installed it had all been placed under a spell to ensure that they would not remember it.

As the elevator descended silently, it went past the third and second floors, past the first floor and the basement to a deeper chamber that had been excavated underneath the mission. As Brother Khasim stepped out of the elevator, he entered a spacious underground apartment suite that would have shocked the mission staff if they had known of it. The floors were lushly carpeted with imported Persian rugs. The walls were hung with richly embroidered tapestries and paintings depicting graphic, lurid scenes that would have scandalized those who knew Brother Khasim as a deeply moral, saintly practitioner of self-denial. The furnishings were expensive, plush, and sybaritic. There were several Romanesque couches and armchairs more worthy of being called thrones. Large silk cushions were scattered about. A marble bathroom contained a sauna and a tub the size of a small swimming pool. The bedroom was dominated by a huge circular bed with mirrors mounted on the walls around it, as well as on the ceiling. And there were other

"furnishings" kept there as well—paraphernalia of exotic sexual diversions. And then there were the young women.

There were, at present, eight of them in residence. They were all very young, shapely, and attractive, several of them barely in their teens. They were dressed provocatively in silk and filmy gauze and glove-soft leather, thin golden chains draped around bare hips and studded collars fastened around their necks. They were a smorgasbord of sexual temptation, living beneath the mission exclusively to serve Khasim. Their eyes were vacant, mirroring the emptiness inside. They had been kidnapped and enchanted so they had no will of their own. At a word from him, they would do anything. Anything at all.

He snapped his fingers and they came to him, helping him undress and slip into his maroon silk sorcerer's robes and embroidered velvet slippers. They brought him wine and as he sat down in his favorite chair, one of them stretched out on the floor so that he could rest his feet upon her. Another stood behind the chair, rubbing his temples gently, and two others knelt beside him, so they could kiss and rub his wrists. The rest quietly sat at his feet, watching him with blank expressions, obedient to his slightest whim. He leaned back against the chair and sipped his wine, shutting his eyes and enjoying the sensation of his temples being massaged, but though he looked thoroughly relaxed, his mind was racing:

He picked up the morning paper and stared at it. So Sarah had a boyfriend who was being held as a suspect in her murder. He wondered how much the boyfriend knew. It could cause complications. Sarah had been a whore when she first came to the mission, a young runaway who sold herself on the street to keep herself supplied with a nasty little magic potion called "Bliss." Sold by street dealers in tiny little stoppered vials, Bliss was not in and of itself addictive, but the tranquil, blissful state that it induced was so irresistibly compelling that the user kept coming back for more. Unfortunately, each time it took more and more Bliss to maintain that ecstatic state. While in the trance, the user would become transported and forget the real world, forget to eat and sleep and drink. Eventually, the user would simply waste away, delirious with inner peace.

Khasim had cured Sarah of her insatiable desire for Bliss, which had not been difficult to do, for it was he who brewed it in the first place. The result was that the girl had become utterly devoted to him. And Khasim had exploited that devotion for all that it was worth.

He had made a mistake with Sarah. She had been young and very beautiful and from the moment she first came to the mission, he had wanted her intensely, but he had hesitated out of caution. The mission was a front that had to be carefully protected and maintained. It was far safer to take women who had no connection with the mission, though on occasion, he did "appropriate" some fresh, young runaway for his private use. However, he was always very careful to make sure that no one would be able to trace her to the mission. If a young girl disappeared and someone came inquiring, knowing that she'd been at the mission, he could always shrug and say that she had left, as many did, because the mission had no power to hold anyone nor did they desire to. They were only there to provide what help they could. Still, a pattern of missing young women who had last been seen at the mission could eventually arouse the curiosity of the police, so Khasim was always careful. With Sarah, he had slipped.

It was easy to enslave a woman with a spell, to utterly take away her will, but with Sarah, that had not been necessary. She became his slave purely of her own free will and Khasim found that exciting. So exciting that it had affected his judgment. He had brought her down to his secret hideaway underneath the mission, but he had hesitated to cast a spell upon her to make her forget what she had seen, fearing that it would dilute the spice of their relationship. Instead, it had ended it. He had overestimated Sarah's blind devotion. What she saw had frightened her and the next day, she was gone. He looked for her everywhere, but she had simply disappeared. Months passed and he had almost forgotten all about her. And then he saw her on the set of Blood of the Necromancer. She was playing a bit part and she recognized him at once. However, the intervening months had done much to erase her fear of him and she began to blackmail him, threatening to expose the "Saint of Sunset Strip" as a sadist who kidnapped women off the streets and kept them in enchanted, mindless bondage in a secret harem underneath his humble mission. She actually believed that she could get away with it. She was always careful never to be alone with him and never to allow him to get close enough to touch her, but she was not careful enough. One day, while she was on the set, Khasim went through her purse and found a hairbrush, from which he extracted several loose hairs. And that was all that had been necessary. Once he had those, there would be no escape, no matter where she went. Only now, it seemed there was a man, a man who might have known about her past connection with him. A man she might have shared his secret with. Khasim reread the account of her death. A "senseless murder," the paper called it, an adjective that implied that there were murders that made perfectly good sense. Well, in this particular case, it had made good sense to Khasim. The newspaper went on to give the address where the murder had taken place and said that the suspect was being held in custody. It even gave his name and said he had been transferred from the hospital to the police station. Khasim smiled. How very considerate of them.

He waved away the women and steepled his hands before his face, fingertips touching his lips. He took several slow, deep breaths, then shut his eyes and began to concentrate. His breathing quickened. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. The veins in his temples stood out in sharp relief. The air in front of him seemed to quiver as if with dancing heat waves and bright crimson sparks suddenly appeared, swirling in a whirlpool of brilliant light, like a miniature nebula taking shape before him. It swirled faster and faster and the room grew darker and darker, as if the swirling whirlpool was leeching away the light and then, with a loud concussion of displaced air as molecules whirling through the ether coalesced within the room, an apparition glowing with ionic fire appeared before him. It was but the sparkling outline of a form, no features were discernible, and within it ... darkness. Deep and utter darkness. It spoke.

" What do you want from me?"

The low and throaty voice reverberated in the room. A woman's voice. A woman Khasim had never seen except in this frightening, dark and featureless, ghostlike incarnation.

"I . . .I have a life for you," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

" So. Give it to me. "

Khasim nervously moistened his lips. "It ... it is not here. But I can tell you his name and where he can be found. There is a photograph of him right here in the newspaper. . . . It is important that he be ... that it be done as soon as possible."

" Another mistake, Khasim? "

"A precaution," said Khasim, swallowing hard. "Someone who might be able to tie Sarah Tracy in with the mission."

" I see. That was careless of you, Khasim."

"I plead your indulgence, Dark Mistress. It shall not happen again."

"That is what you said the last time. Very well. But I need a life first." The apparition raised an arm and pointed at one of Khasim's women.

"As you wish," Khasim said, and he beckoned the ensorcelled woman forward. "Take her."

"No. You give her to me. "

"I?"

"Yes, you, Khasim. You who play games with pain and give away lives so freely should know what it means to take one."

