Legion World Forums LEGION OUTPOST Bits o' Legionnaire Business RAINBOW GIRL BOOK 13 - DIGRESSION: MAGIC

CHAPTER ZERO: FIFTEEN YEARS LATER: THE MUSEUM OF MYSTIC ARTS

* * *
Metropolis, Earth, the 31st century.

Twenty years later.

The Museum of Mystic Arts was under attack.

The ship hovered above the grounds, a in profile a cross between a bird and a manta ray. It was relatively small, but powerful. The mystic shields which protected the museum were already beginning to deteriorate under the relentless energy barrage.

Then, like a meteor falling from the sky, giant stone man dropped to the ground between the ship and the building. As he spread wide his stony arms, the energy-beams were re-directed from the building to his stony chest. He proved at least as durable as the magical shields. Mentally reaching down into the Earth beneath, he absorbed silicates from the soil, adding them to his own mass, fortifying himself against the punishing beams. Then, bringing his arms together, he reflected a portion of the destructive energy back at the ships gravitic drive. The vessel shuddered, then plunged to the ground outside museum.

Slowly and deliberately, the stone man strode forward. He covered a surprising amount of ground for his apparent speed. Leaping down into the crater the strange ship had formed in the landscaped grounds, he attacked the vessel’s walls, rocky fingers twisting and tearing metal.

A separate section of the ship exploded as the single occupant jettisoned into the air. He wore a standard issue flightsuit with a strange jewel-studded vest. His gray beard was impeccably trimmed, his bald pate glimmered with a recent waxing.

“Where is the Legion?” the old man demanded.

“I am Legion,” the tall stone man replied.

“I recognize you. You are the creature called ‘Chip’,” said the old man. “But where are the rest? Let them appear, and face the wrath of the Gem Master!”

“I have re-taken my father’s name,” said Blok. “And you are Lester Spiffany, patriarch of one of the richest families in the Galaxy. The remainder of the Legion is otherwise occupied. It was enough that they teleported me here from Legion World.”

“You will summon them all here, or face my wrath,” said the Gem Master. “For half a century, I have sought out and mastered dozens of gems of power, that I might have my revenge on the Legionnaires who rejected me.”

“This was all from before my time,” answered Blok. “I had not even been born, my father was bur a child then. However, from my study of the Legion Archives I believe it was Rokk Krinn who rejected your application. I could not contact him if I wished; he and his wife have recently left for an extended vacation in the Time Stream. Your revenge has been a long time in the making, the Legion—even the Galaxy—has changed.”

The Gem Master made no reply, but twin blasts of golden energy issued from the jeweled breastplate. They were very nearly as powerful as the now-crippled ship’s blasters, but Blok, bracing himself against the Earth’s gravitational field, took them nonchalantly, without staggering.

“I have more than pure force at my command,” the Gem Master boasted. Another gem flared, and within an extended circle around Blok, gravity went wild. Huge stones and gouts of soil were ripped out of the ground, hovering in the air. Blok, however, and the ground upon which he was standing, were unaffected by the anti-gravity gem. He took a step nearer the Gem Master, who darted away, hovering just out of reach.

“Then feel the power of the Transmutation Stone!” the Gem Master threatened. Strange chartreuse and violet rays flickered over Blok, but were reflected and deflected into the ground. Where they hit, the soil and vegetation became tin. Blok brushed a bit of metallic dust from his chest.

From a stone on his forehead, the Gem Master unleashed a blast of enhanced mental energy at his foe. It was utterly ineffectual. Touching another stone, the Gem Master summoned a flurry of knives at Blok, which bounced harmlessly from his rocky carapace. Next, ice engulfed Blok, which shattered; he was then enveloped in Eldritch fire.

“Why do you seek the Philosopher’s Stone at the Museum of Mystic Arts, when your collection so nearly duplicates its powers?” asked the stone man.

“The fact that you are still standing shows my need for still more power,” the Gem Master cried. “But that resistance shall not last much longer. Life to the lifeless!”

