The anger surged back, forestalling both panic and nausea. What kind of depraved maniac kept pets like this around the house? Rod drew his sword, trying to think of something a little more effective.
"Hold fast, Rod." Fess half-reared, striking out with a hoof.
The snake almost sneered-until the steel hoof caught it sharply in the face with a soggy crunch. The serpent reared back, hiss rising almost to a shriek, then struck in rage.
But Fess had given Rod just time enough to think up the appropriate response. He wasn't the world's best crafter, but he could manage something simple, and had: he had pulled together the witch-moss at the bottom of the stairs. It now shot toward him, powered by his son's telekinesis-a twenty-foot trident with tines eighteen inches apart. It arced down, catching the snake just behind the head, slamming it down against the stone of the stair. It couldn't pierce the rock-there was a limit to the hardness witch-moss could be formed to-and the center tine bent against the serpent's scales; but the top of the handle bent, too, against the ceiling, pushing like a living thing, and the snake thrashed about, hissing in fury but unable to lift its head against the force of the spear. The whole stairwell resounded with the noise of the giant's thrashing-but it could do no damage; the walls of the spiral held it too closely.
Now that it was immobilized, Rod could devote himself to its demise. The stairwell itself seemed to become dim, the snake brighter, as he concentrated all his attention on it, thinking of it as just a huge doughy mass. He felt another mind warring with his, striving to keep the snake in its current form, but he had expected that, and bore down all the harder-with the strength of two minds, one distinct and alien from the Gramarye gene pool and mindset, the other a hybrid with ferocious strength. The witch's power crumbled, and so did the snake; it softened more and more, losing its color and becoming the grayish-pink amorphous mass that was witch-moss in its natural form.
Not enough. Rod knew that if he left it raw, the witch could easily re-craft it into the snake, or something even more dangerous, as soon as he and Magnus stopped paying attention to it. He thought of something small and harmless, lots of somethings-and the doughy mass separated into thousands of small curly objects that lightened in color as they hardened. Rod rode on up the stair, through drifts of macaroni that lined both walls. Stray bits of pasta crunched under Fess's hooves, but didn't impede him at all.
"Not too slippery, is it?" Rod asked.
"Not when it is uncooked, Rod, no." The robot-horse climbed on up the stair and out into the chamber at the topA chamber hung with scarlet brocades and filled with cushions, downy, tempting-and the most voluptuous wench Rod had ever seen, sloe-eyed and full-lipped, clad only in a swath of gauze about her hips, accentuating that which it concealed. Golden hair tumbled down over her shoulders, parted in the middle to reveal the high curves of full, naked breasts. The houri gave him a heavy-lidded, inviting smile, and murmured in a husky voice, "Dally with me, brave stalwart."
"No, thanks. I've got a wife at home." Suddenly, Rod was more glad than ever that he had married Gwen; even without being there, she protected him. "And she looks good even without projecting, illusions." He glared at the houri, and her outline began to shimmer.
"Nay!" she screeched, and a bolt of pure energy, hatred whetted by anger and fear, stabbed out at Rod.
An answering bolt shot out from him, sped not by himself, but by Magnus; Rod kept concentrating on seeing the woman as she really was. The two bolts met in the air with an explosion that made his ears ring, and distracted the witch just long enough for Rod to finish locking her mind into seeing only what was truly there. She screamed in anguish, arms coming up to cover her nakedness, body curving in on itself in shame; then she uncoiled, hate stronger in her than any other emotion, and leaped at Rod, fingers hooked to claw.
He was amazed how high she could jump-her fingers nearly touched his eyes before he stiff-armed her, jarring her aside but catching one wrist and hauling up on it. Her feet hit the floor, but the single arm was still outstretched. She screamed, more in rage than in pain, and flailed about with her free arm, but Rod held her with her back to Fess's side. She twisted, trying to get at his leg and groin, but her arm wouldn't turn that far, and she howled in pain. Rod slipped down off the horse to catch her other hand and pulled it behind her back, pinning her forearms together with one hand while he reached in his saddlebag and brought out rope. He bound her wrists together with three quick loops, braced himself against her thrashing as he tied the knot, then let go and shoved her away. She fell sprawling, an obscene, scrawny lump of naked flesh, screaming curses. Rod caught up a silk scarf from among the cushions and bound it around her head. She still screamed into the gag, but at least he couldn't make out the words-not that he needed to; the images her mind was projecting were enough to make him shudder.
He yanked her to her feet and shoved her before him. "You can walk down those steps, or you can roll-but down them you go."
She balked at the top, but felt the rage within him that was at least equal to her own, and stumbled away down the steps, still screaming into her gag. Beside them, heaps of macaroni stirred and softened, but Rod locked them into their own forms again, and she gave up the attempt. Instead, she tried to fill his mind with pornographic visions. When she found him immune, she unleashed lurid imaginings of the tortures she would have loved to visit on him.
"Not bad," Rod grunted. "I'll have to try that on somebody sometime. On the other hand, why put it off?"
The visions stopped.
The witch stumbled out of the tower door and fell rolling in the grass.
"Not far enough," Rod snapped. He yanked on the rope, just enough to remind her that he still held her leash. The strands bit into her wrists, and she screamed in rage, but scrambled to her feet and stumbled away in front of him.
He brought her to a halt before the tree where Magnus lay. "Remove the spell, hag! Turn him back into a man!"
The witch slowly lifted her head, venomous eyes seeking his, malice twisting her features. The vicious thoughts reeking from her were clear: this much she could still deny him, this much pain she could still cause-and she would. Then a picture opened in Rod's mind, of Magnus standing beside him, restored to his proper form as the witch strode away free, and the two of them turned to leave her.
"No deal," Rod snapped. "If you won't do it the easy way, I have someone who will." He focused his thoughts, sending out a single, sharp appeal.
A rush of wind, a stir of whispering overhead, and a graceful figure drifted down in the moonlight, poised on a broomstick, to land directly in front of Rod. The maiden hopped off, frowning at the witch, then turned to Rod with sudden anger. "How now, my father! Hast thou taken to shaming and binding helpless old women in thine age?"
Rod had been braced for anything; still, he found it in him to resent the crack about age. But he stifled it and said, "She's helpless only because Magnus and I have bound her mind as well as her hands, Cordelia. Before we did, though, she played games with your brother." He nodded toward the tree.
Cordelia turned, and the snake shrank back, but not before she had seen its face. Instantly, she was all compassion. "Oh, Magnus! What hath she done to thee!" She dropped to her knees by the snake, hands outstretched-but her brother shrank back farther, looking up at her wild-eyed. Cordelia looked into his eyes, and stilled.
Then she whirled, up to her feet and at the crone. "Thou hag, thou monster! Thou hast maimed his soul as well as his mind! 'Tis his heart thou hast bound, as much as his body!" Her eyes narrowed.