A gleaming, razor-sharp, curved knife with a jeweled hilt suddenly appeared in his lap. He stared at it with dread.

" Now, Khasim."

His mouth was dry. He licked his lips and picked up the knife. He glanced at the docile young woman who stood before him. He took a deep breath and moved toward her.

CHAPTER Four

Ben Slater sat in a booth at Flannagan's Bar, cutting into a thick steak and listening to the most incredible story he'd ever heard. Thanatos, the I.T.C. agent, was not eating. He had ordered only a glass of white wine and it stood before him, practically untouched. At his invitation, Slater had decided to continue their discussion over dinner. The paper's lawyer, being naturally suspicious, had at first wanted to come along, but Thanatos had assured him that there were no charges against Slater and that the whole thing had been an unfortunate mistake, whereupon the lawyer had started making noises about suits for false arrest. However, Slater had thanked him and then dismissed him politely. He smelled a story and he wanted to hear what the I.T.C. man had to say.

What he said seemed unbelievable.

"Now let me just make sure I'm understanding you correctly," Slater said. "You're admitting that Sarah Tracy was killed by necromancy, but you're telling me you think the necromancer wasn't human?"

"Correct. However, there is one other possibility and that is that Sarah Tracy was killed—indirectly—by an outlaw adept who is in the thrall of an inhuman power. A Dark One."

"One of these immortal beings who lived in ancient times, before the dawn of history," said Slater, repeating what he had just heard. He shook his head. "All right, if they lived before the dawn of history, then how do we know about them?"

"We don't," said Thanatos. "At least, not officially. I know about them. And so do at least seven other people that I know of. Beyond that, the world is completely ignorant of their existence. However, to explain that fully, I'll have to backtrack somewhat. Some time ago, one of our agents disappeared without a trace while investigating a case here in the States. It involved the theft of three enchanted runestones of unknown properties, part of a consignment up for auction at the Christie Gallery in New York City."

"Wait a minute," Slater said. "Seems to me I heard something about that. Yeah, the heist was pulled in broad daylight, and in a roomful of wizards and sorcerers, to boot. Talk about chutzpa!"

"Indeed," said Thanatos. "The New York police tried to insist that it was merely a simple 'snatch-and-grab,' as they called it, that there was no evidence that magic was involved in the robbery. This was because they wanted to hold on to the case. However, by the time the trail led to Boston, it became obvious that it was a major crime involving magic use, which made it our jurisdiction. So one of our agents was sent to Boston to coordinate with the police officials there, as well as with the detectives from New York. We never heard from our agent again. We must assume she's dead. Nor was she the only one to die. In the course of their investigation, the Boston police questioned Professor Merlin Ambrosius himself and subsequently, his home was blown up and his body never found."

"I remember," Slater said. "It was the biggest news story of the year." His own paper had run it with the banner headline, "merlin murdered! " The house on Beacon Hill had been reduced to rubble and it had taken several fire brigades assisted by adepts to douse the flames.

"It had all the marks of a gangland-style killing," Slater said. "You had to wonder what possible involvement Merlin could have had with organized crime. That's a story I would have liked to investigate."

"We did investigate it," said Thanatos. "And by the time we managed to weave all the threads together, we had a very complicated tapestry, indeed. The New York detectives who had the case from the beginning came up with the first lead. They questioned a well-known fence named Rozetti and in return for certain considerations, he admitted that the thieves had come to him with the runestones, but he claimed they cheated him, magically stealing the runestones back again after he had bought them. Another fence known as Fats Greenberg was questioned, and although he denied any knowledge of the runestones or the thieves, the police felt certain he was lying. It seemed that the two thieves had not only stolen the stones, but were running a con with them, selling them over and over and then magically stealing them back again. As a result, the police felt certain that at least Rozetti, and probably Fats as well, had taken out contracts on the thieves. Yet, within a short while, both Fats and Rozetti were dead. Fats was killed in an explosion that consumed his pawnshop and Rozetti was killed in his restaurant by a cobra."

"By a cobra?"

"Yes. No one seemed to know how the snake had gotten there, but when Rozetti's body was found, the telephone on his desk was off the hook and it was established that he had been calling the embassy of the United Semitic Republics, the nation which cosponsored the dig where the runestones had been discovered and which was to share in the profits of the auction. The embassy confirmed that a Mr. Rozetti had, indeed, called them and spoken briefly with a Mr. Mustafa Sharif, ostensibly inquiring about the reward for the recovery of the runestones. Incidentally, it's possible that a skilled adept could have cast a spell that transmuted the snake and sent it through the telephone wires. Mr. Sharif was a highly skilled adept. A sorcerer who studied under Sheik Rashid Al'Hassan himself. We were unable to reach him for comment, as we were informed that he had been sent home. We were, however, able to verify that he kept a cobra for a pet."

"Jesus," Slater said, shuddering as he imagined a cobra coming through a phone receiver held against his ear.

"An investigation confirmed that the explosion of Fats's pawnshop was brought about by magic," said Thanatos.

"Faint trace emanations of the spell were detected. Around the same time, a similar explosive fire occurred at a penthouse on Fifth Avenue, owned by a Mr. John Roderick. A fortune in art and books was destroyed, to say nothing of the loss of the penthouse and its expensive furnishings, yet Mr. Roderick never even filed a claim. It turned out that Mr. Roderick was not even insured. In fact, Mr. Roderick did not even exist. John Roderick was an alias of a man whom we've been after for a very long time, indeed. A man known as Morpheus."

" Morpheus!" Slater gave a low whistle. "I've heard of him. Number one ice man in the business. Nobody's ever even seen him. Some of the cops I know claim he doesn't even exist."

"Oh, he exists, all right," said Thanatos. "And our missing agent, Fay Morgan, had been on his trail for years."

"But how can you be certain that this Roderick guy was Morpheus? I mean, all you had was just a name he'd used as an alias, right? It could have been a coincidence."

"It was no coincidence," said Thanatos. "Discovered in the wreckage of Roderick's penthouse were the remains of a hyperdimensional matrix computer that were positively identified as having been part of Apollonius, a thaumaturgically animated data bank that was hijacked while en route to Langley. It was unquestionably the work of Morpheus. Whoever had destroyed that penthouse had struck out at Morpheus thaumaturgically through Apollonius. I believe that Morpheus had undertaken a contract to find those two thieves and he got too close to Sharif, who was also on their trail. At this point, their trail ran out in New York City, but it was picked up once again in Boston. Before Rozetti died, he gave the police an excellent description of the two thieves. A young male and a young female. The female was known to him as a hustler, a con artist, and cat burglar named Kira. The male he had never seen before, but he said that Kira called him "warlock." The police artist made sketches based on Rozetti's descriptions and they were widely circulated. The Boston police came up with the next lead.