A brilliant flare of carbon-arc-white light illuminated the grounds. The floating stones and soil fell back to earth, reforming into a half-dozen bizarre, twisted replicas of Blok himself. The strange creatures of rock and soil advanced upon the stone man.

“{Brothers! Stay yourselves!}” Blok’s mental commands issued forth. “{I am not your enemy. It is Lester Spiffany whose mind has been corrupted by thoughts of revenge. Aid me in bringing him into custody!} The simple silicate minds of the replicants were unable to resist the command. They turned and converged on the Gem Master, leaping up, dragging him to the ground, tearing the breastplate from his torso, and scattering the gems across the Museum grounds. As the gems were removed from the Gem Master’s control, the rock-and-earth-creatures immediately transformed into immobile statues, but two of them still held Spiffany in their petrified grip.

As the science police arrived to take the old man into custody, Antonio Stefanacci, the museum curator, strode out onto the grounds. He held in one hand a crimson stone, perhaps four inches by eight inches.

“I thought you might want to see what it was you were protecting.” He held up the Philosopher’s Stone. “My oracles tell me that you and this stone have a destiny together, although it is not yet. I shall be disappointed when the time comes for me to give this article up.”

“Perhaps the Science Police will allow you to curate Mr. Spiffany’s collection, when it is no longer needed as evidence. Surely many of his ‘gems of power’ are magical in nature.”

“Oh, but those stones must be returned to their rightful owners,” Antonio Stefanacci replied. “Of course, those owners would need to be identified and located, but with my contacts throughout the mystic world, I ought to be able to give some assistance. Still, such a project might take years…”

A faraway look filled the museum curator’s eyes.

Favorite jewels from the collection of Lester Spiffany, Gem Master:

1 the Blast Gem (1)
2 the Blast Gem (2)
3 the Blue Pearl of Strength
4 Eclipso's Black Diamond of Vengeance
5 the Fire Ruby
6 the Ice Diamond
7 the Jewel of Eldritch Fire
8 the Knife Gem
9 the Levitation Stone
10 the Mindstone
11 the Mystic Jewel of Animation
12 the Pink Pearl of Protection
13 the Transmutation Gem (Diamond Jack's black diamond)
14 the White Pearl of Wisdom (Which he can never seem to get to work properly. It keeps telling him things he doesn't want to hear.)

CHAPTER ONE: TODAY

It was a dark and stormy night on Naltor.

Mysa opened her box of chalks.

She carefully drew a pentagram, making sure there were no flaws or irregularities that might compromise its integrity. For safety’s sake, she drew another pentagram around it. She surrounded these with a hexagram, a septagram, and an octagram. The complex, multi-colored geometrical figure now reached to the edges of her worktable.

Careful not to smudge the drawing, she added thirty-one runic markings, and placed thirty-one black candles upon each mark. She lit thirty of them.

She removed the amulet around her neck—a stone of black opal, on a chain of faery silver—and placed it carefully within the smallest pentagon.

She gripped the edge of her worktable as a rush of eldritch power overwhelmed her senses. She saw the world anew, as if she had just recovered her sight after years of blindness. Regathering her strength, she turned around, and opened a large book behind her. She turned to an empty page. Then she lit the final candle, spoke one word: “Evocatio”, picked up a small silver-handled bell, and rang it.

The little green demon climbed out of the black opal. It was as green as grass, with a head like a truncated cone, a single red eye, and golden eagle’s wings for ears.

“What do you want?” Mysa asked.

“You summoned me, darling,” said the little demon. “You’re supposed to tell me what you want.”

“I didn’t summon you,” said Mysa. “I evoked you. I advise you to bear in mind the difference. And you have been giving me blistering headaches with your constant cries for attention for the last three days. I’m going to have to start using sleeping powders if you don’t shut up.”

“Well, I admit I’ve recalled some information you might be interested in, my dear,” said the demon. “Something else else He doesn’t want you to know about. Put a little spell on you, in fact, just to make you forget. Curious?”

