Demons of the Dancing Gods (23 page)

woman supporting a Joe in pain and bleeding from one calf.

His leg was obviously too painful to stand on, not to mention

dripping blood here and there on the fancy hotel carpet.

Marge opened her own door, looked out, saw the scene,

and ran to them. "Get him in on the big bed in my room!"

They did as instructed, but it was Poquah who vanished and

then reappeared with what proved to be a small medical kit

and tended to the wound. "A nasty thing," the Imir commented.

"What sort of creature did this to you? A wolf? Some monster

from the exhibitions?"

Joe shook his head wearily. "No, it was a Pekingese, damn

it."

"A what?"

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"He means a little hairy dog with a pug face and curled-up

tail," Marge explained.

"Ah! A tansir dog. From the size and depth of the wound,

I would have suspected a much larger dog."

"It was as big as it had to be," Joe grumbled. "Damned

thing nearly tore my leg off. I didn't even see it—I just stepped

on its tail. It yelped, turned, and, the next thing I knew, it took

a hunk out of my leg!"

Poquah frowned. "Where did this happen?"

"At the lecture on theriomorphism. I was trying to find out

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a few things and I'm afraid I dragged Joe into this," Tiana said

apologetically.

"Umph! I think we were the only humans in the damned

place," Joe added as a salve was applied. "Centaurs, mermaids,

satyrs, minotaurs, all sorts of creatures."

"But that is what theriomorphism is all about," Poquah

noted. "All of those you mentioned are half human, half beast,

which means they are all theriomorphs."

"Well, how was / to know? And since when do those creatures

keep fancy pets?"

"They don't," the Imir replied, sounding wary. "Not usually,

in any case. Let me examine that wound again." He leaned

down and let his curious almond-shaped red eyes focus for a

moment, keeping very still. "Hmmmm... Marge—will you

look at this?"

She was startled to be the one he called, but she moved

forward and bent down to see what the elf was talking about.

At first it looked like a nice, large dog bite—they did have

big mouths for such little dogs, she noted absently—but then

she saw what Poquah was talking about.

Very faintly and very subtly, the entire wound gave off a

soft blackish glow, like a negative almost, but not quite, superimposed

on a positive picture. It was so faint it was no

wonder nobody had noticed it before, but it stood out clearly

now. "That's a spell of some kind," she said, puzzled.

Poquah nodded absently. "And in the black band."

The pain had faded, but Joe started to feel a different sort

of discomfort. "What's that mean? How the hell can a dog bite

be magic?"

"I'm not sure," the Imir told him, "but it most certainly is

a black band spell, transmitted through the bite."

"He means," Marge explained, "that the dog that bit you

wasn't a dog."

"It sure looked like a dog, acted like a dog, and bit like a

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dog. And what's this black band business?"

Tiana sounded worried and tense. "It is the color of the

spell that tells its nature. Magic is a very colorful art, Joe,

made up of a tremendous variety of colors. Which colors are

combined, and in what fashion, determines its mathematics and

thus what it does."

"Okay, I follow that. What's a black band spell, then?"

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It was Marge who answered. "It's a curse, Joe. And because

it is only in the base color, it is transferable."

Joe sank back on the bed. "Now, let me get this straight.

The dog had a curse, and because the dog bit me, I now have

the curse, too. Is that about it?"

"That's about it," Marge agreed.

He considered it. "And I suppose if/ bit somebody, they'd

get it, too?"

"Most probably," Poquah said. "I believe the Master should

examine this, although he's fast asleep right now, and I'm not

going to awaken him. The wound is still a wound, no matter

what else, so we will bandage it, and then you should get some

sleep yourself. Tomorrow at the dinner hour the Master would

like to see all four of you in any case, so that is plenty of time

to find out more of this. In the meantime, I will try to leam

something about this dog."

"Sounds good to me," Joe told him. With the usual pleasantries,

all but Tiana and Marge left him. He looked from one

to the other. "Well, if this isn't any trucker's sex fantasy, I

don't know what is. Trouble is, it hurts too much in the leg to

do anything about it."

They both smiled, but neither could conceal her concern.

He had to admit he didn't exactly like the idea of a curse,

either—they were always pretty bad things, and in this crazy

world—and particularly at this crazy convention—they could

mean anything at all.

Joe awoke feeling pretty good. There was still sunlight outside,

but from its angle he could tell that the hour was pretty

late and he'd slept a good, long time. He looked over and saw

Tiana stretched out beside him, still sleeping. All scrunched

up in a chair. Marge was out, too. He knew that Marge, at

least, would be out until sundown and he quietly brought himself

to a sitting position, then examined the bandages. It was

odd—the damned thing had been so painful earlier it wasn't

funny, yet now he could swear that there was no wound at all.

Cautiously, he put his good foot on the floor, then the bandaged

one, and stood up. There was no sensation, except the tightness

of the bandage. Otherwise, his leg felt and moved just fine.

He went down the hall to the John with no problems and

then walked back. When he re-entered the room, Tiana turned

r

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and woke up. She saw him standing there and looked surprised.

"You all right?"

He nodded and grinned. "No fangs or funny ears, either.

The bandage is tight and it itches like hell underneath, but

otherwise no problem. Want to go next door and get Durin to

make us a pot of real coffee?"

She got up, yawned, and stretched, her hands actually touching

the rather high ceiling as she did so. "You go on over. I

need to go next door and get myself a little cleaner and brush

my hair."

