Madwand (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny Page A

man said. “I was referring to the progression of events. Larick thinks he’s got you now.”
    “Offhand, I’d say he’s right.”
    “That might be remedied, if you’re willing to play the game out.”
    “I don’t even know the stakes, or the rules.”
    “That will be a part of your reward if all goes well: answers to your questions—and answers to some you haven’t even thought of yet.”
    “Such as who you are, and what you’re after?”
    “That will almost assuredly come out.”
    “Will I like what I discover?”
    “In matters of taste, each person is of course the only judge.”
    “What choice have I?”
    “You may act, or be acted upon.”
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “Go along with things, find out what it is that your captor desires and decide whether that is what you also want. Then you act accordingly. Larick feels that he has you under complete control, but in a moment I will break his infantile spells. I will also reverse the moderately clever body exchange he has worked upon you, restoring to you your own vigorous, youthful—if fatigued—carcass. Then will follow the work of a true master. Freed and restored, I will disguise your body as I disguised your features, giving to it in every respect the semblance of the monster you now are. For an encore, I will then cloak you in a masking spell in all ways identical to the one which now hides your hideous appearance from most mortal eyes—”
    “A disguise within a disguise?”
    “Precisely.”
    “To what end?”
    “At some point, those who desire you in the reduced state will be sure to strip away the outer layer to behold the captive monster within.”
    The large sorcerer strode forward and clasped him by the shoulders. Instantly, Pol felt something like an electric shock pass through him. His arm dropped. He sagged forward. His boots fell to the floor from where he had clutched them beneath his left arm all this long while. The sorcerer seized that arm and an agonizing pain ran through it. Before Pol could examine it, he had hold of the other. He was humming as he worked. Whether or not this was a part of his procedure, Pol could not tell.
    As he raised his hands and realized that they were indeed his hands again, the man struck him a mighty blow across the back with his left hand and upon the chest just above the heart with his right. Even within the well-muscled and heavily armored form that he wore, Pol could tell that the man was no weakling.
    He felt the air rush out of his lungs as his chest cavity was returned to normal. He began to straighten and the sorcerer struck him a terrific blow in the abdomen, well below the belt. The change continued in that region, and he straightened fully, massaging, slapping himself, as much for the joy of feeling his own form again as to ease the omnipresent aches.
    The big sorcerer kicked him in the shins and he felt the aches, straightening and shrinkage begin in his legs.
    “I must say you have a violent approach to these matters,” he remarked.
    “Perhaps you’d prefer a six-hour incantation with incense?”
    “I never argue with success.”
    “Prudent. I now begin the first masking spell, causing you to look as you just were.”
    The illusion began, growing like a gray mist about him, shaped by the flowing gestures of the face-changer’s hands. Pol felt his hidden dragonmark throb in the presence of this magic. Soon it cloaked him completely, coalescing, sinking through his garments.
    The sorcerer sighed and straightened.
    “ . . . And that will be all they see, if they pierce your outer guise, soon to be supplied by me. I must caution you concerning the obvious, however.”
    “That being?”
    “You must act as if you are still under control. Be standing paralyzed in the same position in which he left you when Larick returns. Follow all of his orders as if you had no choice. The moment you deviate, you lose your chance to learn anything further. You will probably also have a