Mysa turned away, and examined her image in the mirror on the wall. She closed her eyes. Then she opened them. Then she opened them again.

She could clearly see the faint traceries of an Anamnemonica. It was of an elementary variety; she could easily break it. That made her suspicious.

She looked closer. Even fainter, but clearly entangled to the memory charm, was the complex web of a second spell. Should she void the Anamnemonica, this other spell would surely detonate. She did not recognize its purpose, but from its style, its author was perfectly clear.

“Clearly, you want me to invoke this secondary spell,” Mysa told the demon. “I don’t think so. I will suffer the headaches, and you will go back into your little gem.”

“I could just tell you,” said the demon. “For the right price.”

“I think not,” said Mysa. “If I remembered what you told me, it would be a lie. And if you told the truth—if you are even capable of telling the truth—I would forget it by sunrise tomorrow, if not before. Your information is worth nothing.”

The little demon furrowed its brow, somehow conveying a look of distaste on its nearly featureless face. “You have a son,” it said. “Yours and Mordru’s. His name is Argenius. He’s probably somewhere on the Sorcerer’s World.”

Mysa showed no outward emotion, but picking up a quill, made a note in the large open volume. “Oppreimere,” she said. She closed the book, and began snuffing out the candles.

“Oh, so soon?” complained the demon. “We hardly spend quality time together anymore.” Nevertheless, it began climbing back into the amulet.

Mysa snuffed out the last candle, raised the silver bell, and commanded, “Oppreimere, Mortrigon!” as it rang. She felt her mystic power drain away immediately; there was no trace left of the little demon.

She picked up the amulet, and placed it around her neck once again. There was no accompanying headache or nausea, the voice inside was silent.

She took a regular Omnicom out of a drawer, and made a call to a very private number on Rimbor. A young girl answered, no more that twelve years of age.

“Hello Mysa,” said Bounty.

“I have a job for you, of course,” said Mysa. She opened the large book she had written in before, and read from the page. “It is extremely probable I have a son. He is also the son of Mordru. He is in all probability on the Sorcerer’s World. He is probably around ten years old. His name is Argenius, but he is probably living under an assumed name.” She looked up from the book. “Do not bring him to me. I only wish to know his condition. Is he well taken care of? Does he have a relationship with his father? Discover his Alignment, if possible. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Bounty. “Standard rates apply this time; the special discount was one-time only.”

“Agreed,” said Mysa. “I wish a written report, on parchment and ink. Nothing electronic, which might be intercepted or erased. Also, when we next have contact, I will not remember this conversation, so I am paying you in advance. I am trusting you. I hope this is not a new experience.”

“My moral code may not be yours, but I have one,” said Bounty. “And I get the job done, even if it’s right under Mordru’s nose.”

“Do not endanger the life of your current host,” said Mysa. “If you can find no conclusive information, that will be sufficient for your report.”

“I value your patronage as much as you value my services,” said the Bounty entity. The Omnicom went dark.

CHAPTER TWO: TOMORROW

Mysa sat in one of the upper towers of the High Seer’s Palace. There was an antique spinning wheel in one corner. She was enjoying the crisp Autumn air; the window was open, so there was nothing to keep out the snowy owl that flew in and perched on a plinth.

“Hello, Buho,” said Mysa. “If you are here, can your Master be far behind?”

“I am already here,” said a fair, blonde, almost painfully handsome man.

“Jon Apollo. I assume you want something,” said Mysa. “You are not known for social calls.”

“I want to give you something,” said Jon Apollo. “Your son, Argenius.”

Memories came flooding back. She had a son. “And what do you want in return?” asked Mysa. “Surely you do not intend to defy Mordru out of the goodness of your heart.”

“There is more goodness in my heart that you give me credit for,” said Jon Apollo. “I only ask a little bauble. That wonderful necklace of yours catches my eye. It seems hardly reasonable that you should have Mordru’s son, and his soul as well.”

