The Fire Rose

CHAPTER TEN

Cameron's claws dug into the wooden arms of his chair. Paul du Mond had no notion just how close he was to infuriating his employer. Once again he had come to Jason Cameron's study to make yet another importunate demand for further Magickal education.

No. That is not true. He does not want education, he wants the power without having to learn control, discipline, or method. He wants to be given power, as a child is given a toy.

Cameron held his temper in check and attempted to feign an air of complete nonchalance. "I know that this is a disappointment to you, but frankly, du Mond, until you master those specific techniques there is nothing more I can teach you." He hoped what expression was possible to his face was bland and calm. "I've told you that before."

But Paul du Mond frowned, and persisted in another vein. "Are you quite certain you won't be needing my help in your own work?" he asked. "Perhaps if I assist you, I will be able to overcome my own difficulties. And after all, that is the first duty of an Apprentice, to assist his Master."

And the Apprentice hopes to steal the easy path to power by observing the Master. Little does he know that there is no easy path to power, Magickal or otherwise.

"It may be the first duty of an Apprentice, but I'm not doing any work of my own now," Cameron lied glibly. "How could I, looking like this? All I am doing is research, and you yourself are perfectly well aware that what you require is practice, not research. Now, your best option is to get that practice, and you can do so on your own." He carefully loosed his grip on the arms of the chair. "When you are not practicing, you do have needful duties. Why don't you just concentrate on catching up with your secretarial work for this afternoon? Perhaps you could go into Pacifica for dinner later; I know you tire of the fare here. You could have the Salamanders hitch up the light carriage for you."

Du Mond's frown deepened. "I would be the first one to admit that I have a great deal of correspondence to reply to, Jason. But if I leave the estate to eat, what will you do?"

"Bolt down a bloody chop, as usual," Cameron replied testily. "You forget that this form has needs that are not acceptable to polite society, needs that even you find distasteful. I shall be perfectly all right. I managed to survive your absence for an entire week, didn't I?"

Reluctantly, Paul du Mond nodded and finally left the study, looking backwards over his shoulder as if expecting Cameron to change his mind and call him back.

And for what? Cameron thought with irritation. He's useful only as a secretary now. Rose is of more use as an assistant in Magick, and she has never set foot in my Work Room! Somehow du Mond must have guessed that his Master was still attempting the reversal of his condition without the assistance of his Apprentice—perhaps he had even guessed that Cameron was going to make another attempt this afternoon. The stars were right, the spell itself called for daylight—perhaps to counter the lunar effect associated with lycanthropy—and Rose would not be back until nightfall. If he could just get du Mond out of the way, he would not need to fear interference from any quarter!

But du Mond would not go away until it was too late to start the ritual, and the auspicious time trickled away, inexorably, until there was no hope of making the attempt. Cameron's temper simmered and boiled, until he flung himself out of his chair and began to pace the room like a caged beast.

He finally turned to his mirror, as he had so many times in the past three days, and called up the image of Rose Hawkins, hoping that it would calm him. He had watched over her jealously during a her excursion to the city: had taken vicarious pleasure in her pleasure. He had laughed, truly and freely, for the first time in many long days, at her childlike joy in the bookstore. He had reveled in the sights of China-town even as she walked through the crowded, colorful streets, seeing everything with a new interest as she discovered the places and people for herself.

He had been an invisible presence in the private box at the opera, and although the performance had not been an outstanding one, he had taken more enjoyment in it than if the singers had been gathered from the finest Houses in Europe. She had been so thrilled simply to be there that the music had an added savor for him. And as for the production of Victor Herbert, well, he had never once thought he would find such a childish, sugary musical even remotely entertaining—but she did, and her pleasure was infectious.

The only time he had not been able to watch her had been when she visited Master Pao. The old reprobate had magicks ensuring his privacy that his simpler spell could not pass. He wondered, though, why she had gone to a Chinese apothecary; some female complaint, perhaps? In this, she was better off going to the Chinese rather than resort to patent-medicines. At least Snyder had the sense to take her to Pao rather than letting her find her own man. Too many of these herb-sellers were inclined to lace their potions with powerful doses of opium, and such a treatment would render Rose useless for her duties.

The mirror showed her as he had expected; she was reading as the railway-carriage swayed with the rhythm imposed by the rails. She was lost in whatever it was she had chosen, immersed, completely oblivious to her surroundings. It was too dark to tell just where she was, but he did not think that she would be back soon.

Suddenly he was seized with the restless impulse to try his spell anyway, and hang the consequences. After all, it was only a variation on one he had tried many times before. Though the optimal time had passed, perhaps the optimal time did not matter. He had tried it before in bright daylight with no success; perhaps time of day was not a factor.

But the stars were a factor, and they were still in their proper configuration. He lurched to his feet abruptly, his mind made up. Very well then, he would make the attempt, and have it done with by the time Rose returned home. It was, at the bottom, a very simple spell, so what could possibly go wrong?

Rose left her luggage behind her on the platform, secure in the knowledge that all of it would be wafted up to her quarters the moment she issued orders to that effect to the "empty" air. It was well after ten at night when the train pulled up alongside the platform below the house; they had been forced to wait on a siding while a "special" went by, an order not even Cameron could or would countermand. Regular rail traffic must not be interfered with; that was the cardinal rule every rail-man lived by, and Cameron was too much a rail-man ever to violate it.