"Several officers had responded to a call of shots fired at the Copley Plaza Hotel," Thanatos continued. "When they arrived there, they found a dead body on the floor of one of the hotel rooms and a suspect standing there with a gun in his hand. A 10mm. semiautomatic, which happens to be the signature weapon of Morpheus. Only this wasn't Morpheus. The suspect denied firing the gun, but there was no one else in the room. He was placed under arrest, but before the police were able to get him out of the hotel room, they fell under a spell in which several minutes passed that they could not account for. When they recovered, the suspect had disappeared. As had the body and the murder weapon. There weren't even any bloodstains remaining on the carpet."

"Sorcery," said Slater.

"Obviously. The room had been registered to a 'Mr. and Mrs. Karpinsky.' The escaped suspect matched the description of Mr. Karpinsky. He also matched the description that Rozetti had given to the New York police. 'Mrs. Karpinsky' matched the description of the girl named Kira. And the description the police on the scene gave of the missing corpse matched that of the U.S.R. attache, Mustafa Sharif, who had supposedly been sent back home. At this point, the Boston police coordinated with the New York police and with our agent. They discovered that a Melvin Karpinsky, also known by the mage-name of Wyrdrune, had studied thaumaturgy under none other than Merlin Ambrosius himself, who was residing in Boston."

"You're not suggesting that Merlin was involved in this himself?" said Slater with disbelief.

"One way or another, he must have been," said Thanatos, "and he was evidently killed for it. There's little question that Sharif was working for Sheikh Al'Hassan, and you'll recall what happened to him." Slater nodded grimly. After Merlin, Al'Hassan had been the world's most powerful mage and he had been done in by a monstrous spell that had apparently gone out of control. No one knew for certain what he had intended, but the story of the result had eclipsed even Merlin's death. The day it happened, it was as if Armageddon had arrived. People had died horribly as all of New York City was mysteriously blacked out. In Washington, D.C., a huge, demonic entity had appeared during a baseball game in R.F.K. Stadium and slaughtered thousands of people. In China, Peking Station had collapsed, killing two hundred thousand people when the roof of the ten-story-high concourse fell. On the island of Hawaii, Mauna Loa and Kilauea both erupted simultaneously, each volcano belching forth a mushroom cloud of fire-charged smoke that slowly moved off toward the mainland, and within each cloud of fire and ash, something monstrous screeched and there was heard the beating of impossibly large wings. In South America, several huge waterspouts rose up out of the waves and rushed across the Baia de Gaunabara, smashing into the port of Rio de Janeiro and causing untold destruction and loss of life. In Moscow, it rained fire on Kalinin Avenue, the flames consuming the October Concert Hall and spreading to Komsomol Square. Panic-stricken people in the street had turned into blazing torches, many of them dropping down upon their knees to pray even as they burned. And in the U.S.R., at the thaumaturgic epicenter of the devastating spell, Al'Hassan's palace was utterly destroyed as steaming fissures opened in the ground, radiating outward from the palace like spokes on a gigantic wheel. It was a horrible tragedy of unprecedented proportions and it had brought home to the world the dark side of the power that ended the Collapse. For the first time, people realized what could be done if that power were misused. The word necromancy took on new and frighteningly real meaning. That one man could have caused such devastation staggered the imagination. But how? And why? It seemed that those questions would remain forever unanswered, for Al'Hassan had perished in the conflagration of thaumaturgic energy that he had unleashed and upon his death, his spell had dissipated. The only other person who might have provided an explanation was Merlin, but Merlin was dead. The world, it seemed, had suddenly become a far more terrifying place.

"So you're saying that Al'Hassan was behind all this?" said Slater.

"Al'Hassan was unquestionably involved," said Thanatos. "I believe that it was Al'Hassan, through Mustafa Sharif, who was responsible for the deaths of those two fences in New York and probably for the destruction of Morpheus's penthouse, as well. It all seemed to center on the runestones. Yet strangely enough, after the storm over what Al'Hassan had done died down, the case was suddenly dropped."

"Dropped?" said Slater. "What do you mean dropped?"

"The Annendale Corporation and the U.S.R., who shared joint interest in the artifacts and, consequently, in the proceeds of the auction, simply dropped all charges without any explanation. And Boston Mutual, the insurer of the runestones, also declined to prosecute the case. Obviously, some sort of settlement was reached. It must have been quite substantial. And surprisingly, there was also pressure from within certain government circles. In any event, the investigation was officially dropped."

"But what about the murder?" Slater said. "The killing of Sharif in the hotel?"

"What murder?" said Thanatos with a shrug. "There was no body. No murder weapon. No evidence of any kind that could be produced to prove that a crime had been committed. The runestones were never recovered, our agent never returned, and the matter seemed to end right there. Until what happened in London last year. There was a series of savage murders, unbelievably brutal, that at first seemed to be a routine matter for the police to solve—inasmuch as such heinous crimes can be called routine. What I meant was that there was no evidence of magic use being involved, so it was not officially a matter for the I.T.C. However, we were brought in by the Commissioner of Scotland Yard shortly after what occurred at Carfax Castle.

"Lord Nigel Carfax was a wealthy socialite with enormous political influence. During a weekend festival at his replica medieval castle, some curious events took place that the police were at a loss to account for. Some of the most powerful men in government were in attendance, as well as captains of industry, peers of the realm, the guest list was a veritable Who's Who. And they were apparently being entertained by a considerably less distinguished coterie of young women. The victims concerned were all male, only exactly what they were victims of is difficult to say. Many of them bore wounds such as those that might be inflicted by wild animals, animals with claws and fangs, but none of them could remember a thing and no such animals were ever found on the premises. Carfax himself was dead, in addition to a number of others. Beneath the castle, we discovered an authentic medieval dungeon and a secret chamber, a temple for conducting a black mass."

"Carfax was indulging in a little boys'-night-out action with his well-heeled cronies and things got out of hand," Slater said.

"That was what the police believed," said Thanatos, "but I tell you that when I stepped into that underground temple, it was positively throbbing with thaumaturgic trace emanations. Something extraordinary had occurred there. Incredible power had been released. And I saw something else, as well. Something unlike anything I'd ever experienced before."

He leaned forward slightly and stared at Slater intently.

"You must understand that when I went into that temple, in order to try to sense what might have happened there, I insisted upon being alone. There was not another soul inside there with me. And yet I saw three auras. I saw them clearly. Only auras, not people, but each aura clearly outlined a human form. One was a brilliant, emerald green. Another was bright, ruby red. And the third was a deep, sapphire blue. And together, they seemed to form a sort of triangle. A 'living triangle.' I had no idea why that thought occurred to me, but it came in an incredibly powerful intuition. And I knew just as surely that here was the key to finding the answer to the riddle of the missing runestones—one of which was an emerald, one a ruby, and one a sapphire.

Slater had forgotten all about his meal. The rest of the steak lay cold and untouched on his plate and his beer was getting warm. He was completely captivated by the story Thanatos was telling.

"Fortunately, I had better luck in my inquiries of the police this time," Thanatos said. "In Boston, the police were helpful, but ultimately they could tell me nothing. Still, they did discover the identities of the two thieves. In New York, the police were even less helpful, though through no fault of their own. One of the detectives, Dominic Riguzzo, had clearly seen something, but he could not remember what it was. A block of time was missing from his life. He had been enchanted. Whatever it was he had discovered, it had been completely erased from the mind. Interestingly, he was also the last person who saw our missing agent, Fay Morgan. However, I had rather better luck with Scotland Yard.