“Mordru’s soul is safely ensconced in his own human heart,” said Mysa. “I merely possess—and temporarily, at best—his soulless demon half, and with it, a substantial portion of his power. Without it, he has a chance for redemption. With it, you could cause endless trouble. I will forget my son, for now, rather than surrender such a weapon to you.”

Jon Apollo’s handsome sky-blue eyes burned red. “It could be taken from you, you know,” he said.

“Perhaps,” said Mysa, “But not by the likes of you.”

All pretense of civility fell away. Jon Apollo lunged for Mysa, pulling the amulet from her neck. The broken chain of faery-silver burned in his hand, with a blue-white flame. He winced, clearly in pain. He looked down triumphantly at the black opal… then looked up, and saw the same black opal still around Mysa’s neck.

Jon Apollo dropped the magically duplicated necklace, shaking his smoking hand in obvious discomfort.

“They said you gave up your power to become the thing’s custodian,” he said. “I see they were wrong.”

“I took the opportunity to enchant the amulet in a number of creative ways before taking it on,” said Mysa. “Many of those enchantments extend to my person. Would you like to try again? I had particular concern about the attractiveness of this creature to other demons. I would be glad for you to test my defenses.”

“I cannot decide if you are bluffing or boasting,” Jon Apollo mused. “Someone less gentle than I may come after it.”

“Perhaps they already have,” said Mysa. “It has been in my possession now for several years.”

“I had not heard of any,” said Jon Apollo.

“Precisely,” said Mysa.

“You will regret this,” said Jon Apollo. “Sooner or later, it will all go bad for you, and you will wish you had given this responsibility to someone else.”

“I regret a great many things,” said Mysa. “And I expect to regret much more in the future. But I will never regret keeping this amulet and its contents out of your hands, Jon Apollo.”

“Are you really so confident in your ability to defend yourself?” asked Jon Apollo. “At least let me know that much: is it mostly bluff?”

“Why don’t you ask Chernabog?” Mysa suggested.

“Chernabog? That old beast? No one has seen him for years,” said Jon Apollo.

“Maybe you can find him,” said Mysa.

Buho, the snowy owl, flew out the window into the sunset. Jon Apollo, with a worried expression on his face, followed.

“Shut up,” Mysa told the amulet.

CHAPTER THREE: ONE YEAR LATER

The alchemist’s shop was in a small, remote backwater of the Sorcerer’s World. It was clean, but cluttered. The excess of tall shelves created a maze of little narrow twisting passages, all different. Bottles, jars, and boxes of odd liquids, powders, crystals and dried plant and animal parts were piled haphazardly on each shelf.

The boy was unmistakable. Alarmingly slender, impossibly pale skin, grey eyes, and grey hair. He approached her as a store clerk; Mysa expected him to ask, “May I help you?”.

Instead he said, “You must be my true mother, for I sense the same deep evil within you which I sense within myself.”

Stunned, Mysa grasped the black opal amulet around her neck.

“But I resist the evil in my heart, and I perceive that you do, as well,” said the boy. “We may speak freely here. I have thrown a cantrip of silence about us, and my Master the Alchemist will be occupied in his laboratory for some time.”

“Are you happy here?” asked Mysa.

“I have been apprenticed to my Master for as l long as I can remember,” the boy replied. “He and his wife treat me as a son. But I have always know I had other parents, living or not, I did not know. No doubt, another name, as well. They call me Gray.”

“Not gray, but silver,” Mysa answered him. “You are Argenius, son of Mordru, and I am Lady Mysa of Naltor.”

“This explains a great deal,” said Argenius. He observed Mysa carefully. “Someone—my father, no doubt—has placed an Anamnemonica upon you. And linked it to… a geas of obedience. And a nasty one, that is. Would you like me to undo the knot?”

“Are you so powerful already, and at such a young age?” his mother asked.