She took the elevator up to the house; she knew how to run it for herself now. Her heels clicked confidently across the floor and up the stairs; when she opened the door to her rooms, her luggage, books, boxes and all, was waiting for her beside the sofa.

But something else was waiting there, too.

A Salamander hovered in midair, throwing off sparks in its agitation. She thought she recognized it by the particular combination of its colors; this was not "her" Salamander, which was a pale bright yellow, but was the gold and orange one that seemed to be particularly intelligent and outspoken, the one that spent most of its time serving Cameron personally.

"Rose Hawkins!" it said urgently. "You must come with me! The Master is ill, and needs your help!"

Her first reaction was not one of alarm, but of incredulity. Cameron? Sick? But—how would an inhuman creature like a Salamander know if a human is ill? If Cameron happened to be drunk, perhaps the Salamander might mistake it for illness... if that was the case, he would hardly welcome her intrusion! Perhaps she ought to check first; despite the agitated dancing of the Salamander, she went to the speaking-tube and called Cameron's name several times. This is surely a mistake. He was perfectly fine when I left him. The Salamander must be mistaken. How could he have fallen ill in less than three days?

She was answered by silence—then, as she shouted more urgently, by a hollow groan in the distance, a sound she had to strain to hear that made the hair stand up on her arms and sent a shiver down her spine. It did not sound like a man who was drunk. It sounded like an animal, a dying animal.

She whirled, without a second thought, and picked up her skirts in both hands so that she could run. Dear God, what could have happened? He was in perfect health! Could he have hurt himself? No, the Salamander said he was "Ill," not "hurt. " What illness comes on so quickly? With her skirts hiked up above her knee, she burst through the door, ran down the hall, and took the steps of the staircase down two at a time. Could this have something to do with his accident? Where in God's Name is du Mond? Why isn't he here and why didn't he know about this illness?

The inevitable, guilty thought flashed through her mind as she clattered down the stairs. Has he been ill all this time? Has he been lying there since I left, alone, in pain? She reached the landing outside the door to Cameron's suite only to find the Salamander there before her, hovering before the open door, a door that had not once been open in all the time she had lived here.

"Hurry!" it said, and flitted inside, lighting the way for her with the illumination of its own body. Still clutching her skirts, with her heart racing and a trickle of perspiration trickling down the back of her neck, she followed it. There was hardly any light in here that was not already supplied by the Salamander.

He can't have been lying here unattended for three days, she told herself, as she ran through the apartment in the Salamander's wake, paying no attention to anything except her footing. Du Mond was here all that time. The Salamanders would not have allowed him to lie there uncared-for. This must be something that just happened. But what? The heels of her walking-boots made a muffled staccato beat against the carpeted floor.

And now her heart began to race with a different flavor of apprehension. Now she would see Jason Cameron, not just speak to him with a mechanical instrument; she would finally see the results of Jason's accident, see what dreadful disfiguration had turned him into a recluse. Surely it must be hideous to have made him close himself up on a single floor of his palatial mansion! She paid no attention to the rooms she passed as she ran down a hallway very similar to the one a story above. The Salamander knew where Cameron was; at least she did not need to search for him, rummage through rooms that must be very personal to him.

She steeled herself for the dreadful revelation as the Salamander darted into a doorway. She followed it, and stopped, seeing it hovering above the shadowed bulk of a powerfully-built man. He was lying huddled, face-down on the floor, as if he had collapsed there; the hood of the robe he wore enshrouded his head. The robe was similar to those worn by monks, except that it was made of crimson velvet rather than coarse, homespun wool.

There was something peculiar about this room, echoing and larger than she had thought possible, so barren of furniture that all sound reverberated hollowly, and with no sign of the carpets that softened the footstep everywhere else in this house. The floor itself was of slate or a similar stone, and inscribed with chalk-marks now blurred and half-erased. Behind the man bulked an object that could only be described by the word "altar," and to either side were two immense candlesticks, each holding a white candle as thick as her wrist. These, however, were not lit; the only illumination came from the body of the Salamander.

Jason lay at the center of the web of chalked lines. She recognized the half-obscured diagram at once—by type if not the diagram itself. This was a Magickal circle, and Jason must have been attempting some procedure or other when, or before, he collapsed.

As she drew nearer, her skirts now held up to keep them from brushing against those chalked lines and perhaps causing some damage or releasing something better left bound, she revised her opinion. From the look of things, he had finished whatever he had been doing, and had been engaged in erasing the diagram when he was overcome and collapsed.

One thing, at least, was certain. Whatever else was going on, he was not drunk. Only a fool engaged in Magickal work when drugged or drunk, and of all things, Jason Cameron was not a fool.

He whimpered hoarsely, and stirred, though not enough to dislodge the hood, and she was reminded that some deformity lurked beneath that concealing fabric. She bent down and reached for his shoulder, touching it tentatively.

"Jason?" she said.

The body shook convulsively beneath the crimson velvet, and she pulled her hand away quickly, unable to stop herself. Suddenly she was terrified at what she might see, and the hand that had touched his shoulder tingled oddly.

Cameron heaved himself up onto his elbows.

