Swords and Ice Magic - By Fritz Leiber Page 0,66
familiar devils, to take care of him). Now I find, doubtless because of the resemblance, a kindred hesitation wiih respect to you, so that perhaps it is best we remain captain and councilwoman until the defense of Rime Isle is accomplished and I can sort you out from the god.”
The Mouser took a long breath and said slowly that he supposed that was best, thinking meanwhile that gods surely interfered with one's private life. He was mightily tempted to ask her whether she expected him to turn to Hilsa and Rill (devils or no) to be comforted, but Joubted she would he inclined to allow him a god's liberties to that degree (granted he desired such), no matter how Freat the resemblance between them.
In this impasse, he was rather relieved to see beyond Cif's shoulder that which allowed him to say, “Speaking of she-demons. who are these that are coming from Salthaven?”
Cif turned at that, and therr true enough were Rill and Hilsa hurrying toward them through the heather, with Mother Grum plodding along behind, dark figure to their colorful ones. And although it was bright day three hours and more, Rill carried a lit torch. It was hard to see the flame in the sunlight. but they could mark by the way its shimmer made the heather waver beyond. And as the two harlots drew closer, it was evident that their faces were brimming with excitement and a story to tell, which was poured forth on their arrival and on the Mouser asking drily: “Why are you trying to light up the day, Rill?”
“The god spoke to us but now, most clearly from the Flame Den fire,” she began, “saying, 'Darkfire, Darkfire, take me to Darkfire. Follow the flame ― ”'
Hilsa broke in. “' ― go as it bends,' the god said cracklingly, 'turn as it wends, all in my name.' ” Rill took it up again, “So I lit a fresh torch from the Flame Den blaze for him to travel in, and we carefully marked the flame and followed as it leaned, and it has led us to you!”
“And look,” Hilsa broke in as Mother Grum came up,“now the flame would have us go to the mountain. It points toward her!” And she waved with her other hand north toward the icefall and the silent black scoriac peak beyond with its smoke-plume blowing west.
Cif and the Mouser dutifully looked at the torch's ghostly flame, narrowing their eyes. After a bit, “The flame does lean over,” the Mouser said, “but I think that's just because it's burning unevenly. Something in the grain of the wood or its oils and resins ― ”
No, indubitably it motions us toward Darkfire,“ Cif cried excitedly. ”Lead on, Rill," and the women all turned sharply north. making for the glacier.
“But ladies, we have hardly time for a trip upmountain,” the Mouser called after protestingly, “what with preparations to be made for the Isle's defense and tomorrow's sailing against the Mingols.”
“The god has commanded,” Cif told him overshoulder. “He knows best.”
Mother Grum said in her growly voice, “I doubt not he intends us to make a closer journey than mountaintop. Roundabout is nearer than straight, I ween.”
And with that mystifying remark the women went on, and the Mouser shrugged and perforce followed after, thinking what fools these women were to be scurrying afer a burning bush or branch as if it were the very god, even if the flame did bend most puzzlingly. (And he had heard fire speak, night before last.) Well, at any rate, he wasn't really needed for today's repairs on Flotsam; Pshawri could boss the crew as well as he, or at least well enough. Best keep an eye on Cif while this odd fit was on her and see she ― or her three strangely sorted god-servants ― came to no harm.
Such a sweet, strong, sensible, ravishing woman, Cif, when not godstruck. Lord, what troublesome, demanding and captious employers gods were, never a-quiet. (It was safe to think such thoughts, he told himself, gods couldn't read your thoughts ― everyone had their privacy ― though they could overhear your slightest word spoken in undertone ― and doubtless make deductions from your starts and grimaces.)
Up from the depths of his skull came the wearisome compulsive chant, “Mingols to their deaths must go,” and he was almost gaateful to the malicious little jingle for occupying his mind troubled by the vagaries of gods and women.
The air grew chilly and soon they