The Wager by Donna Jo Napoli

the same time. A kick in the thigh. He lay flat now, snuffling in the pool of vomit.
    â€œThat’ll teach you to make false promises. We came all the way out here for nothing.” So much whistling in his ear. “Your mother’s a whore. But you’re lucky we respect the Blessed Virgin.”
    Don Giovanni managed to turn his head so his nose and mouth were open to the air again. A high-pitched hum, like the whine of mosquitoes, prickled on his ear and cheek. It spread across his lips and chin, up his temple, across his forehead. It grew loud now, a din. There was nothing to do but listen to it.
    After a long while, the hum faded, and senses returned in the crudest way. His nose told him he had defecated. His hands and feet told him he was dangerously cold. His spine seemed frozen. It was as though a sword of ice had been jammed from his anus to his throat.
    He pushed himself up, leaning on his hands. Once he was sure he was steady, he reached one hand behind to feel his shoulder where he’d received the blow. The hand came away dry. So it hadn’t been the knife, thank the powers that be.
    He looked up the road. How was it that no one had come along in all this time? Randazzo had constant business, yet no traveler had passed to help him. A decent traveler, a God-fearing soul, would have picked up his unconscious body, washed it, treated his injuries. And not a bit of that would have broken the wager rules, for Don Giovanni would not have been responsible.
    Don Giovanni turned in a circle. No matter which way heturned, savage wind was in his face. Wind to keep charitable travelers home. Wind from four directions at once. Unheard of. Like sleet in September.
    â€œCheater!” he called out.
    â€œWere you addressing me, beggar?” A tall man, impeccably dressed, appeared on horseback. His horse pawed the ground spiritedly, but he held the reins steady and looked down at Don Giovanni with a slight tilt of the head. His face was actually regal. And so normal-looking, so human. Don Giovanni wouldn’t have recognized him for sure—after all, he’d only seen him once before and that was in the dark of the night stable—except for his eyes. Those dead eyes.
    â€œOnly the weak cheat!” Don Giovanni walked as close to the horse as he dared. “Is that what you are? A weakling?”
    The man’s jaw twitched.
    â€œYour winds kept home the wicked, too, not just good folk. No other scoundrel came to do me more harm. Your vicious winds saved my life. So the joke’s on you.”
    The man smiled and there were those glowing teeth again. “Should you die before you break the rules, you’re lost to me.”
    â€œYou broke the rules, cheater!”
    The man leaned past his horse’s neck. “Your pathetic little rules don’t bind me.”
    Don Giovanni shook his fist. “I can take this. Even if you cheat. I’m made of firmer stuff than you think.”
    The devil sat back upright and wrinkled his nose. “It’s only too obvious from your odor what you’re made of. Onward, beggar.” And horse and rider were gone. Vanished.
    Don Giovanni was alive. It didn’t matter that the devil wanted him alive, too. He was a mess—but an alive mess, and that was a good thing.
    His clothes lay where he’d left them. Another thing right.
    And the purse was there.
    He needed to put those clothes on fast. The cold undid him. But he wouldn’t let himself dress, filthy like this. He’d soil his clothes.
You cannot wash yourself, change your clothes, shave your beard, comb your hair
. How could he get clean without washing?
    A technicality. That’s what he needed.
    Washing called for water. Without water, it couldn’t be washing.
    He wiped one hand in the dirt of the road, getting it as clean as possible. Then, with his two cleanest fingers, he carried his clothes, piece by piece, to the rock. There at least they would be out of