"Get out!" Cameron snarled harshly, without looking up or revealing his face. "You foolish woman, what do you think you are doing? Get out of here! Leave me! Go back to your books where you belong!"

Every word was punctuated with a gasp, and the mere effort of speaking cost him dearly. He sagged back down onto the cold stone of the floor with a groan.

She was briefly tempted to do as he had ordered, but the agitated presence of the Salamander told her that no matter how much Cameron cursed her, he could not be left to himself. And presumably the Salamander could not help him itself. "No," she said simply, steeling herself for the inevitable. "Not while you need my help."

She seized both his shoulders in her hands, but before she could help him up, he writhed away from her, striking her hands away in the same moment. "Infernal woman!" he snarled. "Damn meddling Nosy Parker! I should have known! You won't leave until you have seen my face!"

Though still half collapsed on the floor, he reached up and jerked the hood of his cloak away from his head, twisting his head to stare up at her in defiance.

She leapt back with an involuntary gasp, the knuckles of one hand crammed into her mouth, the other hand at her breast—for what snarled up at her was not the disfigured visage of a man, but the mask of an enraged beast!

She could not even put a name to what beast it was; she had never seen anything to match it in all her life. The head was covered with coarse, gray fur; the snarling, toothy muzzle was certainly that of an animal's, but horribly, the eyes were all too human. Upstanding, pointed ears crowned the skull. The lips writhed, as if speaking was an incredible effort.

"Now are you satisfied?" the harsh voice rasped, a note of exhaustion and great pain underlining every word. "Now will you go and leave me to fend for myself in peace?"

At the very moment when she wanted most to turn and flee, it was the voice that steadied her, even when she saw that the hands were not hands at all, but clawed paws. Whatever else this creature was, there was no denying that it was Jason Cameron, and the man had not changed because she had finally seen his real face.

I must remember what I know about him; I must be like Tam Lin's lover, Fair Janet, and hold to what I know is within the monster, no matter how fearful it looks.

"Of course not," she replied, managing to keep her voice from quavering and her hand from shaking. "Your Salamander would not have summoned me if you did not need help. Where the devil is du Mond, anyway?" She couldn't help herself; her voice reflected her outrage that the man wasn't here doing his duty. "Why wasn't he where he belongs, helping you? I thought he was your Apprentice as well as your secretary!" She reached once again for his arm, and this time he suffered her to take it. As she helped him to his feet again, he pulled the hood back over his head, hiding his face from her so that she no longer had to look at it.

"I sent him away," Cameron replied, slowly, pausing to catch his breath. "He must have guessed I was going to try a Magickal Work, and kept trying to press his services on me. I—fear I no longer trust him. Precisely because he kept trying to persuade me, I was convinced it would be a bad idea to allow him to participate." He grunted with pain and effort as Rose helped him to a kneeling position, and waved at her to stop for a moment as he bent over, panting.

When he was ready again, she helped him to his feet, and with a vague memory of seeing sketches of firemen doing so, draped his arm over her shoulders so that he could lean on her. He was far heavier than she had thought, and she staggered beneath his weight.

But the Salamander flitted in front of them, leading the way, and together they managed to stumble into the hallway and on to the next room. This proved to be a bedroom, but Rose could go no farther than the chair nearest the door. Cameron's weight was too much for her, conditioned by long walks though she was. Weaving like a pair of drunks, they stumbled to that chair, a huge, leather-covered wingback. He dropped into it heavily, unable even to lower himself down slowly. She collapsed on the footstool, only now aware that she was perspiring with the effort of carrying him, pushing damp strands of hair out of her face. Her hair was coming undone, draggling down in untidy strands, and her suit-jacket had come unbuttoned.

She had a notion that the Salamander would know what was required now, and she turned to it as she fastened her jacket properly again. "Get him what he needs," she ordered it. It vanished, precisely as she had hoped it would, and after a moment to catch her breath, she rose to her feet again. Although feeling more than a little giddy, she set about lighting candles and arranging a table at Cameron's elbow while she waited for the Salamander to return.

It floated into the room supervising a levitating tray; somewhat to her surprise, the tray contained a large glass of milk as well as a piece of raw or near-raw meat and a collection of pills. She eyed the latter with misgiving, recalling what Master Pao had told her.

"Put that tray down on the table, then get me a kettle of hot water, a pair of tea-cups, a strainer, and the brown paper parcel in my valise," she ordered it, and picked up the glass of milk.

Milk! Well, I suppose it is strengthening. But it is hardly what I would have assumed a monster would drink.

She took it to Cameron who lay as one dead, oblivious to his surroundings; he sagged back in his chair with his head lolling against the side-wings. His hood had fallen back again, and she was once again favored with a view of his head and face. His eyes were closed, and he panted shallowly, his tongue lolling out a trifle. "Jason," she said, steadily, I have something for you to drink."

The eye nearest her opened part-way. "Are you still here?" he rasped, rudely, without a word of thanks that she had gotten him this far.

"I am, and I have no intention of leaving just yet. Can you drink this on your own, or will you need help?" She held out the glass of milk.

His lips writhed, as if in distaste, but he brought a paw up to take it from her. His style of drinking was not elegant, but he managed without spilling it all over himself; his mouth and lips were more flexible than an animal's, which must have accounted for his relatively clear speech.