"The man in charge of the case there was Chief Inspector Michael Blood and he, too, claimed to have suffered some sort of amnesia from the injuries he had sustained, but I was convinced that he was holding something back from me. I could see it in his aura. I pressed him, and when I asked him if the words 'living triangle' meant anything to him, he became visibly distressed. I pressed him further and asked him if he knew anything about three enchanted runestones or anyone named Wyrdrune or Kira and then it all came spilling out.

"He had all the answers I'd been seeking," Thanatos continued, "only he hadn't told anyone for fear that no one would believe him. The missing runestones were keys to an ancient and powerful spell that had held the Dark Ones prisoner in a hidden chamber deep beneath the earth. During the Annendale dig, Al'Hassan had found the hidden chamber and he had removed the runestones, in effect taking the keys out of the lock. What remained was to open the door, but Al'Hassan lacked the power to do that and he had lost possession of the runestones. They wound up among the artifacts to be sold at auction. Al'Hassan had planned to buy them back, through Mustafa Sharif, but before he could do that, the stones were stolen."

"By Wyrdrune and Kira," Slater said.

"Precisely. According to Blood, who had spoken with them, they claimed they were compelled to steal the stones, compelled by the runestones themselves, which are in some magical sense alive, the repository of the life forces of the Old Ones who had imprisoned the Dark Ones ages ago. And the runestones had chosen them because of their descent from one of the Old Ones, from whom Merlin was descended, as well. Somehow, the runestones had . . . linked up with them, joined their life energies with theirs to resist the Dark Ones, who had finally been released by Al'Hassan. That was the reason for that cataclysmic spell of his, to utilize all the energy of those thousands of lost lives to enable the Dark Ones tobreak free of their confinement. They are loose upon the world now, and I believe that at least one of them is here in Los Angeles. And that means that the three runestones must be here, as well, or soon will be."

"You said there were three people that the runestones had linked up with," Slater said. ' "This young wizard, Wyrdrune, the cat burglar, Kira ... but who's the third?"

"Morpheus," said Thanatos.

" Morpheus? Why Morpheus?" said Slater.

"Because he is descended from the Old Ones, too," said Thanatos."Morpheus is none other than Modred, son of King Arthur Pendragon and the sorceress, Morgan Le Fay, whom I had known as agent Fay Morgan. Al'Hassan had killed her and Morpheus killed Al'Hassan, but he was too late. The Dark Ones had already been released." Slater simply stared at him

"You don't believe me," Thanatos said.

Slater exhaled heavily. "Well, you have to admit it's a pretty incredible story. I mean, if Morpheus was really who you say he is, then he'd have to be about two thousand years old!"

"How old was Merlin?" Thanatos countered.

"Well, all right, but that wasn't exactly the same thing," Slater said. "Merlin was placed under a spell. He was sort of in suspended animation all those years."

"Yet he was nevertheless alive," said Thanatos. "Look, Ben, prior to the Collapse, no one believed in magic, and yet it was around them all the time. They simply didn't know how to utilize the natural thaumaturgic forces. Or at least most of them didn't. There were some who did it unconsciously. Some people were able to develop extrasensory perception. Others had fatal diseases that suddenly, inexplicably went into remission. There were individuals who seemed to be able to do things that others couldn't, such as inducing spontaneous combustion or moving objects with the power of their minds. All these things are documented, Ben. Why is it that some people live so much longer than others and never seem to get sick? And why is it that today, even with the same thaumaturgic training available to everyone, most people who try simply can't accomplish very much and some can't do it at all, while others simply seem to have a natural affinity for magic?"

"I don't know, why do some people have artistic talent and others don't?" countered Slater. "Why are some people better athletes or better mathematicians? It's a matter of genetics."

"Exactly, Ben! Don't you see, centuries ago, the Old Ones must have interbred with us! Eventually, all that was left of them were the legends. Examine the folklore of the ancients and you will inevitably find recurring, common threads, stories of an older, godlike race of beings. The Celts called them the Old Ones. The Egyptians and the Greeks worshiped them as gods. The Arabic tribes knew them as the Djinn and the American Indians called them Kachina. Look at all the myths that have been handed down to us, stories of witches, warlocks, shapechangers, and vampires. What was really behind the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem witch trials? Were those people merely the victims of primitive superstition or did they know something we've forgotten?"

"Why are you telling me all this?" asked Slater. "If it's really true, then I should think the last thing you'd want to do would be to tell the press."

Thanatos smiled. "That's exactly how Gorman feels, but you see, Gorman hasn't really thought it through. To be sure, if this story were to come out, there'd be mass hysteria, especially after what Al'Hassan did. On the other hand, I don't think you'll print it."

"Why not?" said Slater. "It would be the biggest damn news story in the world. I'd be crazy not to print it."

"But where's your proof?" said Thanatos. "I would simply deny that this conversation ever took place. I'd say you fabricated the whole thing."

"What if I had you on tape?"

"You don't," said Thanatos. "And if you were carrying a recorder, do you seriously think I'd have told you all this without taking precautions? Even if someone were eavesdropping on us at this very moment with directional microphones, all they'd hear would the meaningless gibberish. And if I chose to, I could easily cast a spell of forgetfulness upon you so that you would not even remember meeting me."

"Like they did to that New York cop who saw something," Slater mused. "Only they didn't do it to your English detective, what's the name, Blood? Why not him?"

"I'm not sure," said Thanatos. "I can only guess. Perhaps they belatedly realized that if Blood told all he knew, it would sound so incredible that odds were no one would believe him. Perhaps they thought they could use his help again."

"You said there were at least seven people who shared this secret," Slater said. Thanatos nodded. "The two thieves, Wyrdrune and Kira, Morpheus or Modred, Chief Inspector Blood, a Frenchwoman named Jaqueline Monet, a somewhat eccentric professor named Sebastian Makepeace, who claims to be a fairy—"

"A what?"

"A fairy," said Thanatos. He cleared his throat. "Not the kind you think. According to my information, he actually believes himself to be a sprite."

"You mean like in Peter Pan?" said Slater.

"Uh, yes, only somewhat larger. Professor Makepeace weighs about three hundred pounds."

"A three-hundred-pound fairy?" Slater said. "Are you putting me on?"

"I'm not, but perhaps Professor Makepeace is," said Thanatos. "He cuts a very flamboyant figure at New York University and in the cafe society of the Village. One would never suspect such a man of having connections in deep-cover government intelligence."

"Which he does?" said Slater.

"He does, indeed."

"All right, but that's still only six," said Slater.

"The seventh is a cockney boy named Billy Slade," said Thanatos. "A street urchin of thirteen who's already been in more than his share of trouble. And according to Chief Inspector Blood, young Billy Slade is the most fascinating of the bunch."

"Why's that?"

"He's possessed."