“Magic is easy for me, although I do not advertise it,” Argenius replied. “I find myself able to perform any sort of White Magic I encounter.” His fingers worked nimbly in the air around Mysa. “But I cannot harm any creature, or destroy any object by magic, without risking awakening the demon within. I must even crush the ingredients of our alchemical potions with a mundane mortar and pestle. My Master thinks me a bit of a dunce.”

Argenius wrapped an invisible something between his hands, and placed it in a small bag with the shop’s logo on it. He sealed the bag with glittering tape, and handed it to his mother.

“The spell is still intact, merely unraveled. It can be re-woven fairly easily,” he said. “How is it you have come to visit me now, after so long?”

“There are ways around memory charms,” said Mysa, indicating a small parchment in her hand. “But I needed to wait until Mordru’s attentions were elsewhere. You may know that he has foolishly awakened Itzpapalotl, and has united with his enemies against her. But while the Universe suffers, we two may have some time together.”

“Yes, the Legions,” said Argenius. “I will be fourteen in a little over two years, and an adult, by United Planets standards. Do you suppose that the Legions might be a place where I could be free from the influence of my father?”

“I think that he would pursue you to the far corners of the farthest galaxy,” Mysa replied. “My sources tell me that he has been following your progress in life secretly, carefully, and obsessively, since handing you over to your adoptive parents.”

“Then, before I can have my own life, I must learn to withstand him myself. If I should manage to escape the Sorcerer’s World, may I come and live with you for a time?”

Mysa could not reply, for her voice was drowned by her tears.

CHAPTER FOUR: TWO YEARS LATER

The Security Prole on the viewscreen seemed nervous, but Lady Mysa was used to it by now. To Naltorans, she appeared to have no future; thus, to them, it was like speaking to a person who was about to die at any moment.

Mysa had spoken to her share of actual dead people over the years, and knew how disconcerting that could be.

“There is a lapidary of some sort here to see you,” the Security Prole announced. “He says his name is Mr. Jaeger? You were not expecting him, but he says you know him.”

“Send him up,” Lady Mysa ordered. She shut down the viewscreen and sighed.

The little man at the door peered up with watery sky-blue eyes. Scarcely five feet tall, he was balding, with a half-moon fringe of grizzled hair that made him look like he belonged in a monastery. His clothing was modest, and not in the least fashionable. Mysa escorted him to a small comfortable couch in her rooms.

“Honestly, your pseudonyms are pretty poor disguises,” she said. “Mr. Jaeger. Mr. Hunter. Doctor Green. Marcus Martin. Anyone who thought about it for an instant would know who and what you are.”

“I have no reason to conceal my identity from you,” said the little old man. “Quite the reverse. But most races have short memories, and half those who do remember think my people and long lost, or mere myth or legend.”

“What about the Aureates on New Malacandragar?” asked Mysa. “Their world is listed in plain sight in the Encyclopedia Galactica.”

“Not U.P. members. Their primary is a small, non-descript far from the ordinary star-routes. There world has little of value to offer in mineral wealth or technology. They are protected by their own ignominy.”

Lady Mysa sighed. “Some people… well, I suppose if everyone could see what was right in front of their noses, the Galaxy would have no need of mystics? You bring news of our adopted world, I suppose?”

“The Rebis and Myrwhydden’s Sons have thrown their support behind Mordru,” he said. Evidently, some reaction was expected. Lady Mysa raised an eyebrow. “We are attempting to organize a new Coventry to oppose them.”

“Who have you recruited?” asked Lady Mysa.

“Nabu is always ready to oppose him. Tanner Mothgrasp. Blood. Klavanatus. Myself, of course.”

“That makes five,” Lady Mysa observed. “You are short eight members.”

“We had hoped,” said her guest, “To recruit your acolytes.”

“Acolytes? I have no acolytes,” Lady Mysa objected. “Nor disciples, nor followers, nor ‘posse’”.

“Your… students, then. Xao Jin. Zoe and Thanot Saugin. The Zrfffn Qznkpykl. Orlight, that strange girl you first named Glorith. The necromantrix Laurel Kent…”

“Laurel Kent was never my student,” Lady Mysa interrupted. “In any of my incarnations.”