When he handed the empty glass back to her, though, his paw and arm were shaking. She set the glass down and began to cut up the meat for him, without asking if she should.

Perhaps his normal mode is to tear it apart, but I don't think I could sit here and watch that.

He glared at her, but said nothing as she put the plate and fork down on his knees. He picked up the fork, awkwardly, in a paw-hand that shook like a birch-leaf in the wind, and stabbed at a bite. He conveyed it to his mouth without mishap, and swallowed it whole, wolfing it down without chewing.

Wolfing his food... of course! If you somehow mixed up a man and a wolf, it might look the way he does! Now she knew—though she had never seen a live wolf, only stuffed specimens in museums and at the University—why those distorted features had seemed familiar to her. They were not wholly lupine, but they were certainly not canine. There was a feral ferocity there that no dog would ever display.

The Salamander reappeared with her kettle and the package of herbal medicines from Master Pao's shop. She extracted the white-wrapped packet from the rest, measured the proper amount into the cup and poured the hot water over it.

Cameron eyed her with misgiving. "And just what is that?" he asked sullenly.

She gave him the cool look of mingled superiority and pity that had quelled impertinent undergraduates many times in the past. "Medicine from Master Pao," she told him crisply. "He wants you to leave off whatever you're dosing yourself with and take this instead. I am inclined to see to it that you do, now that I have taken note of those quack nostrums you think necessary. Half of them are probably poisonous, and the others useless, and I intend to see that you at least try Master Pao's medicine."

He paused in the very act of conveying another bite to his mouth, and gazed at her with astonishment, his jaws still open. "And just how do you propose to do that? Pour it forcibly down my throat?"

She sniffed, and regarded the steeping tea with a thoughtful eye. "I dosed a puppy for worms when I was a child," she told him matter-of-factly, feeling rather like a governess with an unruly child to tend. I don't think I would have any particular difficulty with you. You can hardly hold up your fork; the puppy was considerably more active."

He continued to gape at her, the paw holding the fork slowly dropping. "By George," he managed, finally. "I believe you would!"

"Whether you believe it or not is immaterial, for the tea is done and ready to drink." She poured it into the strainer held over the second cup, and waited while it dribbled into its new container. "There." She shook the last few drops into the teacup, and picked it up, handing it to him. "Do you take it yourself, or do I tilt your head up, pour it down your throat, and allow you to make the choice of drinking or drowning? I probably wouldn't have to rub your nose to make you swallow", she added thoughtfully, "But I might forget you aren't the puppy and do it by reflex."

"I might as well see what miserable potion that wretch Pao has decided I must have," he replied ungraciously. He looked as if he would have preferred to snatch the cup from her hand for effect, but it was all he could do to stretch out his paw and take it with a face full of distaste, he sniffed it, then gulped it down.

"Pfaugh!" he choked, tongue lolling out exactly as that long-ago puppy's had. "And this is what I must have instead of my pain-killers?"

"If there is opium in them, as Master Pao asserted, I would consider it a better choice," she said steadily. "You ought to consider the notion that your so-called pain-killers might have been responsible for the condition you are in at the moment. Remember what all your books have said about working Magick under the influence of strong drink or drugs. However, it is up to you, of course, if you choose to be a fool and disregard all of the instructions to Apprentices that you have had me read so assiduously."

He gave her a look as sour as a pickled lemon, but said nothing, only went back to stabbing his pieces of meat and gulping them down as viciously as if they were personally responsible for his plight.

Or as if they were coming out of my flesh. She restrained a shiver, looking at those long, white teeth. How much of him was Jason Cameron, and how much the beast? Would he turn on her if she provoked him too much?

But if I lather him with pity and sympathy, he will not pull himself together; if I treat him with fear he will disdain me. I must treat him as what he is—an equal who has made a great fool of himself, and deserves some sharp words.

He finished his meat, set the fork down wearily, and managed to get plate and fork back up on the tray. His condition improved moment by moment, and she felt cheered by that much at least.

"Since you already know that I am impertinent, I am going to be unconscionably rude as well," she said at last. "How on earth did you come to this pass? What happened to turn you into—?" She could not find the words to describe him, but he answered her anyway.

"Hubris," he said bitterly. "I was already sufficient Master of every aspect of Fire Magick that there were no more challenges for me, and I began to experiment with other forms of Magick. One I found in a medieval grimoire, an incantation to enable a man to put on the aspect of a wolf at will and put it off again at will."

"The loup-garou," she breathed, nodding. "I remember it from the old legends."

I also recall the ferocity of the werewolf, and his insatiable hatred for humankind while in that form. How could he possibly want to take that aspect upon himself?

"Not exactly. The werewolf of legend has no control over his shape-change, nor does he retain a human mind in the form of the wolf. This would allow me to make such a shift safely and with my human mind and reasoning intact—or so I thought." He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, bitterness obvious even in so alien a face as his. "Something went wrong. I was frozen in this hybrid form. That is why you are here, to help me find the missing part of the formula—I must find away to reverse this condition."