"Possessed," repeated Slater, not sure he'd heard correctly. "You mean like in speaking in tongues, puking green slime, and throwing furniture around?"

"Well, perhaps not quite that dramatic," Thanatos said, "but if it's true, it's dramatic enough. Blood claims he's possessed by the spirit of Merlin Ambrosius."

"Oh, come on!" exclaimed Slater. "What the hell are you feeding me here? You actually expect me to believe all this?"

Thanatos regarded Slater with a steady stare. "You see what I mean, Ben? I told you that you were never going to print this. You don't even believe it yourself. How would you expect your editors, much less your readers, to believe it?"

"They wouldn't, of course," said Slater. "Not without proof, anyway."

"Which is why I'm telling you all this," said Thanatos. "I also need proof. Chief Inspector Blood refused to testify, not that I can blame him. He knows very well that without proof, he'd be laughed off the police force. I believe him, but I need to find proof to convince my superiors. And to do that, Ben, I need your help."

"Why me?"

"Because you know this city. As the old saying goes, you know where all the bodies are buried. I'm a stranger here, whereas you have contacts. You could save me a great deal of time and time is of the essence." Slater sighed and shook his head. "Well, I've heard some pretty wild stories in my time, but nothing to match this. Assuming it's all true—and mind you, I'm not assuming anything at this point—then this is the biggest story to come along since Merlin was released from his enchantment. What makes you think you can trust me to keep quiet about this? I am a reporter, after all."

"And one with a great deal of credibility, from what I hear," said Thanatos. "Which is precisely why I don't want you to keep quiet about it. I want the story to be told, but first we need incontrovertible proof. One of the greatest assets that the Dark Ones have is that no one knows about them. Gorman is a bureaucrat and, unfortunately, he thinks like one. He doesn't know the full extent of what I've told you just now. He thinks we're faced with a renegade sorcerer practicing necromancy and his first instinct is to keep it covered up, both to keep from warning the perpetrator that we're on to him and to keep the public from being panicked. Can you imagine how he'd react if I told him what I've just told you?"

"He'd either think you've lost it or he'd go over your head and bring the entire B.O.T. and your superiors at the I.T.C. down on your neck," said Slater with a grimace. "Typical bureaucrat mentality. C.Y.A." Thanatos frowned. "C.Y.A.?"

"First rule of bureaucracy," said Slater."Cover Your Ass. They're all the same. Or at least most of them are. You seem to be an exception. Why is that?"

"Because first and foremost, I am a sorcerer, not a bureaucrat," said Thanatos. "If I was interested in money, I would have remained in corporate sorcery, but that held little fascination for me. In fact, it bored me to tears and I found that I was constitutionally incapable of playing corporate politics. I joined the I.T.C. not because I was interested in power or position, but because I wanted to do something constructive. I've seen far too many abuses of thaumaturgy in my time. And I wanted to do something about it. I suppose that makes me sort of a policeman." Slater nodded. "What it makes you is a street cop. And that's something I can understand, even if your beat is in the Twilight Zone." He grinned. "Okay, I guess I'm in. Where do we start?" A waiter approached their table. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "is you name Thanatos?"

"Yes?"

"There is a call for you from a gentleman named Gorman. He says it's very urgent."

"Thank you." Thanatos glanced at Slater. "Excuse me, I'll be right back." A moment later, he returned, a grim expression on his face.

"Let's go," he said. "Our friend has struck again."

Slater got up quickly. "What happened?"

"The suspect in the death of Sarah Tracy," Thanatos said. "Her boyfriend, Victor Cameron. He was just discovered torn to pieces in his cell."

CHAPTER Five

The red and blue paragriffin in the palm tree behind their table was stuck on the first chorus of "Memories," singing it over and over again in a plaintive, squawking voice. The broom reached for the bowl of fruit in the center of the table and pitched a nectarine at it with unerring accuracy. The paragriffin gave a loud yelp and fell to the ground like stone, its silvery scales clinking on the patio tile. The broom shuffled over to the unconscious creature and swept it underneath a bush.

"I don't know about this," said Rydell, gazing dubiously at the broom.

"Listen, if I want schmaltzy singing at the table, I'll go to Little Italy," the broom said. It picked up a menu and perused it quickly. "What kinda menu is this, I ask you? What is this duck pizza? Who needs a greasy bird mucking up the mozzarella? Don't people in Los Angeles eat any normal food?"

"You don't even eat, so what do you care?" Wyrdrune said.

"Nu? So I don't eat. Someone's got to watch out for your digestion, boychik. I promised your mother I'd take care of you, may she rest in peace. Here, this is what you need, the club special, a nice chicken salad sandwich—wait a minute. With raisins? Gevalt! Who puts raisins in chicken salad?"

"Come on, Broom, relax, will you please?" said Wyrdrune, taking the menu away from it. "I'm just going to have a hamburger and some fries."

"What do they put in the hamburger, glazed fruit bits?"

"Broom. . . ."

"You ask for ketchup, they probably give you some kinda sauce made from peach brandy—"

"Will you put a lid on it, please?"

"Fine. Eat this chaloshes, get an ulcer, see what I care."

"That thing sounds just like my mother," said Rydell. "Its spooky."

"I know, but it sorta grows on you," said Wyrdrune.

"Yeah, like a fungus," Kira said wryly.

"You should get a festering boil on your tuchis," said the broom.

"Listen here, stick—"

"Will you stop?" said Wyrdrune. "Broom, why don't you go clean up our rooms, make yourself useful."

"So, all of a sudden, I'm a maid," the Broom said, leaving with a sniff, which was somewhat incongruous, since it didn't have a nose. "Fine. That's all I'm good for. You work your bristles down to the nubs and this is the thanks you get. ..."

Rydell shook his head with amazement. "I've never seen anything like it," he said. You know, maybe we could use it in the film."

"Bite your tongue," said Wyrdrune. "It's hard enough to live with as it is." Rydell glanced at his watch, "Well, they ought to be here by now," he said, "but knowing Jessica, she'll show up just a little late. Not enough to piss you off, but enough to make you notice. She's refined it to an art. And of course, Landau can't possibly arrive before Jessica, even though he's probably been waiting in the parking lot for the past half hour, so they'll be coming in together whenever she arrives."

He glanced around at them. "Okay, now here's how it's going to go. Jerry's going to talk a lot. He always does. He's going to come on like he's the biggest name in the business and act as if you're not going to get him cheap, but you're going to get him cheap because I made him and he needs the work. He's just wrapped my latest picture yesterday and since I always control postproduction and the final cut, he's got nothing to do, besides which, he's probably broke already. I don't know what the hell he does with all his money, but he never seems to have any. Jessica is going to play a slightly different game. She's going to come on as if she's got about a dozen offers because she's this year's reigning sex symbol and she may actually have a few. However, she'll be dying to do this film because I've had word leak out that it's going to be a quality picture and she wants to show the world that she can do more than just wet her lips and breathe hard. She's also going to try to figure out which one of you she can manipulate and whoever she decides that is, she'll start coming on to you, hard. She can really put it out, but take my word for it, it's a control thing and nothing more than that." He grimaced. "Half the guys in the country fantasize about Jessie Blaine. If they only knew that all they'd have to do is ask. ... If you want my advice, if she gives you the come-hither, you'll shine her on, because she's trouble. However, she is box office, so we'll use her."

