CHAPTER I
ENCOUNTER ON A LONELY ROAD
If a worshipped idol has power, it shall always emanate from
the eyes or the navel, except for gotems, in which case see
Vol. XCVIH.
—The Book of Rules, XCLV, 194(d)
IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES; IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES.
In point of fact, Husaquahr had been blessed now with
good government—as good as it was going to get, any-
way—and peace for several years.
In other words, it was pretty damned dull in Husa-
quahr.
Oh, there were the usual quotient of crimes, magic
spells, occasional irritating geases, and a number of black-
art wizards and witches lurking about, and the general
population was oppressed by a ruling class of one sort or
another as usual, but it was minor, petty stuff. There'd
be no great new warrior kings to fear and celebrate in
song and story through the generations, no wondrous bat-
tles, the tales of which would thrill the newer generations
for centuries, no epic quests or bold adventures that would
make this a time to look back on. Since the defeat and
subsequent exile of the Dark Baron and the dispersement
of his armies, even those who were most evil in Husa-
quahr seemed willing to compromise with the good and
just have a comfortable old time.
The rider on the black horse was almost invisible in
the dusk, wearing as he was a tight black body stocking,
2 VENGEANCE OF THE DANCING GODS
black belt, and worn riding boots. He was a small man,
both short and slight, and wore only a small dagger for
his defense. He looked elfin, although he was of totally
human blood, and somewhat boyish; yet any who looked
into his cold, penetrating eyes knew both fear and respect.
They were dark eyes, as black as his garb, and they were
very old eyes as well. They said to one and all that this
was a dangerous man and not ever to be taken lightly.
It had been seven years since he'd stood with the greats
and fought with the best of this world the forces of evil
and darkness brought forth from Hell itself by the Dark
Baron. He had killed many men then and a few since, but
never without cause.
It was cool in Husaquahr right now; the gods of the
north wind breathed down deeply this year into the south-
ern lands and refused to take their rest, even as the days
grew longer. He pulled his cloak a bit more tightly about
him to ward off the stinging fingers of wind and saw in
the waning light of the setting sun the signs of an
approaching stormfront. There was no question as to what
sort of front it might be—soon snow would be all that
would be possible out here. It was already far too late for
snow, but someone had forgotten to tell the snow that
this was so.
Only an idiot would be out in wastes like this with
weather like that coming on, he told himself sourly. There
seemed little hope that he could outrun the storm, less
hope that there was any place along this route where he
could find shelter for the night or the storm's duration,
and it was much too far to turn back to the last settlement.
He knew what was behind him; what was ahead certainly
offered more hope, since he was ignorant of the details,
although perhaps not anything better.
He had taken this ancient road primarily to avoid
uncomfortable pursuit. A slight smile came to his face and
he reached down to his belt and into a small pouch
and brought forth a giant emerald, as large as a lemon
and alight with an inner green fire. He would have given
JACK L. CHALKER 3
it back, having proved his point and met the challenge,
but the priests of Baathazar weren't the sort to be for-
giving just for that. He had no use for the thing—he had
long ago amassed more money than he knew what to do
with and he had the most powerful friends and allies in
all the world to bail him out if need be.
Necessity had made him a thief; but once he'd chosen
his profession, he'd been bound by the Rules concerning
thieves, and the occupation had both shaped and gotten
along famously with his personality. He was a thief, and
he'd always be one—the greatest thief in all Husaquahr,
perhaps the world. The profession was the grandest one
offered someone of no means and little magic, for each
theft was a challenge, each caper a unique puzzle to be
solved. The more impossible it was, the more he was
drawn to it as a fly to honey. He had stolen this, the jewel
in the navel of the great idol Baathazar, in full view of
ten thousand pilgrims and half a dozen high priests with
great powers of wizardry. It had been easy—but only in
retrospect. He was quite certain, without being egotisti-
cal, that no one else could have pulled it off.
