Saber and I headed through the Valley of the Shadow of Auditors to the Plains of Really Bad Luck. Judging by that name, I already feared this wizard lacked panache.
A wizened old man opened the door to a one-room sod house. He invited Saber and me inside.
“Ah, I rarely receive visits from beautiful young women,” he said as we sat at his rickety kitchen table.
I waited, my recent experience making me expect his next words to wipe out the compliment.
Instead, he asked, “What brings you here, my dear?”
I explained about my waning powers.
The old wizard nodded sympathetically. “Yes, my dear. I fear it only gets worse from here.”
“But you can fix it, right?” I said, desperation tinging my voice.
“Do you think I would look like this”—he swept a gnarled hand down the length of his stooped body—“if I had magic that could restore youth?”
I suppose I should have realized that when I first saw him.
And so we traveled to the Abysmal Abyss. My spirits were sagging worse than my breasts, and Saber complained constantly about the travel, the lack of good food, and the folly of middle-aged women—after which he judiciously jumped out of shield-strike range.
The wizard whose tower lay at the bottom of the abyss looked promising—young, but not so young as to be inexperienced, and handsome to boot. He listened to my tale of woe, and then said, “I have something that will restore your youth. Take this magic cream and rub it all over your body—good gods, not right here! I learned the secret from some alchemists in Sweedland.”
Hope bloomed in my heart. “How soon should I see results?”
“In four to six weeks.”
I paid him a hefty sum of gold, but it would be worth it to look like my old—er, young—self again.
At first, I convinced myself that the cream was working, but in four to six weeks, I returned, full of righteous fury, to the Abysmal Abyss and pounded my shield against his door.
The wizard leaned out of a window two stories up. “No refunds!”
“You charlatan!” I shouted, throwing my weight against the wooden door. “I’ll chop you into stew meat if you don’t open this door and return my gold!”
“Calm down and I’ll let you in,” he said in a reasonable tone.
Since the door had bruised my shoulder, but showed no sign of opening under my assault, I took several deep breaths. “Very well. I’m calm.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“No, no,” I said, assessing. “I actually have calmed down.” Once he let me inside, if I didn’t like what he had to say, I could always fly into a rage again.
After the click of a bolt being drawn back, the door opened. The wizard, a wary look on his face, led me to his workroom. “I think the cream is working—”
My shield struck with lightning quickness. When the wizard came to, I said, “I want my gold.”
“I don’t have it,” he said, his words muffled by the rag he held to his bleeding nose. As I raised Nosehammer again, he cringed and hastily added, “But I have an elixir that I guarantee will work.”
Such was my desperation, I decided to hear him out.
“Take this oil—” He rummaged around on a shelf and retrieved a shiny gold bottle.
“What kind of oil?” I asked, intrigued and mesmerized by the shining gold. Something about the packaging just made it seem . . . trustworthy.
“Oil of snake,” he said. “It cures almost everything, returns the pep to your step and gives your skin a youthful, golden glow.”
My steps had been feeling somewhat less peppy in recent days and my skin looked pasty. He held the bottle close enough for me to see a runic label that read: New and Improved! and another which said: Twenty-five percent more elixir than in the four-dram bottle!
Saber thought.
Saber said.
“How do you know this works?” I asked.
The wizard gave me a charming smile, which was no small feat, considering the blood smeared across his nose and chin. “How old would you say I am?”