"What part did you have in mind for her?" asked Wyrdrune.

"She'll want Morgan Le Fay, but she's going to get Queen Guinevere," Rydell said. Modred glanced at him and raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"Typecasting," Merlin mumbled.

"You keep quiet!" Billy said.

"What?" Rydell said. "Ah, never mind, here they come. Fashionably late, as usual." Johnny Landau and Jessica Blaine took their time strolling across the lounge, making sure that everybody had a good opportunity to notice them. And just in case anyone forgot to look, Landau made a big show of scanning the tables, spotting Rydell and calling out, "Yo, Ron!" and waving.

"When they come to the table, don't get up," Rydell said, so that only they could hear.

"Why not?" said Wyrdrune, looking puzzled.

"It's a power thing. If you get up for them, you give up some power. Look, you've got the money, right? That makes you king. Kings don't get up for anybody."

They all remained seated as Landau and Jessica came up to the table.

"Ron, darling! I hope we're not too late," gushed Jessica, quickly positioning herself so that Landau could pull out a chair for her and she could go through the introductions sitting down. She immediately reached her hand across to Wyrdrune and flashed a dazzling smile. "Hi, I'm Jessie Blaine."

Landau was now left hanging and had to stand awkwardly as Rydell performed the introductions.

"Jessica Blaine, Johnny Landau, this is Mel Karpinsky, Michael Cornwall, and their associates, Kira ... uh. ..."

"Just Kira."

"Right. And ... . uh. . . ."

Billy just sat there, kicked back with his boots up on the table.

"Billy Slade," said Wyrdrune, indicating Billy.

Landau shook hands all around, but when he got to Billy, Billy just stared at his outstretched hand. After an awkward moment, Landau let his hand drop.

Jessica stared at Billy for a moment, not quite knowing what to make of him or what to say. She finally settled on,

"Cute hair."

Billy growled at her.

Wrydrune reached over and shoved his feet off the table. "You'll have to excuse Billy," he said. "He's not quite housebroken."

"Look, Ron," said Landau, "before we go any further, I have to tell you that I absolutely love your concept. As you know, we just wrapped Blood of the Necromancer and I've already got about eight new projects on my desk, but I can tell that what you've got here is something really special. It's exciting. It's focused. It's sexy. It sounds like the sort of thing I could really get my teeth into. That, plus working with you again, well, what can I say? I haven't actually committed to anything yet, although we've reached the serious discussion stage of this one deal, but hell, you and I have got some history, right? That's gotta count for something. Still I've practically given my word. ..."

"Well, that's all right, Johnny, I understand," Rydell said. "If your plate is full, your plate is full. I wouldn't want you to back out of any deals for my sake."

A look of alarm came into Landau's eyes.

"Well, now I haven't actually made any firm commitments, yet. True, there are one or two projects I find pretty interesting, but if the deal's right, I think we might be able to work something out."

"Well, I suppose we can talk about it," Rydell said, abruptly switching gears and turning to Jessica. "What did you think of the script, Jessie?"

"I thought it was wonderful," she said. "Morgan Le Fay is a fascinating part. I see her as sort of—"

"Actually, I was thinking of you for Guinevere," Rydell said.

"Guinevere?" said Jessica, her smile slipping.

"Oh yes. She was the central figure in the Arthurian saga, you know."

"But this film is about Merlin. In this script, Guinevere is a much smaller part than Morgan Le Fay."

"Well," Rydell said with a shrug, "it's still not the final draft, you know."

"Who were you thinking of for Morgan Le Fay?"

"I was thinking of maybe using an unknown," Rydell said.

"An unknown? In the starring role?"

"Well, Merlin is the starring role," Rydell said.

"Who have you got in mind for Merlin?" Landau said quickly, anxious to get back into the conversation.

"Burton Clive."

"Burton Clive? Really?"

"He really likes the script," Rydell said. "He wants to do it. Anyway, the casting isn't entirely up to me, you know. Our backers have a say in this. After all, it's their money, right, Michael?"

"That's right, Ron," said Modred, picking up his cue and moving his leg out of reach of Jessica's foot beneath the table. "We all agreed from the beginning that casting is something that has to be very carefully considered. And the choice of director is important, too. In fact, it's vital. If Mr. Landau's already made other commitments, then perhaps that other fellow you were suggesting, what was his name?"

"You mean Bob Tomasini?"

"Yes, that's the one."

" Tomasini?" Landau said, a look of panic in his eyes. "On a project of this scope? Hell, Ron, he's just a kid! You can't be serious."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you, Johnny," said Rydell. "You're telling me that you've got all these other projects and you're taking meetings left and right and it sounds like you've got a deal that's going to go through at any minute—"

"Well, yes, but I haven't actually made any firm commitments, you understand. ..." By the time the meeting was over, Rydell had practically reduced Landau to begging that he be allowed to direct the film and he had convinced Jessica that while Morgan Le Fay was the larger female role, the part of Guinevere was in fact the meatier one and would get her the most favorable attention from the critics.

"See, the secret of taking a good meeting is to gang up on 'em," Rydell explained after they left, "and if you can't gang up on 'em, keep 'em off balance. Never do a one-on-one if you can help it. And whatever you do, never deal directly with an agent. Always end run 'em, play the agent off against the talent and vice versa. The talent's always going to be easier because they want the job and the agent simply wants to cut the best deal. So in a situation like that, you play the talent off against the agent, as if you really want the talent, but the agent is the one that's going to queer the deal. The exception is when you're dealing with a big-name talent who won't budge unless you offer the right numbers. There, you play the agent off against the talent, because the agent wants that bottom line commission and you make as if the talent's got an attitude that's going to price 'em right out of the deal. You'd really like to use 'em, but hey, your backers won't allow you to sign a contract that's a budget buster, so your hands are tied."

"So basically, it's just a hustle," Kira said.

"Yeah, it's all a game," Rydell said with shrug.

"And you have to go through this kind of thing every time you make a picture?" Wyrdrune said.

"Every time. Some are worse than others. This one's going to be a snap."

"You've really got Burton Clive for Merlin?" Wyrdrune said.

Rydell grinned. "Impressed? Don't be. Clive's a major talent and one of the biggest names in the business, but the problem with being a major talent and one of the biggest names in the business is that when you get there, you don't get a lot of work. Your whole career becomes much more precarious. The minute you get there, everybody and their mother-in-law starts sending you scripts, but you've got to be very careful about what you choose to do. It's got to be the sort of part that will reinforce your major talent/big-name image and help you build on it if you can. A part that would have allowed you to shine the year before you made it, the kind of part that had critics saying you were going to be a big star simply won't make it anymore because if you play a part like that as a big star, they'll be ten times as tough on you and say it wasn't a part worthy of your stature or that you're taking 'lesser roles.' They'll say you were miscast or, worse yet, 'underutilized.'

