Meanwhile, Quixote, freed of the concerns of keeping watch on two enchanters at a time, began getting the better of Malambroso. The knight was still on horseback, while the evil enchanter had been unseated. Malambroso was sending magical beasts against Quixote, but the knight parried them with bursts of light and sound, and the attacks failed.
Malambroso tired visibly. The monsters he conjured became smaller and less frightening. He began backing, losing ground.
At the same time, Shea pressed his attack on Freston. The Spanish wizard's eves darted from Shea to Malambroso and hack to Shea. He kept retreating, and under his breath he muttered another curse. "By hell's dominion, swing a sword no more—but find you hold a snake in hand."
Shea's saber melted under his fingers, and writhed. Shea found himself swinging a king cobra. "Yaaagh!" he howled, and then his eyes narrowed and he grinned maniacally. "On my lady's honor, let's have some more snakes—snakes in Freston's cloak, snakes in Freston's hood, snakes up Freston's sleeves and down his boots and in his underwear—if he's wearing any—"
Freston's clothing writhed horribly, and the enchanter paled and shrieked, "Aaaie! Devil take me— but not the clothes! Not the clothes!" Red puffs of smoke shot out of his clothing, and abruptly the empty monk's robes fell to the ground.
Almost empty, Shea amended, watching the clothing squirm on its own. "No more snakes, O Lord in Heaven," he said. His cobra reverted to saber form, and he sheathed it gratefully. He whistled to his horse, and the warsteed trotted over. Shea mounted and looked to Don Quixote.
Quixote had Malambroso backed against the coach. The coachman on top cowered well out of the way of the knight and the wizard. "Surrender!" Quixote shouted. "You're done for, wretch!"
"By the legions of Hell, I'll never surrender—but for now, I and mine will take our leave—and what's not mine, I'll hide in Hell. Find it if you can!" Malambroso waved an arm, and puffs of red smoke appeared in his place—and from the top of the coach where the driver had crouched, and trailing in wisps from the coach's half-opened door.
When Shea charged down the road to help Quixote, Chalmers sat on his shurdono and watched, feeling miserable. He twitched under Sancho Panza's suspicious glare, and he longed to attack Malambroso and Freston with a few well-crafted, clever spells. He would bet they had never seen anything like the disembodied strangling hands with which he'd once bested the enchanters of Faerie. Now he could not successfully bespell a chicken. He felt useless, and worse yet, he felt especially useless in that one area where his talents usually shone—magic. It nettled him that Harold Shea, who had lost none of his ability at sword-fighting and other physical feats, seemed, in Quixote's world, to have acquired the magical ability that should rightfully have belonged to Chalmers.
For a man who was used to effecting events on a grand scale, it was a bitter, bitter pill to swallow.
Chalmers watched Shea fighting alongside Quixote, mixing feats of magic with strength of arms, and envy gnawed in his belly. Incompetence was misery. "Oh, Hell ..." he swore, softly.
He became aware, gradually, of a sense of general expectancy in the air. Around him, the light took on shimmer and weight, and hung electrically, sending shivers through his skin. He looked over his shoulder, trying to see what had changed, worrying that what he sensed was the phenomena of lightning preparing to strike—or something akin to that. However, he could see nothing that might be causing his skin to crawl and his hair to stand on end.
The silence stretched on, crackling, until his nerves quivered and sweat beaded in the palms of his hands.
A deep, throbbing voice finally shredded the silence. "YES ...?" it asked from the air around him. "YOU CALLED?"
The shurdono bucked, and Chalmers heart pounded itself into the back of his throat. "G-G-G-God?" he squeaked. He looked all around, hoping to catch sight of the speaker.
He could see nothing out of the ordinary. The invisible speaker sniffed indignantly. "DON'T BE INSULTING."
Reed Chalmers felt that voice vibrating in the base of his spine. "Th-th-th-then who?" he asked. He noticed that Sancho Panza crossed himself and muttered prayers. The squire never took his eyes off the psychologist who talked to empty air.
"FENWICK, THIRD DEMON IN COMMAND OF THE LEGIONS OF HELL, AT YOUR SERVICE. YOU DID CALL ON HELL ..."
Chalmers felt the universe begin to spin around him. Little white dots circled just within his peripheral vision, and he noted that everything was turning gray and fuzzy. He heard a sound closely related to the roar of the ocean—and recognized, just in time, the symptoms of fainting. He lowered his head to the shurdono's back, and took long, slow breaths that smelled strongly of musty chicken. Fenwick, he thought. A devil—at my service.
The world gradually stopped whirling, and Chalmers sat up again. He jutted his chin and squared his shoulders and made a conscious effort to control any quaver in his voice. "I've only called on God," he said primly. "Any reference to Hell was merely accidental profanity."
Fenwick, Third Demon in command of the Legions of Hell, digested this in long silence. Then, in stunned tones, he asked, "YOU HONESTLY CALLED ON HEAVEN? WHATEVER FOR?"
He sounded sincere. For some reason, Chalmers felt this was a bad sign. "Because," he answered, hoping to talk his way out of an increasingly uncomfortable situation, "the magic system in this universe appears to be based on spells that utilize oaths to God and promises to various saints and loved ones—"
The voice interrupted with a rude cackle. "YOU MORON," it said, wheezing with laughter. "THAT'S EXACTLY THE SYSTEM—IF YOU'RE A KNIGHT. BUT YOU AREN'T A KNIGHT. YOU'RE AN ENCHANTER. ALL ENCHANTERS DRAW THEIR POWERS FROM HELL."
"I'm not an evil enchanter. I'm a good enchanter," Chalmers sniffed.
"HE-HE-HE!" Fenwick giggled. "AND I'M A SAINT HE-HE-HE! A GOOD ENCHANTER. BOY, JUST WAIT TIL I TELL THE GUYS IN MARKETING: SO, MR. GOOD ENCHANTER DID YOU WANT SOMETHING OR DID YOU JUST CALL FOR THE HELL OF IT—HE-HE-HE-HE!"
Reed Chalmers felt that he was reaching the end of his patience. "Did I want something? Let me tell you what I want. I want a horse instead of this razor-spined monstrosity. I want magic to work for me. I want my wife back and I want to go home."
"HM-M-M-M." Fenwick pondered, then said, "WELL, THE MOST APPROPRIATE FORM FOR THAT IS BY SATAN AND HIS MINIONS'—"
"Listen, dammit—" Chalmers interrupted.
"YEAH, THAT WILL DO TOO," Fenwick agreed, "BUT TECHNICALLY SPEAKING, IT'S PRETTY RUDE."
Without further warning, Chalmers found himself astride a very fine horse, appropriately saddled and bridled. He discovered, as well, that he abruptly understood the magical system of Quixote's universe. But Florimel was nowhere evident, and he most definitely wasn't home.
"What about Florimel?" he asked. He felt a bit better. He felt a sort of warm, tingly happiness toward the whole of creation. Magic had once again worked for him, irreproachably. He understood why it worked, and this gave him a comforting feeling of control. He also realized that with every second he was not sitting on that miserable shurdono's back, being gouged in the groin by the beast's nightmarish spine, his happiness increased by another degree.
"I CAN'T GIVE YOU FLORIMEL," Fenwick said. He sounded contrite. "AN ENCHANTER WITH A HIGHER RANKING HAS CLAIMED THE SERVICES OF THE SECOND DEMON IN COMMAND OF THE LEGIONS OF HELL, AND THE TWO OF THEM HAVE LEGAL POSSESSION OF HER SORRY." He coughed once, diffidently. "AND YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO GET YOURSELF HOME. ITS OUT OF MY TERRITORY"