"Well, at least now I know what I am looking for." She clasped her hands together on her knee and pondered, thinking in the back of her mind that this wolf-man hybrid was not so horrible, really. If he had been disfigured, there would have been the ugliness of the wound, and that awful feeling I always get when I look at someone who's been hurt, that feeling that makes my throat tighten and makes me want to run away. This is just different. I expect I could actually get used to it in time. "Forgive me for asking, but—how much of you is wolf?" She blushed as she realized just how that sounded, and amended it. "Has this altered your personality or your emotions, for instance? Are you likely to have to howl at the moon or go run with a pack?"

His laughter was very like a bark. "Hardly! And I pledge you, I am sufficiently housebroken!" But there was an uneasiness behind his words, as if he, too, was wondering how much he was subject to lupine instinct rather than human reason.

The unease hung between them, killing any conversation, and she decided to change the subject. "I can certainly understand now why you have been so reclusive, but surely we need not go on as we have," she told him, surprising herself a little as she spoke things she had only just thought of. "Now that I have seen you, there can be no reason why you must send books up to me and have me shout them at you through the speaking-tube. I believe it would be the most logical for me to come up here to read what you want—that way, if something in another volume occurred to you, we could pursue it immediately, rather than waiting until the next day for you to find it and send it down to me."

He licked his lips, thoughtfully, his red tongue passing across the sharp, white teeth. "You are not completely revolted by—this—?" he gestured at his face, with his hand that was half paw.

She managed to look him in the eyes, steadily. "It is not pleasant, but neither is it unpleasant. Your appearance is rather startling, and I could imagine that to some of your former acquaintances, particularly those unaware of your work in the arcane, it would come as a shock. But I cannot say that I am revolted by it." And she discovered, even as she spoke the words, that they were true. "It has a certain striking quality, actually. Certainly ordinary people are most pleased when their beloved dogs look near to human—there is some of that in this hybrid form you wear."

He made a noise very like a snort. "You are a strange female, Rose Hawkins," Cameron said, rather rudely. "A most unwomanly woman by polite standards."

But she had been called that before, and the words had ceased to hurt. "Then polite standards are too narrow," she replied briskly. "Although I do not call myself a suffragette, I am completely in sympathy with most of their complaints. I cannot speak for the lower classes, but in our class of society, Jason Cameron, young ladies are forced to live atop pedestals, and let me tell you, they are hideously restrictive places to reside! I choose to live down upon the ground where I can actually accomplish something, and if that makes me an 'unwomanly woman,' well, so be it." She crossed her arms over her chest and gazed at him with challenge in her eyes. "Certainly my 'unwomanly' nature has stood you in good stead! A fainting, missish, hysterical lady would hardly have done you any good in your current predicament!"

He only waved a weary paw at her and settled back into his chair, half-closing his eyes. "Enough. I am not about to debate the cause of women's rights with you. But to take the subject of our reading, are you so certain you want to pursue our researches here, in my suite? I can make you forget that all this happened, if you choose to permit me to do so, and we can return to our former arrangement."

And have him messing about, planting whatever ideas he thinks fit in my mind? No thank you!

"I would not have made the offer if I did not intend for you to accept it," she replied. "What is more—is there any reason why I cannot take du Mond's place and perform the functions of your Apprentice? It does seem to me that you require some kind of help when you attempt Magickal Working."

"You?" he replied, turning at last to face her, with his eyes wide, aghast. "Help as an Apprentice? Have you any idea how dangerous that might be? Are you out of your mind?"

"I don't believe so," she said, with a little, forced laugh. "But if you won't have me, perhaps you ought to ask for someone else to help you? Some great Magician, for instance. Like—" she searched her mind for a name, hoping to think of someone who had appeared in the newspapers as an expert in the occult, and offered it up to him. "—like Aleister Crowley, perhaps?"

This time his bark of laughter was contemptuous. "Crowley? As soon trust myself to a circus clown! The self-named 'Wickedest Man in the world' offer help to anyone? I would extract blood from a stone before I got help from Aleister Crowley, my dear Rose, and any aid he gave would be so encumbered that my condition would be worsened rather than bettered by putting myself in his hands." He laughed again. "There are only two kinds of men who follow him; those who use others, and those doomed to lose everything including self-respect. He caters to the rapacious and the pathetic—and he uses both to his own ends, bringing satisfaction to none but himself." With great effort, he shook his head. "No, there is no one we can call upon for help at this juncture. Even my old Master would only say that since my own pride got me into this predicament, I must find my own way out of it."

Perhaps that is true, but—She grimaced. "That sounds rather harsh—"

"That is the way of Magick; only the skilled and fit survive, or deserve to." He managed a one-shouldered shrug. "You have read that for yourself, in more than one of the works I have sent to you."

She sighed, and repeated her offer. "Very well, then. You no longer trust du Mond and you cannot turn to any other of your own level of ability. I tell you again, truly; I will help you to the best of my own abilities as your assistant if you will have me."

He turned a blankly astonished gaze upon her. "You see this, you know that Magick brought this upon me, and still you persist?"

"I would make the same effort for anyone else I admired," she replied, with complete truth. "And although I do not care for some of your morals or your behavior, you have a first-class mind, and that I admire. I think it a shame that you have paid so dearly for so minor a sin as pride."

She held out her hand by way of sealing the bargain. He looked at it dubiously for a moment.

