Two days after his eleventh birthday, Jig an-Slopdale became omnipotent. It was not his intention to do so, and he would, in typical eleven-year old fashion, vehemently deny any accusations to the contrary. All he had wanted was a closer look at the mercenary's bottle.

"Go ahead," Dixon whispered, his eyes enormous, his voice trembling with giggles.

Jig looked at his friend, then back to the snoring man, sprawled where he was on the bed. "How long has he been like that?"

"A long, long time," Dixon said, nodding. "He's always tired when he comes back from those trips of his, he'll probably be out until tomorrow some time. He always sleeps here, I know. He says he likes my Dad's cooking." Dixon prodded Jig. "Go ahead, go ahead."

Jig took a step into the small room, then poked back out into the hallway to make sure none of the other doors were opened. The inn was quiet.

"Are you going to do it or not?" Dixon asked, also looking up and down the hall. "My Dad's not going to be at market forever."

"Okay, stop pushing me," Jig hissed, creeping forward. Even asleep, the man looked deadly and daunting, scarred by a thousand swords, browned by a thousand suns, his huge hands, lying carelessly across his round chest, darkened and cracked like old leather, and perilously close to that sweep-bladed knife at his belt.

"It's right there," Dixon said, pointing to the foot of the bed, at a satchel that was the same color as the man.

"I know," Jig said, holding up a hand to quiet his friend. He tip-toed closer.

"Right there, right there," Dixon repeated, gesturing frantically.

"I know!" Jig barked, then stared with horror at the man, who snorted, coughed, then rolled over and slipped back into deep sleep. Jig turned and said softly, urgently, "Please ... be ... quiet."

"Okay," Dixon said. "You don't have to yell at me."

Jig reached down and carefully raised the satchel, pulling its cover open just wide enough to reach in his hand and withdraw the prize. It was a round-bottomed bottle of faceted yellow crystal, plugged with a golden cork. Stylused into the cork, and carved into the crystal, was a line of tiny angles and circles like writing, but nothing Jig had ever seen before. The bottle glowed with a pale light.

Jig was grinning, as he turned the bottle over in his hands, looking at it from all angles. It was beautiful, glittering like a sunbeam. He held it up then, displaying it for Dixon. But Dixon wasn't looking at it. Dixon's huge blue eyes were fixed not on Jig but rather a short distance behind him.

Jig snapped his head around, and looked into the twisted, purple face of the man, who was now sitting up in his bed. "You stealing from me, little thief?" he growled dangerously.

"I ..." was all Jig squeaked. He offered the bottle toward the man, alternating between a smile and frown. "I ..." Jig squeaked again.

The man's massive arm flashed out, and his hand closed around Jig's skinny neck. "Give it back to me, and you'll get away with just a beating."

Jig shrieked, but all that came out was a wet little gurgle. He struggled against the man's terrible grasp, swinging his arms in desperation. The bottle slipped from his hand.

"No!" the man cried, releasing Jig and springing from his bed, but too late. The crystal bottle tumbled to the floor and shattered.

There was a soft puff, then silence.

"What ...?" Jig said.

The man hung frozen beside Jig, suspended impossibly above the ground as he dove for the falling bottle. He didn't move, he didn't blink, he didn't breathe.

Jig turned. "Dixon?" he said weakly.

Dixon was still standing at the door, his face fearful but protesting, one hand on the frame, the other reaching forward. He also wasn't moving.

"Dixon?" he repeated, looking closer at the other boy. Dixon appeared unharmed, cast in place as though carved out of stone.

Who has released me? a monstrous voice boomed from everywhere.

Jig sprang nearly his full height, then crouched like a turtle, his eyes everywhere.

Who has released me? the voice boomed again.

Then Jig saw it, standing above him, towering above him, not just taking impossible space but devouring it. It loomed like a winged mountain of black and purple clouds, ethereal, ignoring the mass of the inn, but visible through it. Its eyes were ash, burned flesh, its torn mouth an armory of steely fangs.

Shaking with terror, Jig said, "Um."

Who are you? The monster's head, a roll of bruise-colored scab, immense as a nightmare, dipped to view the boy.

"Um, my name is Jig an-Slopdale, I'm the stableboy here."

Jig an-Slopdale, I am the demon Gantegor, Devourer of Flesh, Eater of Souls, Scourge of Humanity, once-prisoner of the Crystal Cage.

"H-h-hello." It came out of Jig in a shaky little gush.

I have languished in that mortal-forged prison for 1000 years, trapped by the treacherous hands of the Wizards' Coven, and now, at last and forever, I know freedom again. Jig an-Slopdale, you have released me, and I shall reward my emancipator.

Jig blinked. Reward? "I don't -"

You may have anything you desire, for one year. At the end of that year, I shall return to devour your soul. Blood-colored saliva bubbled from the demon's maw like lava.

"Devour ..." Jig looked all around, terrified. It was too bad Dixon was frozen. He'd know what to do.

Jig an-Slopdale, what shall your reward be?

"Um," Jig said. "My reward ... my reward will be... can my reward be not to have my soul eaten?"