“Yes, well, but she was associated with the Legion, and would no doubt cast her lot with the rest. And your son, Argenius. He has made quite a name for himself on Tharn, since his majority. There are even rumors and whispers of his true identity.”

“You have named twelve,” Lady Mysa noted. “I suppose that the thirteenth is to be me?”

“You are nobility thrice over. There are those who remember you with great respect, and there are even those who love you. You yourself were even once Archmage. No one has forgotten that.”

“And now, I am no mage,” Lady Mysa replied. “I would not even qualify as a Coventry member.”

“But you could. You have carried this burden so long, allow someone else to do so for a time. Reclaim your powers, and join us again on the Sorcerer’s World.”

“As long as I control this black opal, and its demonic resident, Mordu’s power is halved,” said Lady Mysa. “I do not imagine that I can do so forever; one day it will be released. But I do not believe anyone can do better.” Her brow furrowed. “Use your archane senses to peer within the crystal, then tell me I ought to pass this duty on to another.”

A dim red glow burned deep within Mr. Jaeger’s eyes. He then jerked back, as though a hot iron had been applied to his forehead.

“This is what I will do,” said Lady Mysa. “I will personally contact each of the seven we have discussed. Perhaps I can persuade these young people to align themselves with you old fossils. But I will not abandon this geas I have imposed upon myself.”

“But who else is there? Who can we trust, who is not already working, for or against, in some other Coventry?”

“Have you tried one of the Atlantean sorcerers? Or what of Klavanatus’ sister? Bring her to Tharn.”

“Miriam is no magician,” Mr. Jaeger argued.

“There is magic, and there is magical,” said Lady Mysa. “Miriam may not be a sorcerer, wizard, or magician, the abilities she does command are of the most purely magical nature. And she is very nearly your age. You can discuss old times.”

“Let me leave you with a little gift.” Mr. Jaeger said resignedly. He pulled out a ring of delicate gold filigree, an intricate twisting pattern of delicate strands. “It is perfectly mundane, with no magical properties or enchantments. Not even an Element 152 core. The gold was refined from the oceans of the Sorcerer’s World, itself, however, by my own hands. My gift to you—and, I suppose, my only reason for visiting you, if anyone inquires.”

“An entirely unenchanted ring of pure virgin gold,” Lady Mysa mused. “What magician could possibly make use of that?” She smiled at the old man.

“Good-bye, my dear, until we meet again. I believe I can find my own way out.”

“Let one of the Palace Guard escort you, so they know you have really left,” Lady Mysa reminded him, gently replacing one of the rings on her fingers with her new treasure.

She turned back to the book she had been studying.

* * *

Flash Fact:
In the Earth-K paracosm, the three Martian races are the highly-evolved descendants of Terran Neanderthal astronauts who colonized Mars some forty thousand years ago.

Old Mars was beautiful, the tangerine sun shining in the pale magenta skies, the rust-colored fern-grass cascading down the hills to the indigo sea… but everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked.

CHAPTER FIVE: TWENTY YEARS LATER

The woman now known as Mysa the Gray sat with Dori in the latter’s finely-appointed suite, attempting to console her.

“But she is so young,” Dori complained again.

“Both you and your husband have powers which access fundamental forces upon which the Universe is built,” Mysa said. “It is not surprising that my god-daughter should have developed an affiliation with the magical world. It would be surprising if she should not be made Queen of Faeryland. Or a queen, of a faeryland.”

“Do you think I will ever see Meredith again?” Dori despaired.

“Of course you will,” said Mysa. “She will come home for the holidays. The pathways between Faeryland and our Universe are fully open to her. In future years, she will marry, and bring home her husband to meet you, and eventually, her children. Your grandchildren. Little half-elves, I would suppose.”

Dori laughed through her tears, just as the wall-screen lit up.

It was a little delivery drone, with a very large package.