Still, he would have returned it to them—sent them a
note telling them where to find it, perhaps involving them
having to lower themselves to a great indignity to get it;
but they would have retrieved it. What was the point?
The thing was worthless to him now.
They had not, however, a true appreciation of his skill
and, yes, his integrity as well. They didn't really care if
they got the stone back, so long as they got the "dese-
crator" of their sacred idol. It wasn't even much of a god,
as these things went—one of those left over from the bad
old days, supported by a decreasing number of followers.
That, more than anything, was what had made them
bad-tempered fanatics. Priests used to all that power now
had to undergo a lot of belt-tightening, and they didn't
tike it one little bit. He was a handy person to take all
that frustration out on. In a way, he'd known it from the
start and had taken steps to counter it, steps which included
4 VENGEANCE OF THE DANCING GODS
this escape route. The one thing he hadn't counted on,
though, was snow.
It began soon and quickly built up into an uncomfort-
able blinding world of white flakes. Within minutes he
was no longer certain that he was still on the road, or in
which direction he was going, and he knew he'd have to
stop soon or perish. This was no weather nor fit place in
which to be stuck, whether man or beast. His horse was
already complaining and it had no place to go, either.
Chance would not save him now, nor all his skills, and
he knew it. Only magic would get him out of a fix like
this, and he had very little that really mattered. He wished,
at least, he had some power to dry up the snow or conjure
a nice inn with good ale and a warm fire. Damn it, he
wasn't even dressed for this weather!
At the thought, the jewel in the pouch seemed to hum
and throb, slowly at first, but with a building force that
could no longer be dismissed as mere imagination. He
stopped in the midst of the storm and removed it once
more, noting its unnatural fire and glow.
Why did a god have a navel to begin with? He won-
dered about that idly, knowing that he was trying to take
his mind off his impending doom. He stared deeply into
the jewel's throbbing fire, and suddenly it seemed to him
as if the wind were calmed and the storm silenced. There
was, all at once, a deathly hush about him and his mount,
and he knew in a moment that he was not imagining things.
This was indeed magic, dark magic of the blackest sort,
the kind of magic that he would never touch in any other
case but this. He didn't know whether or not he'd sell
his soul to live—he frankly wasn't certain it was still his
to sell—but it was better than the alternative.
He hopped down off his horse and looked around.
There was still near total darkness; yet where he stood
no wind blew and no snow fell. There was, in fact, an
unnatural warmth which was already melting the snow
that had fallen upon the ground on which he stood, turning
it to mud.
JACK L. CHALKER 5
He placed the stone on the ground and drew a penta-
gram around it v/ith his dagger. It wasn't a very large
pentagram, but that which he expected to occupy it would
fit one the size of the head of a needle if need be. He
stepped out of the pentagram and then closed it.
"Ali right, green fire," he called aloud to the thing, "if
indeed you are a gateway to elsewhere, then I hear your
call. Whoever is bound to you should come through, so
that we may discuss things."
There was a sudden hissing from the stone, which flared
into extraordinary brightness, and then the sound of
escaping steam as a thin plume of smoke rose from it until
it was perhaps shoulder-high. The steam, which gave off
an uncomfortable heat in spite of the raging snowstorm
all about him, widened into a turnip shape, expanding to
fill the entire area. When it contacted the boundaries of
his crude pentagram, it ceased growing and instead solid-
ified.
The demon who showed up was something of a turnip
itself.
It seemed to be all face, a comical, Humpty-Dumpty
sort of thing whose waist was its mouth, above which sat
two huge oval eyes. The head rose into a point, at the
top of which was just a shock of purple hair. Below, the
thing sat on two huge clawed feet, but seemed to have
no legs to speak of. Its arms, coming out of its body just
below that tremendous mouth, were short and stubby
things of misshapen crimson, ending in long and mottled
hands with great black claws at the fingertips. It looked
around, spotted him, opened its mouth, and licked its lips
with an enormous black tongue. The inside of the mouth
was lined with more teeth than a shark's, all pointed and
sharp, and beyond those teeth seemed to be a bottomless
hole.