Its ash eyes narrowed, and it boomed, No.

"Oh." Jig thought a moment. What would Dixon wish for? Then an idea occurred to him. "Then I want my reward to be ... can my reward be to have your power? To be as powerful as you are?"

There was a long moment of silence. Then there came a booming Yes!

Forty-one days later. Jig sat behind the bar of his inn, The Hollow (The Best Food, Wine, and Company, and all of it for FREE), counting again his remaining time on the vellum calendar he had created. Three hundred twenty-four days. It was deep, deep into the night, deep enough that the inn and the city into which he had transported the inn a week ago, slept. Jig wasn't tired, not since he had wished away the need for sleep, way back on day two.

His life certainly had become interesting since his deal with the demon. His reward had been granted, Gantegor had departed, and the flow of time had been restored, all in an instant. The mercenary, unaware of what had transpired in null-time, spun on Jig to deliver his punishment. Naturally, Jig was forced to defend himself, and accidentally destroyed the entire inn with an explosion of black fire.

Even though Jig had restored everyone to life (including the mercenary) and re-created the inn out of nothing, Dixon's father, being unreasonably angry, ordered Jig to leave and never return. Dixon had sadly watched Jig from his second-story window, forbidden even to say good-bye to his friend. Jig had looked up at him just before vanishing, and said telepathically, "If you ever want to see me, just think my name as hard as you can, and I'll bring us together."

Jig's first real flex of his new power was to create for himself the most luxurious inn his young mind could imagine, outfitting it with a mass of master chefs, a host of waiters and waitresses, a legion of assistants. There was a complete stable, a cavernous common and dining room, and a dozen suites on each of the three floors. And of course, there was his bar, where only he would serve the drinks. And everything was free. Jig had decided that with a year left of life, he had no use for money.

Dixon had visited three days after the construction of Jig's inn, marveling at the expanse of the building, suggesting this change or that, and thoroughly enjoying the new and strange city into which Jig had transported. He had promised to return after that first day together, and did, twice more. Then on day fourteen, the wizard came.

Astogoroth ul-Time Demonbinder, the Crystal Wielder, that was how the fat, bearded man had introduced himself when he first appeared in a burst of yellow energy. He was a time traveler, had seen how the all the worlds had begun and how all of them would end, had fought beside gods and done battle with dragons, had visited other realms, dimensions, and planes, and most importantly, had belonged to an organization called the Wizards' Coven when they had imprisoned an arch-demon named Gantegor.

"A wager, I think, power against power," Astogoroth had announced, pointing to the boy. "We shall determine which of us is stronger." It was a statement that had marked the first wager between the pair, and this night, as Jig sat waiting behind his bar, would be the sixth. Thus far, Jig had lost every one.

Astogoroth appeared in his typical explosion of yellow, his beard short and gray and dirty, his belly round and near splitting the seams of his stained waistcoat. Dangling from one large, ungainly earlobe was a golden hoop, and Jig was certain he heard some sort of music buzzing from it.

"Good evening, Master Jig," Astogoroth said with a scant bow, then clambered onto a barstool. "Are we prepared for the next wager?"

Jig frowned. "Some wager it will be. Why do you bother with me?"

"Yes, yes, that is true, it does seem you're due for a win, doesn't it? I must admit, though, you almost had me last time."

"Oh, last time. 'Slay as many gods as you can in one day,' you said, then all you did was find the weakest one and just keep bringing him back to life over and over."

"A practice you labeled as unfair, yes?"

"Yes, it was unfair. I ran through all the planes hunting up gods that I could defeat, and all you do -"

"As I've told you from the beginning, Master Jig, all is fair in our matches. All. Certainly you appreciate how I've worked so diligently to train you in the use of your powers."

"Train me?" Jig snorted. "You haven't trained me, you haven't taught me anything. Except maybe that I'm slow and weak and stupid."

Astogoroth grinned then, a wide and grandfatherly grin. "I don't believe you are any of those things, Master Jig. I believe you are a good deal more able than you may realize. Perhaps, even, than you are ready to admit. Now then," the wizard tapped a sausage-fat finger on the bar, and a bowl of thick, curdled milk appeared. "To business, I think."

Jig drew back from the smell of the milk, wrinkling his nose at it. "Okay, I'm ready. What's the wager tonight?"

"I think," Astogoroth said, swirling his fingertips around in the milk and licking them delicately, "you'll like this one. It's simple really, just a trilogy of battles, fought before us by champions that we choose. Imagine, Master Jig, you can pick anyone, the most dangerous, war-ripened, flesh-stripping, sword-flashing blood eater that has ever swept across this land, to face terrible combat against, of course, my own. It is the gladiatorial aspect of this wager that appeals to me, I admit, two individuals, trained and deadly, prodded into a fight to the death with every skill and ability they possess. Doesn't it sound exciting?"

"Maybe," Jig said dubiously. "I'm trying to figure out how you'll cheat."

