Ptolemy's Gate

sprang down a trapdoor, closely followed by a heron; reappeared an instant later through another, riding the head of a cardboard goblin. It leaped onto the banner above, clung there with two webbed feet. A heron reared up from below, snapped its beak, and tore the banner asunder—the strip of fabric fell, swung like a jungle vine, and catapulted the frog over the path to land beside the crystal prism where the captive demon sat.
    By this point I was losing track of where I was and what I was doing. In fact, my essence was fast disintegrating: I could scarcely see; the world was awash with discordant sound. I hopped unthinkingly, changing direction with every hop, seeking to avoid the attack I knew would come.
    Sure enough, one of my pursuers lost patience with the chase. It must have tried a Convulsion, I think; I'd leaped aside anyway—I didn't see it hit the prism, didn't hear the crystal crack. Not my fault. Nothing to do with me. I didn't see the big black demon give a grimace of surprise and set its long curved fingernails to the break. I didn't hear the ominous shattering when the entire globe gave way, nor the screams and wailing of the people as the demon leaped into their midst.
    I knew nothing of it. I knew only the endless pounding rhythms of the chase, felt only my essence softening and seeping into liquid with every desperate hop and spring. I was dying now, but I could not rest. A swifter death flew close behind.

11

    Kitty's master looked up from his sofa—a lonely island amid a sea of scattered paper, all scrawled upon with his tight, close script. He was chewing the end of a ballpoint pen, which had left little blue ink stains on his lips. He blinked in mild surprise.
    "Didn't think to see you back this evening, Lizzie. Thought you had to get off to your work."
    "I do, sir. Very shortly. Now, sir—"
    "Tell me, did you get hold of that original copy of Peck's Desiderata Curiosa? And what about The Anatomy of Melancholy? I wanted volume four, mind."
    Kitty's lie was smoothly practiced. "Sir, I'm sorry, I didn't, either of them. The library closed early today. There was a disturbance outside—a commoners' protest—and they shut the gates for safety. I was asked to leave before I found your books."
    Mr. Button gave a petulant exclamation and bit harder at his pen. "Such inconvenience! Commoners protesting, you say? What next? Horses throwing off the bridle? Cows refusing to be milked? Those wretched people need to know their place." He emphasized this statement with neat little stabbing motions of his pen, then looked up guiltily. "No offense meant, Lizzie."
    "None taken, sir. Sir, who was Ptolemaeus?"
    The old man stretched his arms wearily behind his head. "Ptolemaeus is Ptolemy. A most remarkable magician." He flashed her a plaintive look. "Do you have time to put the kettle on, Lizzie, before you go?"Kitty persisted: "Was he Egyptian?"
    "Indeed he was, though the name is Greek, of course. He came of Macedonian stock originally. Well done, Lizzie. Not many protesting commoners would know that!"
    "I was hoping to read something by him, sir."
    "You'd find that tricky, since he wrote in Greek. I have his main work in my collection: The Eye of Ptolemy. It is required reading for all magicians, since it is very perceptive on the mechanics of drawing demons from the Other Place. Mind you, the style is tepid. His other writings are known as the Apocrypha. I seem to remember you brought me them from Hyrnek's, on your first visit here. . . They are an odd collection, full of whimsical notions. About that tea . . ."
    "I'll put the kettle on," Kitty said. "Is there something I could read about Ptolemy, sir, while I do that?"
    "Goodness, you do have your little fancies. Yes, The Book of Names will have an entry. Doubtless you know which stack it's in."
    Kitty read the passage swiftly with the kettle popping and bubbling behind her.

Ptolemaeus of Alexandria (fl. c.120 B.C.)

Child-magician, born into the ruling Ptolemaic Dynasty, nephew of Ptolemy VIII and cousin of the crown prince (later Ptolemy IX). He spent most of his short life in Alexandria, working at the Library, but details remain obscure. A notable prodigy, he acquired a considerable reputation for magic while very young; his cousin is said to have felt threatened by his popularity among the common people, and attempted his assassination.
The circumstances of his death are unknown, but it is certain he did not live to a great age. He may have