This, then, was the source of the priests' powers and
the reason why they were nearly frantic to get back the
stone.
"You're not one of those mealy-mouthed priests," the
6 VENGEANCE OF THE DANCING GODS
demon croaked in a voice so deep and reverberant that
it moved the very air. "That means that either their silly
faith is overthrown or you're a pretty damned good thief."
"The latter. Sir Demon," the little man responded,
bowing slightly. "I could not resist the challenge, although,
to be sure, I had no idea I was stealing more than a great
gem."
"All great gems have demons assigned to them. You
should know that. Otherwise, where do you think all those
curses came from?"
"Good point," he admitted. "However, this, I suspect,
is a different sort of gem."
"In a way," the demon agreed. "I can certainly see that
you've mucked up your getaway. This is no curiosity call."
"Quite right, sir. I need a service, it is true, if the price
be not too high."
The demon studied him. "What could you offer me,
thief? Those in your profession tend to wind up with us
anyway, so your soul isn't much of a deal. Still, you never
know. What's your name?"
"I am Macore of the Shadowlands," the thief replied.
"Macore, huh? Seems like I heard the name. Hold on
a moment while I check."
Instantly the demon vanished, leaving Macore alone
once more. No, not quite alone—from the center of the
pentagram came forth the lush sounds of massed violins
playing a rather pleasant if monotonous melody. It was
very nice at first; but as time wore on and both he and
his horse began to get very impatient, the strains of the
music began to irritate him.
Suddenly the music stopped. Just as abruptly the demon
was back. "Sorry to keep you on hold so long, but his
Satanic Majesty's filing system is lousy. We have so many
customers and prospects these days that he really should
automate it, but that would make it too easy for us." His
voice took on a mocking tone. "It's supposed to be Hell,
remember that!" He sighed, and the sound of it went right
through the little thief.
JACK L. CHALKER 7
"Still," the demon continued, "I did find the file.
Thought your name was familiar, too. One of the minor
demon princes got sent all the way down to the dungpits
a while ago and he ain't stopped wallowing in more than
just dung, if you know what I mean. All the time, this
self-pitying wail about how he was gonna deliver this world
on a silver platter and got cashiered instead of rewarded
for it. What's he expect, anyway? It's Hell, after all."
Macore thought a moment. "His name wouldn't be
Hiccarph, would it?"
"Yeah. That's the one. So it is the same Macore. Okay,
that simplifies everything. What do you wish, thief?"
This was suspiciously too cooperative. "And what is
the price?"
"First you tell me what you want, then I'll quote you
the going rates. That's simple enough. You keep it simple,
I'll keep it cheap. Fair enough?"
"I can ask for no more," Macore responded. Already
the temptation was there to ask for whatever he wished,
to go for it all, but he knew that this was the trap of
demonic bargains. He had no intention of delivering him-
self totally, now and forever, as a slave to this creature.
"Naturally, I wish safety and security from this storm and
from my pursuers. Of course, I mean this in the way that
I am thinking it, without loopholes or various things I did
not think of when requesting it."
The demon nodded. "All right. What else?"
"That is it," the thief told the creature. "That is all I
want from you."
The demon sounded slightly disappointed. "Nothing
more? Great wealth may I bestow upon you. I could make
you irresistible to women of any sort. I could give you
immunity from all spells, or give you many of the powers
now reserved for wizards who must suffer to gain what
I offer."
"Suffer now or suffer later," Macore responded. "That
is of no concern to me." He admitted to himself that the
sex appeal was quite tempting, but he had never really
8 VENGEANCE OF THE DANCING GODS
had much trouble in that direction. "I have all the wealth
I need—I steal for the sport of it. Women and I get along
quite well without demonic spells. I have great protections
against much of the spells of this world, and I have enough
magic to get along. No, I'll seek the price for what I asked
and no more."
...
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