Ptolemy's Gate

the teeth snipped like a thousand scissors. "I will risk it." Without pause the leg joints bent and sprang, the jaws opened, wide, wide, wide; the fingers clasped. Kitty fell back, screamed.
    A wall of silver shards, thin as rapiers, rose from the floor, spearing the demon as it leaped; a flash, a shower of sparks—its body burst into lilac flames. It hovered in midair for a split second, twitched, emitted a single gout of smoke, then drifted softly to the floor, light as burning paper. A little voice whispered, sad, resentful: "Ah me . . ." Now it was nothing but a husk, which fell in upon itself and presently dwindled into ashes.
    Kitty's muscles were frozen in a rictus of terror; with a grim effort, she managed to close her mouth and blink, once, twice. She ran a trembling hand through her hair.
    "Great heavens," her master said from the pentacle on the opposite side of the room. "I didn't expect that. But the stupidity of these creatures is boundless. Sweep away the mess, dear Lizzie, and we can discuss the procedure. You must be very proud of your success."
    Dumbly, eyes still staring, Kitty managed the faintest of nods. She stepped stiff-legged from the circle and went to fetch the broom.
    "Well, you're a clever girl and no mistake." Her master was sitting on the sofa nearest the window, sipping from a china cup. "And you make good tea too, which is a blessing on a day like this one." Rain battered the windowpanes and gusted haphazardly across the street. The wind whined in the passages of the house. Kitty drew her feet up out of the draft skirling across the floor and took a swig of strong brown tea from her mug.
    The old man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yes, a very satisfactory summons. Not bad at all. And most interesting for me—who'd have thought the true form of a succubus looked like that! Gracious! Now, Lizzie, did you notice that you slightly mispronounced the Restraining Syllable, right at the end? Not enough to break the safety wall, but the creature was emboldened, thought it would try its luck. Fortunately, everything else you did was perfect."
    Kitty was still shaking. She sank back among the cushions of the ancient sofa. "If I'd. . . made any other mistakes, sir," she said haltingly, "what would have—?"
    "Oh, gracious—I wouldn't worry your head about that. You didn't, and that's what counts. Have a chocolate digestive." He indicated the plate between them. "Settles the stomach, I find."
    She took a biscuit, dunked it in her tea. "But why did it attack me?" she said, frowning. "Surely it must have been able to tell that the pentacle's defenses would come into force."
    Her master chuckled. "Who can say? Perhaps it hoped you would flinch out of the circle as it leaped: that would have instantly destroyed its prison and allowed it to devour you. Notice that it had already tried two childish stratagems to persuade you to leave the pentacle. Hum, it was not a sophisticated djinni. But perhaps it had grown tired of bondage; perhaps it simply wished to die." He eyed the dregs at the bottom of his teacup musingly. "Who can tell? We understand so little about demons, about what makes them tick. They are hard to fathom. Is there any more in the pot?"
    Kitty inspected it. "Nope. I'll make some more."
    "If you would, dear Lizzie, if you would. You might pass me that copy of Trismegistus on your way out. He has some interesting notes on succubi, if I recall."
    Chill air bit into her as she entered the passage and stomped down to the kitchen. There, leaning close to the blue gas flame hissing beneath the kettle, her self-control finally slackened. She began to tremble—proper heavy body-shuddering shakes that made her grasp the work surface for support.
    She closed her eyes. The demon's open jaws plummeted toward her. She opened them again at speed.
    A paper bag of fruit sat beside the sink. Mechanically she took an apple and ate it, gulping it down desperately in great rough chunks. She took another, and finished it more slowly, staring sightlessly at the wall.
    Her trembling subsided. The kettle whistled. Jakob was right, she thought, rinsing her mug under an icy stream of water. I'm an idiot. Nobody but a fool would do this. Nobody but a fool.
    But a fool could still be lucky. And so far, for three long years, her luck had held.
    Since the day when her death had been reported and accepted, and the authorities had sealed their file on her with a blob of hot black wax, Kitty had never