Ptolemy's Gate

change his mind.
    Fine. I was through with him. We would both go to our deaths. I'd use his name against him now, come what may. My last desire was to see him squirm.
    And I wasn't going to go out as a paltry amphibian, either.
    In the few short hours I'd been away from Earth, the Other Place had worked its magic. I'd managed to absorb a little energy. It wouldn't last long, but I was going to put it to good use.

    As I materialized, I drew what was left of my essence into a form that reflected my emotions with simple purity, e.g. a big-horned demon with muscles like melons and lots of teeth. It was the full works. You name it, I'd got it. Brimstone, spear-tail, wings, hooves, claw's, even a couple of whips thrown in. My eyes were burning fishhooks, my skin glowed like cooling lava. Not particularly original, but as a statement of intent it did the job nicely. I erupted into the room with a roll of thunder fit to send the living dead scuttling to their coffins. This was followed by a howl of famished rage, the kind uttered by Anubis's jackals as they prowled about the Memphis tombs—only a bit louder and longer, a vile noise unnaturally prolonged.
    In fact I was still in the middle of my ululation when I caught sight of the figure in the pentacle opposite, and was completely put off my stroke. The barnstorming roar contracted into a wobbling gargle that shot up a couple of octaves and ended in a falsetto squeak with a question mark on the end. The demon—which had been busily rearing up, leather wings akimbo, whips a-cracking—froze in an unstable posture with its backside protruding. The wings slumped; the whips drooped limply. The billowing brimstone cloud petered away into a timorous dribble that drifted discreetly out of view behind my hooves.
    I stopped and stared.
    "All right," the girl said tartly. "Quit the silly faces. Have you never been summoned by a woman before?"
    The demon lifted a brawny finger and pushed its jaw back into position. "Yes, but—"
    "But nothing. Stop making such a fuss."
    A forked tongue identical to the tail below issued from the demon's mouth and moistened its dry lips. "But—but—hold on a minute—"
    "And what horrible kind of manifestation do you call this, anyhow?" she went on."That noise! That stench! All those folds and knobbly warts and things! What are you trying to prove?" Her eyes narrowed. "I think you're compensating for something."
    "Listen," I began, "this is an established, traditional form that—"
    "Traditional nothing. Where are your clothes?"
    "Clothes?" I said weakly. "I don't normally bother with them in this guise."
    "Well, you could put on a pair of shorts, at least. You're not decent."
    "I'm not sure they'd go with the wings. . ." The demon frowned, blinked. "Hold on, enough of this!"
    "Lederhosen would. They'd compliment the leather."
    With difficulty, I gathered my thoughts. "Stop! Forget the clothes! The point is. . . the point is—what are you doing here? Summoning me! I don't understand! This is all wrong!" In my perplexity, all attempts at established, traditional terrors ceased. Much to the relief of my wounded essence, the towering demon shrank and shimmered and adjusted itself down to fit the pentacle more snugly. My leather wings became two shoulder nubs and my tail retracted out of sight.
    "Why is it wrong?" the girl asked. "It's just another one of those master/servant things you were telling me about when last we met. You know: I'm the master, you're the slave. I give the orders, you obey without question. Remember how it works now?"
    "Sarcasm doesn't go with a pretty face," I said. "So feel free to make lots more comments along those lines. You know perfectly well what I mean. You're not a magician."
    She smiled sweetly and gestured about us. "Really? In what way do I not fit the bill?"
    The snug-fit demon looked left. The snug-fit demon looked right. Unnervingly, she had a point. There was I, imprisoned in a pentacle. There was she, standing in another. And all around sat the usual paraphernalia: candelabra, incense bowls, chalk sticks, big book lying on a table. It was an otherwise empty room, without curtains on the window. A big round moon shone high above, splashing a silver light across our faces. Except for the smooth, raised section in the middle where the runes and circle had been painted, the floor was of warped, irregular boards. Behind the taint of rosemary the whole place smelled of damp, disuse, and assorted rodents. So far, so