"I do not understand you," he said at last. "But if you are going to throw yourself into the breach this way, I would be an idiot to refuse to accept. You are old enough to be aware of the consequences and to live with them if need be." He hardly sounded gracious, but she didn't care. He also did not offer her his hand, but she did not press him for it. In his position, I would be shy of offering a lady my paw, too.

"Fine. We're agreed." She looked him over carefully, finding it easier now than it had been a few minutes ago. Perhaps she was getting used to the way he looked. "Well, logic suggests that you should be in bed, but I have no notion of how to get you there. Frankly, I do not believe I have the strength to carry you further."

Put him to bed! No proper lady would have spoken so boldly. She was truly changing. If I continue to think of him as a naughty little boy, I believe I can say these things without blushing.

"The Salamanders will help me," he said, with indifference. "Just at the moment, your assistance really isn't needed."

She glanced at the Salamander for confirmation, and it nodded, as if it understood what she wanted.

"Very well then," she replied, standing up and brushing off her skirt. "I will leave you to make your recovery. Master Pao directs you to drink his tea whenever you are in pain or fatigued, but no more than six cups a day."

His lips writhed in distaste. "I am not likely to endure that devil's brew more than twice a day! Be off with you, if you're so concerned that I get some rest."

She suppressed the urge to say something quelling, and simply nodded. She gathered up her package with the remaining packets of herbs in it, and turned, walking out the door of the bedroom into the hall.

He did not thank her, but she didn't expect him to.

Cameron watched Rose leave, seething with a mixture of positive and negative emotions. He supposed he should be grateful to her, but he didn't feel grateful, and he wasn't about to feign an emotion he didn't feel. He was angry, though not at her, and frustrated, though not with her. He was mortified that it should have been she who rescued him. He was relieved that the masquerade was at last over, and utterly astonished that she had reacted as well as she had.

His predominate emotion just at the moment, however, was disappointed exhaustion. All that work, and to have failed again! Perhaps Rose—and Master Pao—were right. Perhaps he should give over taking those pain-killers.

He listened as her footsteps receded, then heard the door at the end of the hall open and close again. "Don't bother to lock it," he told the Salamander wearily. "Now that I've given that damned interfering woman permission to 'help' me, if she finds the door locked against her, she'll probably batter it down."

The Salamander did not reply, but he sensed that it disapproved of his attitude. Well, let it!

The tea that Pao had so cleverly gotten to him seemed to be helping, at least. The aches in his malformed joints had subsided, and his energy was trickling back sooner than he would have expected. He sat up, experimentally, and found that his head was no longer swimming with every movement.

At least I can get back into my own bed by myself. The one thing that the Salamanders could not do despite his assurances to Rose—was to touch living flesh without burning it. Only in the Conjured form called a "Firemare" could they actually, physically, touch and be touched. And they could not levitate more than—say—the weight of a fully-laden suitcase.

But I would crawl to my bed rather than have her assist me there!

It had grated on him, deeply, to find himself in the position of being unable to help himself. And then to have her appear and retrieve him from the results of his own folly—a subordinate, an employee, a woman—oh, it was ignominious! He gnashed his teeth as he extracted himself from the embrace of his chair, stopping often to pant with exertion.

To have du Mond discover me in such a case would be bad enough—but her! Why, two months ago she did not even believe in the power of Magick, and now she gives me lectures about how to conduct myself! The cheek! I, who rescued her from abject poverty, from that hovel of a boarding-house, from ruin! And she sits on my footstool, in my private chambers, in my home and dares to tell me that she will dose me like a sick puppy if I do not voluntarily take some vile potion that quack Pao has made up!

Still, his conscience whispered, she was right, and so was Pao. The opiates were affecting his judgment; he would not have attempted tonight's exercise if they had not been affecting his reason. And Pao's potion, vile as it was, had certainly revived him....

But that was not the point!

He clung to the back of the chair for a moment, then got a hand on the wall behind it. Using the wall as a prop, he worked his way over to the bed, still stopping at frequent intervals to rest. The bed had never looked so inviting; the covers were turned down, and all he needed to do was to fall into it once he finally reached it. He untied the belt holding his velvet Working robe to his body, writhed out of it, and dropped the long robe halfway along the wall for the Salamanders to pick up later. He could have trousers and shirt off in a trice, and today he had been in too much of a hurry to bother with anything else.

Working that damned tail through the Tight places in the seats of my clothing takes twice as long as everything else. Thank heavens this is no clime for long underwear!

It was with a groan of relief that he reached the bed, and lunged for it, landing half in it and half out of it.

No matter; that was close enough.

He rolled himself onto the mattress, and with a growl of frustration, clawed the clothing from his body, ripping seams and popping buttons as he did so. It was not the first time he had done such a thing, and it would probably not be the last. The Salamanders could see it was mended, or he could buy new. He certainly didn't lack for the means to do so. Though everything else was falling down about his ears, his finances were prospering, especially with the Panama-Pacific International Exposition in the offing.

Naked now, he scrabbled the covers up over himself, and lay with his eyes closed. His head spun, but fortunately not in a way that made him sick to his stomach.

"Why don't you make me another dose of Pao's damned medicine?" he said, knowing he would be obeyed by the Salamander still waiting for orders. "You watched her do it, didn't you?"

"I did," the Salamander replied. He heard the dry ticking of bits of herb falling into the cup, then water pouring.