Dori and Mysa pulled aside the wrappings. It was a large mirror in a gilt frame, studded with some sort of green stones.

“Those can’t be emeralds,” said Dori.

“I don’t know, they just might be,” said Mysa. “Let’s get this thing up on the wall.”

It took a while to find hammer, anchors, and nails, but the job was done in only a couple of hours.

“Your daughter must trust you terribly, to send you a gift like this,” said Mysa, writing on a scrap of parchment.

“It’s just a mirror… no, it isn’t, is it?” said Dori, looking into Mysa’s eyes.

“Read this,” said Mysa, offering the little paper.

“‘Show me Meredith’,” Dori read.

The mirror no longer reflected Dori’s suite, but another room entirely. The walls and floors were of stone. Heavy rugs, tapestries, and brocades were much in evidence. A wide window looked out on the top of an immensely old forest. Meredith, Dori’s daughter, Mysa’s god-daughter, was sitting at a long table, a thin gold band on her head, obviously in negotiations with a dozen creatures of various sizes and descriptions.

“She seems to fit in well, and has gotten right down to business,” Mysa observed.

CHAPTER SIX: ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER

The sorcerer came down from the sky through the pouring rain. Despite the deluge, he and his robes were entirely dry.

Mysa, on the other hand, was soaking wet, rivulets of water running down her cloak. An advantage, she thought, was that once one became this wet, it was not really possible to become any wetter.

“You really are the Hag now,” Mordru commented, hovering a few inches off he ground. He swept his hand, and a tongue of Wizard’s Fire leapt at Mysa. The ancient witch made a small gesture, and it neatly forked in two, passing on either side of her.

“You have been a thorn in my side for over a hundred years,” said Mordru. “You imprisoned me in the Hell of your mind for nearly half a decade. Over the years, you have stolen my Kingdom, my Soul, and my Son. You have opposed me at every turn, and I admit, have even won a few minor battles. You have slowed my progress, and left a suffering Galaxy bereft of my leadership. I have been patient, waiting for you to die, but since your Golem now carries a philosopher’s stone in his forehead, you seem to now have a limitless supply of Elixir of Life, and seem determined to now prolong your wretched decrepitude indefinitely.”

Mordru called down lightning from the sky. Mysa spoke a word, and the lightning transformed into drifting rose petals.

“The same old tricks,” Mordru observed. “A handful of spells prepared beforehand, triggered by a simple word, or gesture. With proper preparation, spells far more powerful than the magician could weave on the spot. But the Master has learned from his student.” He made a small gesture. “Memento Mori!”

Black fingers of mists formed in the air, rapidly advancing on the aged witch. Space itself shimmered in front of her, and a thirteen-foot being of black rock appeared. Tiny volcanoes bloomed on its massive shoulders. A red stone glowed in its forehead, dispelling the mists.

“Sorry I’m late,” the stone man rumbled.

“Is this your Golem? What is it calling itself these days?” Mordu mocked. “Blok? Chip? Pebbles?”

Another gout of scarlet Wizard’s Fire, this time tinged with green, flashed between them, and was again neatly and harmlessly split in two.

“But I have learned even more from you,” said Mordru. The green, one-eyed demon that was Mordru’s other half stepped out of his body. The old man was visibly shaken, but recovered quickly. The demon grew to an enormous height, and picked up Blok in one hand.

“One has become two,” said Mordru. “And we are all the stronger for it.”

“You are heavier than I imagined,” said the demon to the captive Blok. The stone man nearly broke free, but the demon redoubled its grip.

Mysa was muttering something under her breath.

The human Mordru moved in closer to hear. “What is that little cantrip?” he asked.

“…change, change the form of man; free the prince forever damned; free the might from fleshy mire; boil the blood in heart of fire;” murmered Mysa. “Gone the demon Mortrigon, return no more to realm of man!”

“No!” cried Mordru, conjuring a gag for Mysa’s mouth, but too late.

