the tune as subtly as he could. By the end, the demon was nodding its hideous head in time. It even tried to sing along, in a thin falsetto so appalling Erik didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up.
He tried “The Milkmaid’s Jugs,” thinking the creature might like the raunchy lyrics. It did, but so much so, it bounced with prurient glee, making the door rattle and bang. Hastily, Erik switched to a solemn elegy and then to a funeral hymn. The Doorkeeper calmed.
Racking his brains, Erik the Golden gave the strangest and most important performance of his life, pulling out everything in his repertoire that was slow, sad and achingly beautiful. It wasn’t easy to maintain the flowing, legato lines without increasing the volume, but he managed it somehow.
The demon’s third eyelid had slid partly across from the inside of its eye. It gazed vacantly at him.
“The music makes you sleepy,” said Erik softly.
“Doesn’t.” Disconcertingly, the Doorkeeper blinked with both sets of eyelids at once. “Does not.”
Hating to soil the beauty of it, Erik sang the first verse of the “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes.”
The demon snorted and sniffled. Green mucus trickled from its nostrils. But its eyelids drooped and it sank back into the wood like a tired traveler in a featherbed.
Over and over, Erik sang the lullaby, knowing he’d never be able to stomach it again after this. After ten minutes, he began weaving suggestions through the words.
Storm clouds gather, love,
—Sleep deep, do not wake—
In your eyes, in your pretty eyes.
—Let me pass unharmed—
Twenty precious minutes later, he let the notes die away. The Doorkeeper’s head lay on its shoulder at an inhuman, broken-necked angle, its thick tongue protruding from its mouth. The whole door vibrated with its guttural snores.
Erik glanced at the acid green shine on the timbers. Then he shrugged off his shirt and wrapped it around one hand. With the other, he drew his blade. Treading as softly as possible, he approached the door and reached for the knob.
The demon snuffled in its sleep and he froze, his guts cramping and the pulse thundering in his ears. A fraction at a time, he turned the handle, until he could ease the door open and poke his head through. Another passage, brick paved like the first, leading away around a gentle curve. A more even, natural light, like that of a glowglobe. Quiet, save for a background hum like wires thrumming.
Grimly, Erik studied the slumbering Doorkeeper. It was very likely he’d have to return this way, and he doubted there’d be time to lull an angry demon back to sleep. Where the fabric of his shirt touched the door, it was green and sticky. As he watched in disgust, the stains turned a dirty brown. They sizzled, very slightly.
A pity his boots were back at the water stair.
Using the tip of his blade, Erik prevented the door from closing while he wedged the bundle of his shirt between the door and the wall. With a savage grin, he stepped away to pull a couple of hefty tomes from the bookcase, low down, where they might not be missed. He shoved them in behind the shirt.
There.
Barefoot and silent, he eased through the space and padded down the steps, blade at the ready.
“Morning,” said the Technomage cheerfully. “How are we?”
“How do you damn well think?” Prue rolled her head to glare. “I hurt all over and I need to pee.”
Fascinated, she watched a delicate flush stain the other woman’s cheeks.
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Well, um . . .” The Technomage steadied. “A moment.”
She moved away and a drawer opened and shut. “This is a powerful paralytic drug in the form of a spray.” She held up a red tube about six inches long where Prue could see it, her thumb resting over a depression near the top. “The slightest suspicious move and you’ll be helpless faster than you can blink. Do you understand?”
“Helpless. Fine, I’ve got it. Can we do this now? I’m going to wet myself.”
Again the blush. “Very well.” The Technomage cranked the chair until Prue sat upright once more. Then she stepped behind and placed the cold tube against Prue’s pulse. Two clicks, and whatever attached the wrist restraints to the arms of the chair released.
Almost sobbing with the rush of blood to numbed muscles, Prue lifted her arms, stretching.
“Stop that!” The pressure of the tube increased, a thread of panic in the Scientist’s voice. “Place your wrists together in front of you.” She