"I suppose you went and got her, didn't you?" he asked the Salamander.

"It is my duty to serve you," it replied calmly. "That was the best way to serve you at the time."

Trust the thing to tell him that!

"You have trusted her with everything else," the creature continued, and once again, he heard water trickling. "Why not this? She is worthy of trust. And she was not revolted by your appearance."

"Oh, she was revolted; she is just good at putting the proper face on things. She'd have to be; she grew up going to academic parties. If there was ever a hotbed of machination and deception, it is a sherry-reception given by a Noted Professor. I had rather swim with crocodiles; at least my reputation would survive." He opened his eyes as he felt the warmth of the Salamander near him, and saw the cup floating within grasping distance. He was pleased that his hand did not shake quite so much this time as he reached for it.

The medicine was just as appalling the second time, which probably meant that the Salamander had gotten it right.

For the first time since I was changed, I had a woman in my room—and I couldn't even touch her. His body's needs hadn't changed, and they reminded him urgently that Rose Hawkins was a most attractive, if annoying, woman. What woman could look on me as I am and not be revolted? I could not pay a courtesan enough to serve me. Even the lowest, vilest woman in the meanest crib in the Barbary Coast would refuse to serve me. Good God, kissing me would be like kissing an Alsatian! And as for lovemaking—He winced away from the thought. No healthy, sane woman would find him anything other than repugnant.

Although he did look mostly human from about the nipples to the knees.

Except for the tail, of course... but no one would ever look farther than his face and his hands.

The fur of his head and neck thinned and vanished altogether once it reached the middle of his chest, although his skin was paler now than it had been before. The fur did not resume until about the middle of the thigh, until it was a wolf's pelt again from the knee downward. He could not wear shoes anymore; his feet were more paw-like than his hands; he wore soft moccasins and slippers when he wore anything on his feet. The one place his torso was not bare was a ridge of hair that ran down his spine to the tail which had sprouted just above his buttocks.

A charming sight, that. Sure to inspire passion in any red-blooded woman. Sure to inspire her to think of her pet spaniel, of course.

And of course, Rose had treated him exactly as any normal woman would, provided that woman had the ability to take what he had become in with a measure of composure. She had treated him like a puppy.

At least she didn't scratch my ears and tell me to be a good boy. He put the empty cup down, and curled up on his side. Not surprisingly, the "curled" position was more comfortable and felt more natural than lying on his back.

That damned tail again.

The Salamander was mercifully quiet. "Put out the lights," he ordered, and the light visible through his closed eyelids vanished.

That led to another thought—the behavior of the Salamander, in fetching Rose, presumably the moment she had reached her rooms. What had gotten into the creature? It wasn't supposed to act on its own initiative!

At least, he had never come across any references to Elementals that did. But then again, his relationship with his Elementals was not coercive in nature; perhaps they had never acted on their own initiative with other Masters because those coercions prevented such actions.

But why had the Salamander brought Rose? Why not du Mond?

They don't like du Mond, not any of them, but that isn't the answer. One of their primary functions is to guard me from danger. Could they see A Mond as a danger now? That was always possible; this particular Salamander had been warning him away from du Mond for some time now.

But again: why bring Rose here? Why not do the simple things they could do? They could have left him where he was, brought blankets and restoratives to help him regain his strength. Why bring Rose in at all?

The door below him opened and closed again, and he heard du Mond's steps coming up the stairs. The one good thing about this change was the alteration in his hearing ability: it had quadrupled. Not a pin dropped in this house without him knowing.

The man was whistling softly to himself, evidently, something had put him in a very good humor. Well, since I permit it, he can command the Salamanders to hitch up the horses to take him in the carriage as far as Pacifica; perhaps that is the reason. It makes him feel like a Master.

But if the Salamanders thought du Mond might be a hazard to him, he did not want du Mond to know of his weakness. I can handle him when I am fit—but I do not want him to think he has the upper hand because I am incapacitated.

The man paused on the landing, then tried the door to the suite. Finding it unlocked, he ventured inside, naturally. "Jason?" he called. "Is something wrong? The door is unlocked."

"What is that?" Cameron growled loudly, knowing that his voice would carry down the hall. "Paul, go to bed. I'm going over my books, what can you possibly want now?"

"Nothing—well, except to tell you that you really ought to have the Inn at Pacifica send some hampers up here. They have a new cook, a man from New Orleans, that does wonders with fowl." That was so trivial an excuse to bother Cameron that he at once suspected that du Mond sensed something was wrong and was trying to snoop.

"Fine. Start an account down there, and see to it," he replied, trying to sound as irritated as possible. "And if you won't go to bed, go find something useful to do."

"He's sniffing the air, trying to detect incense or burning herbs," the Salamander said calmly. "He must suspect that you attempted a Working without him."

Now how had the fool gotten so clever and observant, suddenly? And why couldn't he have done so when cleverness would have done Cameron some good?

Well, he won't find anything. The Working tonight required balsam and pine gum. He won't detect anything that a good fire in the fireplace wouldn't put out, His lips twisted in satisfaction.

"I'm trying to concentrate, du Mond, and I would prefer you weren't interrupting me. If you have anything else, keep it until tomorrow," he called, allowing his irritation to show in his voice.

