The Cursed Towers by Kate Forsyth Page B

powdered herbs and desiccated insects. When he turned to face the whore, the dwarf held in his arms a fat book bound with leather so old it was cracking and discolored. He propped it on a stand held ready for it, his eyes gleaming with excitement, and held out his childlike hand for the whore to reluctantly pass him one of her silky black hairs. Just as reluctantly she unbuttoned her dress and drew it down over her arms until she was naked to the waist. He glanced at her, giggled obscenely, and licked his lips. Swaying back and forth, muttering strings of rhymes, he threw pinches from many different bottles and jars into the brass bowl, then waved his hands over it. Foul-smelling smoke billowed up, and he threw the disgusting mixture over the whore's face and body.
    Although she had braced herself for it, she still gagged and choked, wiping her face and torso clean with a look of distaste. The wizard chortled, rocking back and forth still, the feathers on his absurd hat nodding. At last her skin was clean and she held out one imperious hand for the mirror. The gills at her neck and the little frills of fin that ran from her elbow to wrist were both gone, and her face was free of scarring. Subtly her features and figure had altered so she looked both younger and more human. She nodded her head abruptly and pulled her clothes about her, buttoning her dress again with rapid fingers. The dwarf stared at her with undisguised lust, muttering to himself once again. Although she was clearly anxious to be gone from this hot, crimson room, she hesitated before she rose, fingering the handle of her basket. "I have heard tell, Wilmot the Wizard, that ye can cast curses as well as spells," she said, her voice more conciliatory than it had been since her arrival. He laughed and twisted the many rings on his fingers.
    "Ye ken curses are like chickens, my bonny, they come home to roost. If Wilmot the Wizard is to take such a risk, it's a high price he wants, a high price indeed."
    "Name it," she said harshly.
    He giggled. "It be ye yourself," he answered, raking her with such a lascivious glance there was no mistaking his meaning.
    She drew back, making no attempt to hide her distaste. "Ye canna be serious," she replied, lip curling. The dwarf scowled like a sulky child, and said, "Ye think I jest, my bonny? I jest no'. If ye wish me to cast curses for ye, it is more than gold I want. As ye say, what need have I o' gold? I be one o' the richest men in Lu-cescere, with so many whores to buy my spells o' glam-ouries and so many fine ladies anxious to ken their futures. It is no' more gold I want from ye, Maya the Ensorcellor, but your own white body. Ye see, I ken who ye are, my bonny. Ye think me a mere bairn and a bagatelle, but I am the Wizard Wilmot and I see what other blind fools canna see. It will please me mightily to cast my seed into the MacCuinn's furrow."
    Maya gave an involuntary jerk, unable to prevent the blanching of her lips and cheeks. The wizard chortled with amusement, sliding off the chaise-longue to come and press his squat body against her legs. "Aye, indeed. Ye canna tell me the new Righ will no' pay highly to ken where his brother's wife is hiding—more gold than ye can earn even with your fair face and your songs o' love. Ye see, I ken more about ye than ye kent, my proud lady o' the sea. So if ye wish me to keep my knowledge to myself, ye will open your legs to me as ye open them to any young laird with a pouch o'
    gold. Aye, and ye will moan and sob for me too and tell me I be the finest lover ye ever had." As he spoke, he scrabbled under her skirt, stroking her legs with his hot little hands. Maya was rigid, her face as white as chalk, her eyes downcast. "And if I lie with ye, will ye cast this curse for me? A curse that shall no' fail?"
    "Aye, I'll cast the curse," he sniggered. "I will need a lock o' hair or a scale o' their skin or a paring o'
    fingernail, do ye understand? It needs to be part o' their living