"The other thing is the money," Rydell continued, after taking a sip of mineral water. "The minute you start getting the big-name money, you can't ever take one penny less or the whole thing goes out the window. That, plus the thing with the right roles, automatically cuts down on the amount of work you get. And even if you do start getting offered one wonderful script after another, you've still got to be very careful because if you start doing too many pictures, you're going to get overexposed and the next thing you know, you're not getting the good scripts anymore and you're talking about doing a TV series. Burton Clive is in that Neverneverland between a rock and a hard place. He's a big-name star, a major talent, expensive as hell, and difficult to work with. He hasn't done a picture in five years, but he's recently started showing up in all the right places, just being visible to let people know he's still around. That means he's hungry. And I knew if he was hungry, I could cut a deal with him."

"Hungry?" Wyrdrune said. "With all the money he gets, he's hungry? He must be a multimillionaire."

"He probably would be, if he was smart," Rydell replied, "but you don't run into too many actors who are smart. If they were smart, they wouldn't be actors."

"Even so," said Kira, "with the kind of money Burton Clive must make, if all you did was put it in a bank, you could retire and live off the interest."

"Not in this town," Rydell said. "This town is like a Venus flytrap. It eats you alive, especially if you're well known and successful. You bite and claw and scratch your way to the top and then you have to bite and claw and scratch ten times as hard to stay there. What happens is you become extremely visible and everybody judges you by every little thing you do. You've got to buy a ten-million-dollar mansion in Bel Air because that's how someone in your position is supposed to live and if you don't live that way, then everybody starts to wonder if maybe you can't afford it and that's death in this town. If they think you can't afford to go first cabin all the way, then it means you're second-rate. So you've got to drive something that makes a statement about you and you have to wear clothes that reflect your standing in the business, which means you've got to get them from the same overpriced designers as everybody else who's worried about the same thing. You've got to be seen in all the right places, and the right places are all ludicrously expensive. You've got to give a party for all the right people every now and then and make sure that it's catered by the right caterer and protected by the right security agency and the floral arrangements done by the right florist, the bar stocked with whatever the current most unobtainable wine is and so on and so on and so on. It never ends. It's like being a junkie. No matter how much you score, it's never enough."

"If it's such a drag," said Billy, "then why do you do it?"

"Because it beats working, kid," Rydell said with a grin. "And it's kinda fun, playing with all the glitterati and putting them through their paces, but in order to appreciate it, you've got to have the right kind of attitude. See, I was broke for so many years that I learned to get by on very little. I've been blade dancing all my life. There's an old nostalgia song that's got a line that goes, 'Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.' Bottom line? If my career fell apart tomorrow, I've still got enough set aside so I can retire to a small cabin in the Colorado Rockies and write books. I won't have a mansion or a chauffeured limo or fancy clothes or tables at all the best restaurants in town, but I could easily do without all that. I regard it all as just the cost of doing business. See, the trap snaps shut on you when you think you can't do without all that stuff, when your material possessions become the measure of your self-esteem. When that happens, you've lost yourself. You've been El Laid and you might as well hit the Strip and be an honest whore. End of sermon. So, you guys ready for a party?"

"Ey, I'm always ready to party," Billy said.

"You'll like the bash, kid," said Rydell. "You'll fit right in. It's at Spago-Pogo. Everybody who's anybody is going to be there."

"Who's the host?" said Modred.

"You are," said Rydell.

" Me?"

"You and your partner, Mel. Its a private party to kick off Warlock Productions and launch pre-publicity for Ambrosius, your new feature presentation."

" Pre-publicity?" said Wrydrune. "What the hell is pre-publicity?"

"That's publicizing the fact that you're going to publicize something," explained Rydell. "The fact that it's a private party ensured that everybody important in this town had to bend over backwards to wrangle an invite."

"When did you have time to send out invitations?" Modred asked.

"What invitations? I booked the club, hired a band, and told the management it was a strictly private deal for Warlock Productions; absolutely no one gets in unless they're on the guest list. The phones in my office started ringing off the hook within twenty minutes, people saying they'd lost their' invitations and wanting to make sure their names were on the list. Of course, they hadn't been invited, but they figured if they hadn't been invited, then whoever was running Warlock must really be worth meeting. So, by noon, we had a guest list and all the phones in town were melting down from people tying to get the scam on Cornwall, Karpinksy, and associates. You wanted to meet the heavyweights in this town?" He snapped his fingers. "Easy. All you had to do was snub them. So tonight, they're all coming to meet you."

There was nothing left of Victor Cameron. He had been quite literally torn to pieces and those pieces had been flung all about the jail. Bloody gobbets of fresh and viscera were everywhere, sticking to the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Even his bones had been scattered. It was as if he had exploded. The smell was indescribable. Gorman and Rebecca Farrell were both waiting for them when they got there.

"What the hell is he doing here?" said Gorman when he saw Ben Slater.

"He's with me," said Thanatos. "What happened?"

"With all due respect," said Gorman, "are you sure you know what you're doing? Bringing the press in on this is—"

"I know exactly what I'm doing," said Thanatos. "And I'm not in the habit of explaining myself. The matter is closed. Now what happened here?"

Gorman flushed and gave Slater an unfriendly glance but chose not to risk pursuing the matter any further.

"Nobody saw anything," Rebecca said. "The other prisoners report hearing a sound that some of them described as a loud pop, others described it as 'a sort of whump,' and then they heard Cameron screaming. He screamed once—

they said they'd never heard anyone scream like that before—and then the scream was cut off in a gurgle or a 'wet sound.' The guards responded immediately, but it was all over by the time they got here. There were pieces of him all over the place and no sign of whatever did it to him."

"A manifestation," Thanatos said.

Gorman glanced uneasily at Slater. "Either that or he exploded," he said.

"No, a manifestation," Thanatos repeated, staring intently into Cameron's cell. "I can see it."

" What?" said Gorman. "You mean it's still in there?" Involuntarily, he backed away.

"No, it's gone, but I can see the trace emanations of its aura," Thanatos said. "It's fading even as we stand here."

"What does it look like?" Slater said, looking from the interior of the bloody cell to Thanatos. He couldn't see anything in there except the grisly remains of Victor Cameron.

"I can't quite make it out," said Thanatos, staring intently into the cell. "It's like a shadow ... a dark shadow with a faintly glowing border all around it... a figure. . . ..I can't tell. . . ." He sighed. "It's gone now. Let's get out of here."

"Well, so much for your suspect," Slater said with a glance at Rebecca as they left the jail. She said nothing.

"Slater, what you saw and heard in there was strictly off the record," Gorman said.

"No," said Thanatos. "No, I want him to report exactly what he saw and heard in there."

"I'm not sure that would be wise—" Gorman began, but at a warning glance from Thanatos, he broke off abruptly.

"I don't suppose you want me to mention the aura that you saw in there?" asked Slater. Thanatos shook his head. "No, I want you to be certain to mention it. But I would avoid drawing any conclusions. I suggest you simply give my name and report that I 'claimed' to have seen an aura in the cell. That way, you wouldn't be reporting hearsay as fact."

