bitter tirades against the group who had driven
the writer out and forced him, as he put it, to enter a compact with
the devil for to be a wizard, which is like to a male witch. Henry had
been reading it idly, slowly deciding the book was authentic enough,
however crazy the writer was. The book had no particular value as a
collector's item, but he could probably get a fine price from some of
the local cultists, particularly since there were constant promises in
it that the writer was going to give a surefire, positive and simple
recipe for conjuring up a demon without need of virgin blood,
graveyard earth or unicorn horn.

He skimmed through it, looking for the formula. It turned up on the
fifth page from the end, and was everything the writer had claimed. A
five-sided figure drawn on the floor with ordinary candle wax, a pinch
of sugar inside, a bit of something bitter outside, two odd but simple
finger gestures, and a string of words in bad Latin and worse Greek.
There was a warning that it would work without the pentagram, sugar
and bitters, but at parlous risk to the conjurer without such
protection.

He frowned. Too simple for the cultists, he realized--unless he could
somehow persuade them that the trick lay in some exact phrasing or
gesturing pattern which took experiment. They liked things made
difficult, so they'd have a good alibi for their faith when the
tricks failed. If he could show them in advance that it didn't work,
but hint that a good occultist might figure out the right rhythm, or
whatever....

He read it through again, trying to memorize the whole thing. The
gestures were--so--and the words--umm....

There was no flash of fire, no smell of sulphur, and no clap of
thunder. There was simply a tall creature with yellowish skin and
flashing yellow eyes standing in front of the television set. His head
was completely hairless, and he was so tall that he had to duck
slightly to keep from crashing into the ceiling. His features were too
sharp for any human face. There were no scales, however; his gold cape
and black tights were spangled, and he wore green shoes with turned up
toes. But generally, he wasn't bad looking.

"Mind if I sit down?" the creature asked. He took Henry's assent for
granted and dropped into Emma's chair, folding his cape over one arm
and reaching for an apple on the side table. "Glad to see you're not
superstitious enough to keep me locked up in one of those damned
pentagrams.