He followed instructions, stammering over the harsh Hebrew word. In a cold fury the girl sprang to her feet and leveled her left index finger at him. "Clever," she blazed. "But you can't get away with it! I'll blow you so wide open—"
"Wait," he pleaded. "What did I do?" The girl, though sweet-looking, seemed to be absolutely irresponsible.
"Mispronounced the Name," she snapped. "Because you can't say it straight without crumbling into dust!"
He looked at the paper again and read aloud slowly and carefully. "Was that right?" he asked.
Crestfallen, the girl sat down. "Yes," she said. "Pm sorry. You seem to be okay. A real human. Now what do you want to know?"
"Well—who are you?"
"My name's Melicent." She smiled deprecatingly, "I'm a—sort of a sorceress."
"I can believe that," grunted the man. "Now why should you take me for a demon, or whatever you thought I was?"
"Doppleganger," she corrected him. "I was sure—well, I'd better begin at the beginning.
"You see, I haven't been a sorceress very long—only two years. My mother was a witch—a real one, and pretty first-class. I've heard it said that she brewed the neatest spells in Ellil. All I know I learned from her—never studied it formally. My mother didn't die a natural sort of death, you see. Almarish got her."
"Who's Almarish?"
She wrinkled her mouth with disgust. "That thug!" she spat. "He and his gang of half-breed demons are out to get control of Ellil. My mother wouldn't stand for it—she told him right out fiat over a Multiplex Apparition. And after that he was gunning for her steady—no letup at all. And believe me, there are mighty few witches who can stand up under much of that, but Mother stood him off for fifteen years. They got my father—he wasn't much good—a little while after I was born. Vampires.
"Mother got caught alone in the woods one morning without her tools—unguents, staffs and things—by a whole flock of golems and zombies." The girl shuddered. "Some of them—well, Mother finished about half before they overwhelmed her and got a stake of myrtle through her heart. That finished her—she lost all her magic, of course, and Almarish sent an ordinary plague of ants against her. Adding insult to injury, I call it!" There were real tears of rage in her eyes.
"And what's this Almarish doing now?" asked Peter, fascinated.
Melicent shrugged. "He's after me," she said simply. "The bandur you killed was one of my watchdogs. And I thought he'd sent you. I'm sorry."
"I see," breathed the man slowly. "What powers has he?"
"The usual, I suppose. But he has no principles about using them. And he has his gang—I can't afford real retainers. Of course I whip up some simulacra whenever I hold a reception or anything of that sort. Just images to serve and take wraps. They can't fight."
Peter tightened his jaw. "You must be in a pretty bad way," he volunteered diffidently.
The girl looked him full in the eye, her lip trembling. She choked out, "I'm in such a hell of a spot!" and then the gates opened and she was weeping as if her heart would break. The man stared frozenly, wondering how he could comfort a
