The Demon and the City

himself telling the truth), then returned to the butcher's in the evening with the money.
    "I can't summon her here and now," the butcher said. A black cockerel, which Paravang had not noticed that morning, sat huddled in a little cage on the chopping block. "The tides between the worlds aren't right; I'll have to wait till midnight. Go to your temple and wait. I'll send her to you then."
    "Can't I wait here?" Paravang said. Goddess knew, he had little interest in witnessing sorcery, but he wanted to make sure that the butcher didn't rip him off.
    "No, I don't allow clients to watch except under exceptional circumstances. Don't worry, I won't cheat you. We do have a professional code of ethics, you know."
    So did the Feng Shui Practitioners' Guild, but it didn't stop markups and obfuscation, thought Paravang. With reluctance, he agreed to return to Senditreya's temple and wait until midnight.
    Over the course of the night, Paravang became increasingly certain that the butcher had indeed cheated him. The temple filled briefly for the evening services, then emptied again. The room grew cold and dark. Even the little votive lamps on the altar seemed to cast no real light. Paravang's chrysanthemums wilted as if touched by frost, even though he had taken care to set them in enough water. Midnight came and went and there was no sign of any approaching spirits. Paravang began to debate whether or not to just go home. The prospect of his own warm bed was exceptionally alluring, and as he started thinking about it, he fell asleep.
    Later, he jerked awake as if prodded. Since the temple possessed no windows, he could not see the approaching dawn, but he knew that the sun must be coming up by the sudden activity in the main courtyard. Someone was whistling a jaunty tune, irritating if you have been awake all night, on your knees and frightened. Paravang could hardly move his head from its bowed position. His neck had become painfully stiff in the night, and all his joints ached. Thus he did not look round when he heard footsteps behind him, and a rustle of stiff silk indicating that someone had knelt beside him. It was only when he felt a hand on his shoulder that he turned and found himself staring at a middle-aged woman, dressed in clothes that were fashionable twenty years ago. She was beaming at him, and after a belated moment he recognized his mother.
    "God, it's really you," he whispered.
    His mother's lips moved, but no sound emerged. She looked about her, gazing up at the shadowy form of the goddess. He remembered now that she had always approved of Senditreya—thought she was a wholesome, next-door kind of deity—and doubtless it was mutual. She was sentimental about religion. She thought it was nice. Paravang gaped at her. His mother had been in her mid-sixties when she had died; the process had evidently knocked a decade or so from her. Her hair was lacquered into a helmet, and she was wearing her familiar dark red jacket. She did not look much like a ghost to her astounded son, until he realized that he was unable to see beyond her eyes: they were flat and without reflection, like the eyes of a mask.
    "I'm so glad you're here," Mrs Roche said, reproachfully. "I've been trying to phone your father for days, and he wouldn't pick it up, but I know he was there. And you haven't been answering your telephone either, dear."
    "I was—I was working."
    "Well, never mind, because you're here now. And whoever was that man? I was having ever such a nice read of my magazine and suddenly I found myself in a butcher's shop."
    "I'm sorry, Mother. It must have been very distressing for you. But I wanted to talk to you, you see, because I have some wonderful news. I want to get married."
    "Oh," his mother said. There was a short, chilly pause.
    "Aren't you pleased? I thought it was what you always wanted!"
    "It is, dear, of course, but it's just that this has come at a rather awkward time." She rearranged her skirts more comfortably about her. "I wanted to talk to you, Paravang, because I've got someone I want you to meet."
    "Oh?" He could have sworn that his mother and the goddess exchanged a complicit little smile.
    "Just listen to me, Paravang, and hear what I've got to tell you . . ."
    How can you deny your dead mother? Paravang knelt stiffly on the matting and heard her out, with a growing sense of horror. As one trap began to close, he felt, so another opened beneath his unwary feet. But as she talked on, he began to