Equal Rites

teeth.
    “Oh,” he said. “Oh, I see. They were from you, were they?”
    “That’s right. I signed them on the bottom. It’s supposed to be a sort of clue, isn’t it?”
    “All right, all right. I just thought they were a joke, that’s all,” said Cutangle sullenly.
    “A joke?”
    “We don’t get many applications from women. We don’t get any ”
    “I wondered why I didn’t get a reply,” said Granny.
    “I threw them away, if you must know.”
    “You could at least have— There it is! ”
    “Where? Where? Oh, there.”
    The fog parted and they now saw it clearly—a fountain of snowflakes, an ornamental pillar of frozen air. And below it…
    The staff wasn’t locked in ice, but lay peacefully in a seething pool of water.
    One of the unusual aspects of a magical universe is the existence of opposites. It has already been remarked that darkness isn’t the opposite of light, it is simply the absence of light. In the same way absolute zero is merely the absence of heat. If you want to know what real cold is, the cold so intense that water can’t even freeze but anti-boils, look no further than this pool.
    They looked in silence for some seconds, their bickering forgotten. Then Cutangle said slowly: “If you stick your hand in that, your fingers’ll snap like carrots.”
    “Do you think you can lift it out by magic?” said Granny.
    Cutangle started to pat his pockets and eventually produced his rollup bag. With expert fingers he shredded the remains of a few dogends into a fresh paper and licked it into shape, without taking his eyes off the staff.
    “No,” he said. “but I’ll try anyway.”
    He looked longingly at the cigarette and then poked it behind his ear. He extended his hands, fingers splayed, and his lips moved soundlessly as he mumbled a few words of power.
    The staff spun in its pool and then rose gently away from the ice, where it immediately became the center of a cocoon of frozen air. Cutangle groaned with the effort—direct levitation is the hardest of the practical magics, because of the ever-present danger of the well-known principles of action and reaction, which means that a wizard attempting to lift a heavy item by mind power alone faces the prospect of ending up with his brains in his boots.
    “Can you stand it upright?” said Granny.
    With great delicacy the staff turned slowly in the air until it hung in front of Granny a few inches above the ice. Frost glittered on its carvings, but it seemed to Cutangle—through the red haze of migraine that hovered in front of his eyes—to be watching him. Resentfully .
    Granny adjusted her hat and straightened up purposefully.
    “ Right ,” she said. Cutangle swayed. The tone of voice cut through him like a diamond saw. He could dimly remember being scolded by his mother when he was small; well, this was that voice, only refined and concentrated and edged with little bits of carborundum, a tone of command that would have a corpse standing to attention and could probably have marched it halfway across its cemetery before it remembered it was dead.
    Granny stood in front of the hovering staff, almost melting its icy covering by the sheer anger in her gaze.
    “This is your idea of proper behavior, is it? Lying around on the sea while people die? Oh, very well done!”
    She stomped around in a semicircle. To Cutangle’s bewilderment, the staff turned to follow her.
    “So you were thrown away,” snapped Granny. “So what? She’s hardly more than a child, and children throw us all away sooner or later. Is this loyal service? Have you no shame, lying around sulking when you could be of some use at last?”
    She leaned forward, her hooked nose a few inches from the staff. Cutangle was almost certain that the staff tried to lean backward out of her way.
    “Shall I tell you what happens to wicked staffs?” she hissed. “If Esk is lost to the world, shall I tell you what I will do to you? You were saved from the fire once, because you could pass on the hurt to her. Next time it won’t be the fire.”
    Her voice sank to a whiplash whisper.
    “First it’ll be the spokeshave. And then the sandpaper, and the auger, and the whittling knife—”
    “I say, steady on,” said Cutangle, his eyes watering.
    “—and what’s left I’ll stake out in the woods for the fungus and the woodlice and the beetles. It could take years .”
    The carvings writhed. Most of them had moved around the back, out of Granny’s