"All right, Jason." Finally the footsteps receded and continued up the stairs.

"He's muttering something under his breath about opium, and he seems to think it is serious," the Salamander reported, evidently getting the information from one of the others of his kind that was keeping watch over the Apprentice. Interesting. So they were keeping a guard of their own on him. That meant they did consider him a hazard.

He must think I'm dosing myself too much.... He suffered a momentary pang of guilt, for that was exactly what Rose and Master Pao had said. If even du Mond was of that opinion, then he must have allowed pride to take him too near the edge again.

Oh, damn them all, every one of them! He was perfectly capable of assessing his own needs! He didn't need them to tell him what to do!

"Now he's talking to himself." That was a habit du Mond never had broken, despite the fact that it posed a danger of being overheard by Sylphs or Salamanders. "It's about Rose. He does not like her. And yet he would like to have her to himself. He has plans for her that do not sound as if she would like them."

Cameron was well aware of what du Mond got up to when he visited the city, and his irritation turned to anger. "I can well imagine," he muttered. The man could have been the internal reflection of Cameron's exterior; he was a beast in spirit as Cameron was in body.

That cad. I should have had him horsewhipped out of here when I first found out about his hobby. I thought it didn't matter, after all, many Masters had little peccadilloes when they were Apprentices that they outgrew once they learned discipline. But he's not simply flawed, he's warped. He's another like that charlatan, Crowley. He's a malicious, filthy-minded, self-indulgent blackguard, and he thinks he has the right to besmirch any woman he comes across with his foul paws! And now he thinks he can take advantage of Rose because I am confined to these four walls!

Once again, his anger rose until his vision was red-tinged, filling him with such rage that if du Mond had been in the same room, he would have found the strength to rise from his bed and rip his throat out. Fortunately at the moment he did not have the physical resources to do anything.

He forced himself to simply be still until his anger wore itself out. Logic asserted itself. He dares do nothing under my roof or on my grounds, and Rose will not leave either without my watchful eyes on her She is safe enough from him. But it is a good reason to be rid of him. The only question is—how to accomplish that without his realizing I have done so and seeking revenge?

The easiest way would be to simply kill the man. The idea had its merits. No one cared about Paul du Mond; no one would miss him if he simply vanished.

Except for certain parties in the city for whom he performs his vile services, who will find someone else of similar disposition within a fortnight.

Still, murdering him did carry some risks. Not in his mundane circles, of course; he need only say he had dismissed his secretary for embezzlement and that the man had taken ship for the South Pacific in disgrace. No one would make any further inquiries, for men did frequently take passage to the Islands to lose a bad reputation.

No, murdering du Mond would attract attention only in Magickal circles. One did not go about incinerating one's Apprentices; he would probably be called to account for it before an assembly of Firemasters. If that happened before he managed to change himself back, his altered state would become public knowledge, and some of his deadlier rivals would know of his plight.

No. Much as I would like to, I cannot afford to kill him. Yet.

That left another option—find some place to Put him that was out of the way. That would require a great deal of thought, more than he had put into it until now.

But until now, if I had come across a Working that required four hands rather than two, I would have needed him after all. Now, I no longer do. Now I can afford to think about getting rid of him.

Perhaps the Hawkins girl's impetuous offer was not such a bad thing after all.

She certainly can't be any worse as an assistant than du Mond.

He curled up a bit more and pondered the problem. If he worked hard at it, he could probably manufacture a situation that would require du Mond's presence in the city for some time. Perhaps that would be best.

I can always incinerate him after I have my proper form back. All I have to do is reveal the nature of his recreations and most of the Masters would second my action. Simon Beltaire would not, of course, but he would not second anything I did, even if it was to offer him the wealth of the Indies. Although few, if any, of the Masters would find those recreations in and of themselves reprehensible, since du Mond had up until now confined himself to women of the lowest class and intelligence, they would find his indulgence in them to be foolish and an indication of a fatally flawed personality, one that could never muster the will to properly command the Salamanders.

They already had a perfect example of how such a flawed personality could be detrimental to every Magician. Crowley had been one such—and look what he was doing now! The man was a perambulating disaster wherever he went; he couldn't touch something without destroying or fouling it. And as for his blatant publicity-seeking—he was doing more to discredit the entire world of Magick than the Spanish Inquisition.

His former Master must be spinning in his grave.

Still, he did serve a kind of purpose. Eliphas Levi had said as much in Cameron's first Assembly, when Crowley had been formally cast out and stripped of as much of his power as the Magicians of his Element had deemed he actually possessed. "He does us all a favor, in his twisted way," the old Master had said. "He gathers to him all those fools who believe that the path to power can be found through drugs and selfindulgence rather than study and self-discipline. Thus, he relieves us of the task of having to test and discard them. And in addition, he causes the common folk of the world to believe that all Magicians must be charlatans—which is just as well, for it enables us to do our work in relative peace and quiet!"

Levi had a point. I do wonder... perhaps I could persuade du Mond to go to Crowley? I would then be rid of him and inflict a treacherous cur on Crowley as well! Now that plan had a real savor to it!

And with that pleasant thought in mind, he began to relax, and his physical exhaustion caught up with him completely. He had just enough time to remind the Salamander to guard him while he slept, before sleep itself overcame him.