Rod sank into a crouch on the side of the throne, turning to follow Brume with his eyes, belatedly remembering that Gramarye warlocks couldn't accomplish telekinesis—it was a sex-linked trait. Only he and his boys were exceptions. So where was Brume getting that ability?
Fantasy, obviously. That part was Granclarte.
"Blasphemer!" the huge voice tolled. "Who art thou to so profane the castle of the great sorcerer!"
"It's pretty profane already, really." Rod lifted the point of the sword toward Brume. "If you want to get rid of me, just remove the spell."
But Brume's eyes suddenly flared red, swelling and growing until they filled Rod's whole field of vision, as the grandfather of all aches split his head. Dimly, he realized he'd just been hit with the most powerful blast of projective telepathy he'd ever experienced. He tried to strike back with a mental stab of his own, but his whole head seemed to be burning, and all he could see was red haze, filling the whole Great Hall, obscuring the sorcerer, the dais, the fireballs, and Rod's own sense of who and where he was, filling the whole universe so that there was nothing there but red mist and burning pain, in a present that had no past and no future, but existed and endured without hope of cessation.
But it did cease, finally; it slackened, the pain receding to only a normal headache, splitting Rod's head anew with every beat of his pulse, the red mist fading until he could see again. His ears gave him a hollow boom followed by a metallic grating and clunk, then a gloating laugh fading away into the distance. Sight, though, seemed to be limited to afterimages in brilliantly colored geometric patterns. Finally, he began to be able to make out stripes of orange through the afterimages. Then the colors darkened down to purple and blue, and through them, he could see the stone blocks that the orange stripes revealed. He frowned, turning his head, and saw a rectangle of orange light across from the stripes, a rectangle that was itself striped with black lines.
Iron bars.
He was in a dungeon again.
Rod let himself go limp. He might be in eventual mortal peril, but he was safe for the instant. He found himself wondering why he was still alive. If the sorcerer had been able to knock him out long enough to put him down here, why hadn't he just killed Rod outright?
"Because he wants to use you for bargaining."
Rod frowned, looking up, staring through the darkness, trying to see to whom he was talking.
It wasn't hard. The person in question provided his own glow—a very ruddy glow. He had a black moustache and goatee, with red horns and a barbed red tail. All of him was red, actually, except his black cloak, and he looked very familiar.
"Ready to think about that contract now?"
Rod sank back with a groan, and braced himself to resist a sales pitch. He made a valiant try to forestall it. "I think I'll hold out a while longer, thanks."
The devil shrugged. "It's your choice. Take him, boys!"
With a howl, a dozen demons swooped down at Rod, batwinged, scarlet-skinned, and horned. Rod yelped, "No fair!" and thought of an invisible shield.
The air glimmered in front of him.
The foremost demon splattered against an invisible win-do wpane, lay spread-eagle for a second, then peeled off backward and fell.
"What in hell do you think you're doing?" the debonair devil cried.
"Wrong origin." Rod tried to think holy thoughts. Who was the appropriate saint in charge of this sort of situation? Saint Vidicon? Saint Jude?
The other demons put on the brakes, but they didn't quite make it; they piled into Rod's invisible barrier like a stack of animated dominoes.
"All right, remember your duty!" the devil called. "Let's get about the torturing now!"
"But, boss," one little demon said, "how can we torture him if we can't get at him?"
"Think of something! Find a way!"
"I thought that was your department."
At a guess, Rod decided, none of them was particularly long on brainpower.
"Yes, it is." The big devil scowled. Then he grinned a devilish grin. "I have it! You can't reach him—but he can see you and hear you."
"So?"
"Tell him about himself." The grin widened, revealing shark teeth. "Start with the truth."
"The truth?'" the little devils cried, appalled.
"You heard me, truth!" the big devil snarled. "You want to hurt him, don't you? Tell him about his real self!"
Of course, Rod reminded himself quickly, the big devil could have been lying.
Not a moment too soon, either. The first little devil pranced up to the unseen barrier, eyes alight with malice. "You've got a vicious temper, you know that? Oh, you're slow to boil, but when you do, you don't care who you burn!"
"I know that," Rod growled, but even so, he winced within.
The demon ignored him; it turned to one of its fellows, whose form had melted into something approximating a female in skirt and bodice. "Gwen, you're vile! Always after me, always nagging, never giving me a moment's peace!"
"Me after you!" the female demon shrilled. "Who came after who in the first place, huh? You think I made all these brats by myself? Let me tell you, monster…"
Rod kept a stony face on it, but inside, he was quailing. He didn't really think that about Gwen, did he? And he hoped she didn't think that about him. Though she had reason enough, Lord knew.
Then the "female" demon pranced aside, and the others stepped back into the shadows, leaving the one who was impersonating Rod—and looking more and more like him all the time—alone in the darkness.
Eyes open, yellow and glowing. Something snarled in the night.
"Oh, no!" the demon cried. "Get me outa here! Somebody help me!" His knees began to knock, and the trembling spread to his whole body. "I'm scared, damn it! He-e-e-e-1-p!" He turned to run, but more yellow eyes blinked open, and he backed up, moaning. "Oh-h-h-h— what'm I gonna do?"
Rod lifted his head in indignation. Whatever he was, he wasn't a coward. Fearful, yes, there were a lot of things that scared him—but he didn't run from them.
They'd just catch up with him, anyway.
"I'm gonna kill 'em!" the demon wailed, and it whipped out its sword. "If I can't run from 'em, I'll cut out their hearts!"
"They might be innocent," the big devil suggested. '' They might be harmless."
"They will be when I get through with em!"
Rod emptied out inside. They had him pegged; he realized, with a sick sense of certainty, that the charge was true. He did strike out from fear—and, frequently, out of all proportion.
The Rod-demon seemed to shrivel as his clothes shredded into rags, darkening with filth. His shoulders slumped, his knees bent, and he moved toward the real Rod with a dispirited shuffle. He lifted his head and Rod saw rheumy, bloodshot eyes and a dirty, unshaven face. An icicle seemed to impale Rod.
The beggarman clasped the shreds of his cloak about him with his left hand and held out his right, cupped. "Got a coin, bo? Anything'll do… Alms, goodman! Alms!"
A prosperous couple brushed past, and the beggar swiv-eled toward them, hand out. "Spare me a penny, kind sir!"
Somewhere, someone was moaning.
The lady gave him a furtive glance, then turned to her escort, but he rumbled, "He isn't worth it, my dear. If he was, he wouldn't be begging."
"If you say so…"
Another prosperous gentleman pushed past him with a snarl. "Out of my way, human garbage!"
Someone was moaning, and Rod realized it was himself.
"Worthless," sneered another passerby. "Not worth a damn."
"No-o-o-o!" Rod howled. "It's not true! Not a bit! I am good! I do work! I am worthwhile!"