Castle Spellbound

ARENA

The arena shook with the roar of the crowd. Howls of blood lust resounded. The crowd was average for a Saturday night. On the sandy floor at the base of the vast circus, several contests were going on. One, not properly a contest, involved lions attacking helpless victims. Another featured a clash of cavalries, horses neighing and rearing amidst the rising dust of battle. Still another pitted charioteers against spear-carrying men on foot. The former were winning.

Thorsby regained consciousness and sat up. He looked out across the arena, then swung his feet over the edge of his divan.

He tried to get up. He couldn't quite make it and sat back down heavily.

"Is something wrong, great Caesar?"

"Eh? Uh, no. I've had enough. I'm heading up."

"Why, O Magnificent One?"

"I've a bleedin' headache. And besides that, I've seen everything."

"A thousand pardons if I contradict the divine Caesar, but you have seen nothing yet!"

Thorsby looked bleary-eyed at the houri who had entreated him. "Oh? I'd like to know what else there is. I've gobbled all the grub, guzzled all the grog, did all the naughty bits. Wonderful, wonderful, but, really…"

"What is it, Divine One?"

"Well, you know…" Thorsby chuckled. "It's all a spell, really. Just a conjuration. Means nothing, all hocus pocus, don't you know. It was all a bit of fun, but we really have to be getting back to work. Matter of fact, I do think we're in serious trouble already. Where the blazes is Fetchen? Fetchen!"

"Methinks, Divine One, thou knowest not the true trouble thou'rt in."

Thorsby got unsteadily to his feet. "Fetchen, old boy? Now, where did that rascal get to-"

Thorsby's face collided with a massive naked chest. He stepped back and looked up. The owner of the chest was an immense figure in a turban, voluminous pants, and long pointed slippers. The man (if that is what he was) stood with his sinewy arms folded, one hand grasping the haft of an immense scimitar, its wicked curving blade upraised and gleaming.

"Going somewhere?" the man asked pointedly.

Thorsby took another step back. "Uh, well, yes. More or less. Time to cancel the spell."

"Cancel the spell?" The huge man shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Oh?" Thorsby's voiced squeaked. He cleared his throat. "Why not?"

"We get this chance very seldom. We shall not miss it."

"Chance for what, exactly?"

"To come out into the world. To be alive. Very tiresome simply to exist as potential, with no actuality."

"Oh. Yes, well, I'm afraid that can't be helped, old boy. You'll have to go back into your bottle or lamp or whatever. The whole lot of you, in fact. It was a bit of fun, but-"

"That will not happen, great one."

Thorsby made an effort to gather himself together. "See here. You're forgetting who the magician is, who's in charge of this whole charade."

"That is not forgotten, master. But these obligations are not one-sided. By giving us unlimited license, you have opened a door that is not easily shut."

Thorsby nodded. "I see, I see." He looked around. "Well, we'll just have a look at that grimoire. Around here someplace…" Thorsby got down on his knees and searched.

"You won't find it, master."

"Eh? I won't?"

"No."

"Oh. Well." Thorsby rose and dusted off his hands. "Then we'll throw a general cancellation spell on the whole affair and see what happens."

The turbaned man ran a thick finger delicately along the blade of his scimitar. "Master would not want to do that."

"And why not?"

"Because master would not get the second word out of his mouth if he uttered the first."

The turbaned man grasped the curving sword in both meaty hands and swished it about viciously.

"Does my master understand the full import of my words?"

Thorsby took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yes. Quite."

The turbaned apparition smiled. "Meanwhile, your every wish will be indulged. Does my master wish anything?"

"A drink."

The man held out his hand. A goblet full of purple liquid appeared on his palm. He extended his arm toward Thorsby. "A drink for my master."

Thorsby took the goblet and drank. His eyes widened. "Why, this is super. Super! I've never tasted wine like iis. It's… well, I can't believe it, but it's better than the other stuff!"

"Only a foretaste of what is yet to come. I bid thee, sit, I divine Caesar. Disport thyself!"

"Enough of the Caesar bit, please. Let's go back to sultan, or caliph, or shah, or something. All this spilling of guts is making me queasy."

"Your slightest whim is graven in stone, great and wonderful master!"

Thorsby lay back down on the divan. He drank, and marveled again at the taste of wine.

Then his face lapsed into a worried frown.

"Grosmond is going to be ever so pissed off at us," he said.