The giant demon vanished. Blok fell heavily to the ground. Enraged, Mordru reached beneath his outer robe, producing an ordinary iron sword, fully a meter-and-a-half long. With a single, smooth, well-practiced move, he thrust it directly through Mysa’s heart. Blood spilled from her mouth, soaking and spilling around the mystic gag. The old woman fell forward, the ground pushing the sword in up to the hilt.

“Sometimes the ancient ways work best,” said Mordru, looking down at the fallen witch. “At last, perhaps, your infuriating, croaking voice is silenced?” He suddenly looked up, into the red, raging eyes of Blok.

“Freaky Friday,” Blok intoned.

Mordru’s features softened. A sad smile crept across his face. A final bubbling rattle of air escaped Mysa’s lips. Mordru looked down at the now-lifeless body at his feet.

“Well done, my love,” said Mordru. “He is gone for good now. The two halves re-united in Hell. Mortrigon will amuse itself with that soul for some time now I am sure. Well, half-soul, I suppose.” He sighed. “And I have a new body to get used to. Both of us do, I imagine.”

“I loved you as a human woman; can I not still love you as a human man?” Blok rumbled. “It is the beauty of your soul that I love, after all. As you have so often said, ‘Magic accommodates’.”

"Blok, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," said Mysa.

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE 80TH CENTURY

"And Mordru was troubled, and all the Sorcerer's World with him."

The Angel of Death is a woman. Or, perhaps, a slender, pale young girl, dressed in somber black, and wearing an Ahnk on a slender chain around her neck.

Mordru recognized her immediately.

"We have seen a great deal of each other over the last five millenia," he said. "More that I would have liked."

Death was silent.

"This is the real thing, isn't it?" Mordu continued. "No last-minute reprieve this time, no unexpected resurrections. Not a hoax, not a dream."

Death nodded. Mordru sighed.

"He is resting peacefully in the back room. Go to him."

Death passed through the chamber. At the stone archway, she turned back, briefly. "Mysa..." she said. "Do you want to see him first? One last good-bye? I'm told sometimes that helps."

"Let him sleep. May he enter your realm through the World of Dreams. And give him my love," said Mordru. "I shall go to him, but he will not return to me."

Well. It's always nice to read a book in one sitting. An interesting life for Mysa, this is...

Quite a clever spell to get rid of Mordru. I do wonder what happened to those that opposed him.

That's kind of a sad but fitting end to Mysa's story with Mordru. I love "freaky friday" as an invocation for switching bodies

MORTRIGON:



For those of you who read too fast, this is an explicit listing of the 2197th Coventry of Tharn, the Sorcerer’s World, in the 31st century.

01 Mr. Jaeger (among other pseudonyms) (J’Onn J’Onzz of 20th-century Mars, sometimes known as the Martian Manhunter.)

02 Klavanatus (Billy Batson of 20th-century Earth, sometimes known as Captain Marvel. The Latin ‘klava’ means stick, club, truncheon, or, in this case, bat.)

03 Nabu (eons-old Lord of Order. Currently manifests as an empty, floating, gold helmet.)

04 Blood (Jason, two-thousand-year-old sorcerer, originally of 9th-century Earth, sometimes known as Jason Blood, currently sans Etrigan.)

05 Tanner Mothgrasp is an anagram of Phantom Stranger. heh.

06 Harlack the Khund

07 Zoe Saugin of Aleph, sometimes known as Kinetix

08 Thanat Saugin of Aleph, Zoe’s little brother

09 Xao Jin, the DragonMage

10 The mysterious Orlight, formerly known for some reason as Glorith 2.

11 Qznkpykl, a 31st-century Zrfffn imp, the only original character here. Strongly resembles Gsptlsnz.

12 Laurel Kent, the necromancer

13 Miriam, Mary Batson / Mary Bromfield, the wizard Klavanatus’ twin sister. Captain Marvel and Mary Marvel age at about ten years per millennium, so now appear in their early 40’s and 30’s, respectively. Klavanatus hair is prematurely graying.