"Okay. Marge'11 wake up and join us at sundown." He went

over to Tiana, nuzzled her, then kissed her. "Good morning

or afternoon or evening, whatever."

She smiled. "Conventions do that sort of thing."

"Being partners with a Kauri does it, too."

She patted him on the rump and went to the door. "See you

in a few minutes," she said and left.

He turned, scratched, sighed, then went out and down to

the double doors and knocked.

Poquah opened the door, looked at him, and said simply,

"You're early."

He shrugged. "No place else to go—unless there's business

going on, in which case I can think of a way to pass the time

down the hall."

The entendre went unrecognized. "No. In fact, the Master

is not even here right now. He's in a Council meeting."

"Um. Then I can get Durin to make—oops! I already smell

it brewing." He walked by the Imir into the room, and Durin's

elfin face grinned at him from the kitchenette. Joe got a mug

of coffee, then sat down comfortably on the couch.

"How is your wound?" Poquah asked him, after checking

on things on the bar.

"Good. In fact, the bandage is the only problem."

The Imir pulled up a stool, stretched out Joe's leg, drew a

sharp knife from its sheath on his belt, and slit the bandage

cleanly. Then he removed the whole thingwith a single, swift

motion.

"Ouch!"

"Just the dried blood. It cemented your leg to the bandage,

so to speak. Durin—some hot water and a cloth, please."

The chubby little elf was ready for him and brought the

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cloth over and handed it to the Imir, then scampered back to

the kitchenette.

Poquah carefully washed away the very ugly-looking caked

blood, then frowned and rubbed some more.

"Hey!" Joe exclaimed. "Watch it! You're taking leg there!"

The Imir took no notice, but continued until the last of the

blood was off. He motioned to the area of the wound with his

head. "Most interesting."

Joe looked down and felt sudden amazement. "Hey! There

aren't even any teeth marks! That skin's as smooth and unmarked

as glass!"

Poquah nodded. "Indeed. That confirms it."

"Huh? Confirms what? Did I get bit or didn't I?"

"Oh, yes, you were bitten, all right, just as you say. The

blood alone proves that, does it not? No, it just confirms what

I was able to find out from others around and at the meeting

where it happened. I would like to get a second opinion, of

course."

"Cut the weaseling! What is it?"

"Well, last night was the last night of the full moon, which

should have alerted me right away. Then, as you said, there

is the question of what a dog was doing in a seminar. Now we

have the total disappearance of the wound. Tentatively, I would

say that you were bitten by some sort of were."

"Were? You mean as in werewolf?"

"And a lot of other things. Weres come in all types, really.

It certainly explains why a tansir dog should be sitting in at a

seminar on theriomorphism, which means human into beast,

does it not?"

Joe sat back, remembering all the werewolf movies he'd

ever seen, and this didn't fit the image at all. "You mean every

time there's a full moon from now on, I'm going to change

into a Pekingese7"

"Possibly. Possibly not. Although the spell is totally concealed

now, I am positive that it was strictly black band—

most unique for any sort of werebeast. A werewolf or weredog

would also have to have the codex for its particular creature,

and this was not at all evident. My tentative diagnosis is that

you have become the most rare of all theriomorphs, a true and

pure were."

"Huh? A were what?"

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"A were, period. As there was no codex, it must be externally

supplied."

"Plain speech, please. Short words, too, so I can understand

what you're saying."

The Imir got up, took the bandage over, and discarded it,

then returned and took a seat opposite Joe. "All right. You've

been through this before, if I remember. The Circean turned

you into a bull."

Joe nodded, recalling the incident with a slight shiver.

"Well, were curses are generalized forms of that sort of

thing. Volume Four Sixty-Four of the Rules, if I remember

correctly, treats them in some detail but never actually comes

to grips with them. Nobody really knows how such curses

originate, and the Rules prohibit originating new were curses

of a communicable nature. Think of them as diseases, perhaps

—not only skin contact, but actual saliva or blood transfer

is required."

"But you or Ruddygore can read this volume whatsis and

give me the cure, right?"

Poquah shook his head sadly from side to side. "No. Since

their origin and exact nature are unknown, so is their cure.

They can mostly be arrested through the regular injection of

exotic herbs, different ones from different types, but this is

unique to me."

"Get to the point."

"Well—" At that moment the door opened and Ruddygore

entered. At first he seemed preoccupied, but then he noticed

Joe over on the couch.

"So! Feeling better, I hope. Now, what's this about a werewound?"

He walked over, bent down, and looked at the area

on Joe's leg that was now distinguishable only by the marks

left from the bandages. He nodded, then turned to Poquah.

"You've told him?"

"No, he hasn't!" Joe snapped. "He's done everything but.

Would you mind telling me what all this is about?"

"Well, you stepped on a were's tail, it bit you, and you

caught the disease. Of them all, I'd say you were the luckiest,

Joe. It's incredibly rare."

"That's what Poquah keeps telling me, but nobody tells me

what it is I've got a rare case of! You guys are worse than

doctors!"

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Ruddygore nodded. "I managed to get hold of the woman

who bit you. If it's any solace, she's very, very sorry about

it, but she just reacted in pain. She's actually a very nice person,

and you're the first person she's ever bitten."

"She's a bitch as far as I'm concerned," Joe growled.

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"Well, she was last night, or she wouldn't have been able