'You may indeed. There are times when apparent generosity is a good investment and I think this will be one of them.'

'When do you want me to go, sir? Immediately?' 'As soon as possible. But how well versed are you in their particular field of activity – and its language?' 'Black magic, you mean, sir?'

'Black and white – though they have a common terminology.'

'No more than the next man, I suppose.'

'Then before you go, spend a couple of days in Miss Pavitt's library – in one of the private rooms, I don't want anyone to see what subject you're studying – and read up on magic and witchcraft. You can advise him about suitable books, can't you, my dear?'

Brenda- said: 'Of course. And he can use the TSA room – his rating allows it.'

'Excellent, excellent. I shall expect you to be leaving in four days at the most, Underwood. And if you think of any more questions you want to ask me before you go, arrange an appointment through Miss Pavitt, not through the usual channels. But let her know when you're ready to leave, in case I want to see you again.'

For the next three days, Gareth was closeted in the TSA room for as many hours as either Brenda or her deputy (the only other librarian entitled to use the TSA room key) were on duty – which amounted to about sixteen hours a day with a couple of breaks for meals. He was a glutton for work, almost as rapid a reader as Brenda herself and apparently gifted with a remarkable memory. By the second day she found herself wondering if his concentration was purely professional, or if he, too, was becoming infected by the same kind of fascinated absorption with the subject that she had noticed in Reggie. His few comments as she brought him more and more books (he soon outstripped her own recommendations and was asking for material she'd never even heard of) suggested that he was thinking about it deeply, though at no time did he imply any judgement on the brief Reggie had given him. He avoided this so studiously, even when she lunched with him and they had time to talk, that her intuition began to tell her that he was not happy about it. She remembered his one revealing remark of a week or two back, 'I hope I'm never sent on that kind of job. Only for God's sake don't tell anyone I said so.' He seemed almost by his very silence on the matter to be begging her to forget his brief indiscretion.

My God, Brenda thought – am I becoming psychic? All I know is that I'm not happy about this 'alliance' either. Not happy at all.

When Gareth finally left on his mission, and thanked her for her help in the privacy of the TSA room, she wished him luck and a safe return – and on impulse, kissed him. It was a very sisterly kiss. At least, she hoped it was.

Forty-eight hours later, Gareth found himself face to face with the Black Mamba, and he admitted to himself that the reports had been right – she did look almost too typecast for the role of Black Priestess. Her large eyes, slightly tilted at the outer corners, were warm yet unnerving, and her long black mane, which she wore falling free, might have been designed by a wigmaker for a pantomime witch, though Gareth's sharp eyes could see it was all hers. That she was aware of her own powerful sexuality was evident from the way she moved and from the way she dressed, with a hint of the barbaric chieftainess that could only be deliberately calculated. Gareth appreciated it from a safe distance; for himself, he thought, he would as soon go to bed with a real black mamba.

Her man was very different, withdrawn and watchful, speaking one word to her ten. Gareth, though he kept the fact to himself, recognized him; for John Hassell’s photograph was in the Section's file of prominent witches, having been added to it after the Bell Beacon disaster. He was the husband, Gareth remembered, of the Sabbat Queen who had been impaled with a ritual spear. Enough to turn anyone black, he thought with a twinge of compassion – especially with a bitch like this one working on him. Gareth did not miss much.

He had had to do a lot of talking on the edge of the village to get himself brought in to see Karen (as he learned her name was) and John; and even then he had been strip-searched, not too gently, before he actually did see them. That did not worry him at all; all that concerned him, as a professional, was that he was now where he had aimed to be. Karen and John received him in what had been the lounge of the village pub, with a shotgun sentry outside the door, and spent the first ten minutes grilling him with questions to satisfy themselves of his bona fides.

He had an uncanny feeling that not all of the grilling was by way of the spoken questions, though he treated this feeling with suspicion. He had learned a good deal, during his studies in the TSA room, about the theory of telepathy, of clairvoyance, of the 'reading' of auras; and he guessed from the steadiness of John and Karen's eyes on him and from a sensation almost of static electricity in the room that these methods were being tried. Suggestibility, he insisted to himself. Obviously their tactic would be to create that impression. But the feeling remained and Gareth did not like it.

His awareness of it at least mitigated his surprise when the atmosphere suddenly changed, as though Karen (it was she who determined it all the time) had flicked a switch to earth the static. She smiled for the first time and walked relaxedly behind the bar to produce a bottle (Glenfiddich, for God's sake) and three glasses from under the counter.

'Right, then, Mr Underwood – what's your first name?'

'Gareth.'

'So you're a genuine messenger, from Big Chief Harley himself. And you heartily disapprove of the message you bring but you're a professional so you'll deliver it faithfully… Water, soda or straight? No ice, I'm afraid.'

'Very little water, please.' He was genuinely astonished; shrewdness was one thing but this was outside his experience. He smiled back at her, deliberately. 'Messengers have no opinions – if, as you say, they are professionals.'

'Haven't they, Gareth? But leave that for the moment. What does Harley want from us?'

'Help from the Angels of Lucifer against the white witches.'

John said: 'Angels of Lucifer! That was a try-on, wasn't it?'

'The Angels have proved their effectiveness in a very dramatic way, over Ben Stoddart. If you weren't the Angels, Harley wouldn't be so interested in your cooperation… Intelligence Section may not be clairvoyant but they're reasonably efficient in their own way.'

Karen laughed. 'All right, give you that one. We're the Angels of Lucifer, and if we made a deal with Harley, he'd get his money's worth. But what is his "money"? Actual cash would be so much waste paper on Surface. What's he offering?'

'It's part of my mission to find out what you need. Food, equipment, medical supplies, horses, weapons – you know what would be useful to you and he's prepared to be generous.'

'I see. And in exchange, he wants us to fight the white witches. Does he mean magically? Surely he doesn't believe in magic?'

'You killed Ben Stoddart,' Gareth pointed out. 'You took over this village without any need for violence, in the ordinary sense. You have fifty to a hundred square kilometres completely under your thumbs. So whether your methods are magical, or "normal" screened by clever propaganda, is almost academic. The point is that you succeed. And Harley appreciates successful allies.'

'Oh, I like this man, John, don't you? He'd make a lovely diplomat… Has Harley got any specific targets in mind?'

'Yes. The New Dyfnant group.'

There was a moment's unexpected silence. Karen did not move but her eyes seemed to brighten. John paced across the room, expressionless, and stood looking out of the window with his back to Karen and Gareth.

'I will not harm Dan and Moira Mackenzie themselves, Karen,' he said. 'And that's flat.'