"True," said Rebecca. "And he'd also be setting you up."

"I hope so, Captain Farrell," Thanatos said. "I sincerely hope so. Because at the moment, we have hardly anything to go on. Have you come up with anything more on Sarah Tracy?"

"As a matter of fact, we have," Rebecca said. "She had just finished working on a film for Ron Rydell. Ask me what the title was."

"What was the title?"

"Blood of the Necromancer. "

Thanatos raised his eyebrows.

"Thought you'd like that," said Rebecca.

"Has anyone spoken with Mr. Rydell yet?" Thanatos said.

"Not yet."

"Well, perhaps we should make his acquaintance. In the meantime, Gorman, I'd like you to find out as much as possible about Mr. Rydell and his films. Especially any adepts who might have been involved in his productions. I'd like all the B.O.T. files on any such individuals."

"I'll get on it right away," said Gorman.

"I'll call the paper and see what the entertainment editor's got on him," said Slater.

"Good idea. It may not get us anywhere," said Thanatos, "but on the other hand, who knows?"

"So long as it doesn't get us to wind up like Victor Cameron," Slater said with a shudder.

"There are worse things than what happened to Victor Cameron, Ben," said Thanatos grimly. "Much worse."

Spago-Pogo was the current "in" club among the chic set of L.A., although one couldn't tell by looking at it. Located on the Strip, it was a blocky and unattractive building, looking like a big, black, windowless cube with a flashing blue sign out front that seemed to jump up and down in a pogo stick effect. Over the years, the building had gone through any number of incarnations, from warehouse to massage parlor to S & M bar and almost all the possible permutations in between. Now it had become an upscale nightclub featuring live entertainment, nostalgic pre-Collapse cuisine, and a colorful celebrity clientele that enjoyed a decadent evening on the Strip. The cover charge varied depending on the featured attraction and on some nights, such as this one, it was impossible to get in at all unless by special invitation.

The place was already jammed by the time they arrived in Rydell's chauffeured limousine. The club's full complement of head-breakers was out in force, controlling the crowd massed around the entrance and keeping out the riffraff. The broom had remained behind in their rented cottage to play solitaire and watch TV, not caring to sample L. A.'s nightlife. Besides, its favorite TV show, "Hobbittmashers," was on. Wyrdrune was relieved. The broom had a nasty habit of always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. It simply wasn't to be trusted. They ran the gauntlet of fans and photographers and then they were inside, where a band was playing, but not so loud that people couldn't talk. Leggy waitresses were threading their way among the tables and there were a few couples on the dance floor, but mostly everyone was busy table-hopping and being seen.

"What are we supposed to do?" asked Wyrdrune as they were being led to their table.

"It's a party," Rydell said. "What do you usually do at parties?"

"Get drunk and bust up the place," said Billy.

"Hey, just look around," Rydell said. "I'm sure you'll find someone to accommodate you. I'll get up and introduce you and from there on, you guys are on your own."

As they were seated, he made his way over to the stage. He spoke briefly to one of the musicians in the band. The musician nodded and gave a signal to the band. They played a couple of flourishes and then he stepped up to the mike and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?" A moment later, after the crowd had quieted down, he added, "Your host for this evening, Mr. Ron Rydell."

The drummer did a roll and a few rim shots as Rydell stepped up to the mike amid the applause. He blew into it several times.

"Hello, this thing working? Can you all hear me out there? Yeah? All right. First of all, on behalf of myself and my new associates, Warlock Productions, I'd like to welcome all of you to the festivities. I see a lot of old familiar faces out there. Hell, I see some people that I've slept with twice!"

Laughter.

"All right, seriously now, as you all know, we're about to start production on a new, big-budget feature which a lot of you have already heard about, I'm sure, and this party is to officially launch our production, so I'd just like to take a moment or two to introduce my new associates at Warlock Productions . . . Michael Cornwall, where are you, Mike?

Stand up and take a bow."

Modred stood up to a flourish from the band and applause from the crowd.

"And Mel Karpinsky, ladies and gentlemen, stand up, Mel, don't be shy."

Wyrdrune stood up and waved awkwardly at the crowd as they applauded.

"It's all right, guys, relax, I'm not going to make you give any speeches," said Rydell, and for some reason, the crowd seemed to think that it was funny. Wyrdrune realized that anything Rydell said would be laughed at or applauded, as the occasion seemed to call for, simply because Rydell was footing the bill.

"And speaking of speeches," Rydell went on, "here's a man who's always got one ready, our director, Johnny Landau. Johnny, where are ya, babe? Come on up here and say a few words!"

Landau sprang to his feet and made his way over to the mike amid the applause. He then proceeded to make some fatuous remarks about the "greatness" of Ron Rydell and the "vision" of Warlock Productions in teaming up to make

"the greatest story ever told" about "the greatest mage who ever lived." He went on at some length about how

"honored and humbled" he was to have been selected from among all the directors who "had fought for the privilege" of making Ambrosius! and how "pleased and delighted" he was at having been "singled out" to work with Ron Rydell once more and that he "had immediately dropped everything" when Rydell phoned him with the concept and so on and so on. He then introduced "the radiant" Jessica Blaine, taking care to refer to her as "our leading lady," despite the fact that hers was not the leading role. Jessica stood up and radiated and then Landau introduced "our star, the one and only, the celebrated Burton Give!"

Clive stood up and was duly celebrated. He was a robust man with a florid face, an aquiline profile, and shaggy, curly dark hair shot through with gray. He bowed with an expansive gesture and it was clear that he had already been doing some celebrating himself, as he was a bit unsteady on his feet. However, he managed to make it back down to his chair more or less intact.

Billy suddenly straightened in his seat. "Good God," said Merlin, " that's the man who's going to play me?"

"He's what Rydell refers to as 'bankable talent,' " Modred said.

"He's what I refer to as a drunk!" said Merlin, pulling out his pipe and packing it with his special sorcerous blend of tobacco, which smelled different with every puff. "Besides, he doesn't look anything like me at all."

"Well, I'll admit that he isn't exactly a wiry five foot four thirteen-year-old with an overly elaborate hairstyle," Modred said, "but I suppose a bit of makeup would fix that."

"Very funny," Billy said, and immediately switched back to Merlin. "You know perfectly well what I meant." He snapped his fingers and a small jet of flame came out of his thumb. He puffed his pipe alight and clouds of lavender-scented smoke subtly changing to the heady smell of melting chocolate drifted across the table. By the time he got it going, the aroma had changed yet again and now the pipe smelled like a buffalo steak cooking on a grill.

"What difference does it make what he looks like?" Modred said. "For God's sake, Ambrosius, we're not here to make the story of your life. That's only a cover. In case you've forgotten, we're after—" He suddenly winced with pain and clapped his hand to his chest.

At the same time, Kira gasped and clutched her gloved right hand..

And Wyrdrune felt a sharp, hot, stabbing pain in his forehead.

Khasim had just entered the club.