Songs of the Dying Earth

He would speak of honor, and she would speak of trinkets. He would promise love, and she would snicker and point out that the poorest jewel lasted longer than the greatest love. He would beg just to be with her, and the golden witch would vanish, only the echo of her amused laughter lingering in the empty air.

Pelmundo sought out Umbassario, who lived in a snake-filled cave high in the rocky outcroppings beyond Maloth. It was lit by black candles, and the light flickered off a thousand bats that slept their days away hanging upside down between the stalagmites before being sent off on their unholy errands.

“I have come to—” he began.

“I know why you have come, Watchman,” replied the mage. “Am I not Umbassario of the Glowing Eyes?”

“Will you help me, then?” asked Pelmundo. “Will you enchant her so that she can see only me?”

“And be blind to the rest of the world?” asked Umbassario with an amused smile. “That would almost be fitting.”

“No, I don’t mean that,” protested the Watchman. “But I burn for her. Can you not instill the same fire within her?”

“It is there.”

“But she teases and ignores me!”

“The fire is there, but it does not burn for you, son of Riloh,” continued the mage. “It burns only for Lith. She is a physically perfect woman, so she seeks only physical perfection — in jewels, in clothes, in men.”

“But you can change that!” urged Pelmindo. “You are the greatest of all the magicians who ply their trade up and down the River Scaum. You can make her love me!”

“I could,” acknowledged Umbassario. “But I will not. There once was a woman, almost as young and almost as perfect as the golden witch of your heart’s desire. I made her fall in love with me when I was younger and more foolish. Every night on the silken mat, she was the most responsive female that has ever lived, I truly believe that. But each time I would look into her eyes, even as her body jerked and spasmed in ecstasy, I would see the repugnance that my magic had banished to some secret inner part of her, and the taste of our erotic bliss turned to dust in my mouth. Finally, I removed the spell, and she was gone within an hour. Is that what you would want with Lith?”

“I truly do not know,” answered Pelmundo. “If I just had the chance, I know I could make her love me.”

The old mage sighed. “I don’t believe you have heard a word I have said. The golden witch loves only herself.”

“She will love me, with or without your spells,” said Pelmundo with iron determination.

“Without, I should think,” replied Umbassario as the Watchman left his cave.

Pelmundo walked back to Maloth in a foul mood that was apparent to one and all. People stayed out of his sight, and even the curs that scoured the street for scraps remained hidden until he passed by. Finally he entered the Place of the Seven Nectars, glared at the innkeeper and ordered the nonexistent Eighth Nectar, and, a moment later, was given a flagon filled to the brim. It tasted, he thought, exactly like the Seventh Nectar, but as it eased its way down his throat and warmed his insides, his temper began to improve and he decided not to protest.

He left the tavern and headed across the street to Laja’s House of Golden Flowers, where he found Taj the Malingerer standing in the street, staring at the front door.

“Greetings,” said Taj. “You can tell she is here today. She attracts men as honey attracts bees.”

“Who do you mean?” asked Pelmundo, feigning ignorance.

“Why, the golden witch,” replied Taj. “It is as if men read a secret signal on the winds, for I am drawn here only when she comes to Maloth from the Old Forest.” He winked at the Watchman. “Confess, friend Pelmundo: that is why you are here too.”

The Watchman glared at him and said nothing.

“My only question,” continued Taj, “is why she is here at all. Probably she is not yet skilled enough to pay her way as a witch.” Another wink. “Or perhaps this is the kind of witchcraft and enchantment at which she excels, for I love and honor my wife except on days Lith has come to town, and I have never seen you so much as look at any other woman.”

“You talk too much,” said Pelmundo irritably, because he disliked hearing the uncomfortable truths that rolled so easily off Taj’s tongue.

“I am almost through talking,” answered Taj. “For when the next man is escorted out of the house by Leja, it is my turn to pay my respects — and my tribute — to Lith.”

As the words left his mouth, Leja, old wrinkled crone who had once been almost as beautiful as the golden witch — some said two hundred years ago — led Metoxos the silk merchant to the door and bade him farewell. Suddenly, both men became aware that Lith herself was standing next to Leja — slender, with an animal grace, full ripe breasts, golden skin, hair that seemed to be made of spin gold, full red lips, and laughing eyes that seemed like sparkling embers.

“Prepare yourself, golden one,” said Taj, “for you are about to meet a real man, not a used-up walking wrinkle like that pathetic Metoxos.”