fag, not that bloody peat moss!”

“A fag, ” he echoed himself, speaking suddenly with a voice that

was not his own, but deeper and more cultured, with an accent that

was not cockney, but a curious blend of Welsh and Celtic. It

sounded strange and incongruous, coming from a teenage boy. “The

word is cigarette, you bog trotter. It’s bad enough you have to

smoke those abominable things, must you continually pervert the

English language? Besides, you’re in America now and here, that

unfortunate expression has a considerably different connotation.”

“Bugger off, ” said Billy with a frown. “Go back’t‘sleep.”

“I can’t sleep, not while you’re awake.”

“I ‘ad a bleedin’ nightmare, right?”

“I know, you young idiot, I had it with you.”

“Right, then. So what do you want from me?”

“Lower your voice, for one thing. There’s no need to wake the

others.”

“Lemme alone!”

He got out of bed. He was wearing nothing but a pair of jockey

shorts. His build was slight and wiry. His facial features were

delicate, foxlike, and androgynous. To offset this elfin cuteness, he

had cultivated a slightly drooping lip, a challenging, aggressive

sneer that had become habitual. His ethnic background was

impossible to pinpoint and he himself did not know what it was. His

skin was the shade of coffee with a lot of cream in it and his eyes

looked somewhat Asian and exotic. He might have been part

Jamaican, part Chinese, or part Caucasian and part Indian, he

hadn’t the faintest idea. He was an orphan and he knew nothing of

his parents, but thanks to the spirit entity that shared his mind and

body with him, he knew who he was descended from. He was

possessed by the astral spirit of his ancestor, Merlin Ambrosius, the

legendary archmage, who took the whole idea of being immortal far

too literally for Billy’s taste. All he needed now was for the other

one to come awake as well.

He glanced down at the ancient ring he wore, a fire opal

runestone set in a heavy gold band with intricate cabalistic