older

than his years. "Stand off or suffer the consequences!"

"'Ere, listen ta him, 'ey?" the gang leader said, grinning at the other boys.

"Must've 'it 'im in the throat. 'E sounds like me bleedin' grandfather!" He

turned back to Billy. "Consequences, it is? I'll give ya bloody consequences,

ya

little wanker...."

He drew his foot back to give Billy a savage kick in the ribs, but Billy

stretched out his arm, fingers splayed wide, and a crackling bolt of

cobalt-blue

thaumaturgic energy leapt from his hand and struck the gang leader squarely

in

the chest. It hit him with such force that he was picked up and buried back

against the alley wall. He dropped down to the ground, senseless. The other

young toughs stared at Billy with stunned disbelief. Blue sparks were dancing

in

his eyes like electric fire. The boys turned and fled back down the alleyway

as

fast as their feet would carry them.

The blue firestorm in Billy's eyes dimmed, then went out. He slowly picked

himself up off the ground and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of

his hand. He stared 'down at the motionless form of the gang leader.

"What in the bleedin' blue blazes did I do?" he said with awe. Then he

snorted

at his unintentional pun. "Blue blazes? Right, that's a bloody good one!

Gor',

what the 'ell's 'appenin' to me?"

And then the deep voice spoke again, only this time it was in his mind. "If

you're going to use the King's English, lad, try not to speak it as if your

mouth were full of soggy biscuits. A blue-arsed Pict would sound more

intelligible than you!"

"Oh, Lord." Billy moaned, putting his hands up to his face. "I'm done! I've

lost

it, sure!"

"If you're referring to that pathetic little undeveloped organ that you call

your mind, no, you have not lost it, so calm down. You're beginning to

hyperventilate."

"Ayper-wot?"

"Hyperventilate, you little bog trotter. It means... oh, never mind! Try to

relax before you give us a nervous breakdown. I know it's hard to believe,

but

you are not going insane, I promise you. You're not imagining this.

Unfortunately I really am here, inside you."

"Who are you? What are you? Are you the devil, then?"

"Well, I've been accused of that, but I can assure you that I am most

emphatically not the devil. My name is Merlin Ambrosius, and I am—or perhaps

it

would be more correct to say I was—an archmage. As to how this disaster came

about, I'm afraid that will take a good deal of explaining, so please pay