Astogoroth slurped up more of the greasy milk, then chuckled. "Cheat, dear boy? Cheat? I have no interest in cheating, cheating is hardly a true indication of skill, no no! Truth, Master Jig, neither of us can interfere in the battle once it is joined, nor affect any outcome of the battle. Dead is dead, yes, yes? We bring our trio of pairs together, and we may only act as audience. Yes?"

"What are the stakes? Same as always?"

"Ah," Astogoroth said, his gray eyes glinting with mischief. "Ah, ah. Now we are into it, aren't we? The stakes. Remind me, up until now the stakes have been ... ?"

"I've had to take you out to dinner wherever you wanted to go," Jig said.

"Ah, yes, ah, yes, and I've appreciated those dinners, I certainly have. But now, I think, it is time to increase our interest in this wager, to jar you ... and me, certainly ... from our complacency. With the expansion of the stakes, I further propose we both agree to a magical binding, ensuring that the loser will pay."

"Yes, fine, whatever, but what are the stakes?" Jig asked irritably.

"Yes. Fine. Whatever," Astogoroth repeated deliberately. Then he brightened and said, "Merely that the loser do whatever the winner asks, these are the stakes. Do you ... agree?"

"Sure," Jig said with a shrug. "You want to start the binding now?"

"Certainly, certainly," Astogoroth said, nodding and nodding. He rose and lifted his hands, and Jig mirrored his action.

The magical energy poured out of the pair, yellow from Astogoroth to encircle Jig, and blackish-purple from Jig around Astogoroth. It formed a mad rainbow of webbing, coiling around them where they stood, linking them, binding them. Then it faded to hissing smoke, invisible except for the unbreakable tingle of magic.

"There, done," Jig said. He glanced around. "When do we start?"

"Now, Master Jig, that would be best, I think, yes, yes." Astogoroth leaned in and licked up more milk, staring at Jig over the rim of the bowl.

"Okay," Jig said, lacing his fingers together and cracking his knuckled outward. "I think I'll go first."

"Of course," Astogoroth said with amusement.

The door to The Hollow swept open, and in hulked an enormous man. He was dark in skin and eye and mood, he wore no armor and carried only a sweep-bladed fighting knife at his side, and the scars which corded his muscular body showed he had fought many fights, and he hadn't died yet.

"Thought our business was done, little thief," the man growled at Jig.

"His name is Ren an-Conner, he's a mercenary and a blade-for-hire and a killer. There's no one more dangerous than he is," Jig said.

Astogoroth nodded. "Yes, yes, I know him, or, to be honest, I knew him, perhaps a year gone now, when he was ul-Conner, Protector of the Emperor, Guardian of the Treasury. Tell me, an-Conner, was the loss of your position and name worth the few trinkets you stole?"

Ren ignored the wizard, brazenly choosing a table in the middle of the common room and sitting with his back to them. He folded his hands on the table and grunted, "Beer."

Jig created one for the mercenary with a flick of his hand, then turned back to Astogoroth. "Your selection? Are you going to make one?"

"Yes, I believe I will," Astogoroth said. He licked a dab of the curdled milk from his hand.

The door to The Hollow swept open again, and again, in hulked an enormous man. A twin of the first, matching exactly the skin, the eyes, the knife, the scars.

"Thought our business was done, little thief," the second Ren growled at Jig.

"His name is Ren an-Conner, he's a mercenary and a blade-for-hire and a killer," Astogoroth recited, then he winked. "And you're right, there is no one more dangerous."

"Wait," Jig said, shaking his head. "You can't pick the same one I picked. You have to pick your own."

The first Ren stood and turned, his face lined with suspicion, the second returned the glare. There arms dropped by their sides, and they tensed.

"What sorcery is this?" the first Ren asked.

"What sorcery is this?" the second Ren asked.

"You, Master Jig, have this disturbing habit of crafting the rules after our wager has begun. I don't recall agreeing that we cannot choose the same combatant."

The two Rens began circling each other.

"But," Jig gestured, his little hand fluttered. "But ... but you have to pick your own."

The pair of killers moved as one, each gliding out his fighting knife and rolling into an attack from the right, each grabbing the knife-wrist of the other with his off-hand.

"Ah, yes, certainly, choose my own, but I did, don't you see, Master Jig? Are you unable to see the difference in our combatants?"

One Ren lunged suddenly, unexpectedly, pushing his opponent off-balance, then rolled backward and flicked the other Ren across a table. That Ren turned his body as he hammered into the table, spinning his knife and cutting across the hand of the first. Both regained their feet at once.

"They look the same to me," Jig said, frowning.

"No, no, Master Jig, what you see are two very distinct warriors, the one you chose, Ren an-Conner, from this place and this time, and mine, Ren an-Conner, from this place and this time ... minus a moment or two."

The hand-bleeding Ren recklessly drove his attack, slashing left and right, wielding his knife backhanded, the other Ren surrendered ground easily, keeping his purpling shoulder tucked defensively away, blocking with his own knife, up and down, ducking and weaving, scrambling backward over this table or that chair.

"Minus a moment?" Jig asked, then snapped angrily, "You can't travel in time for opponents!"

"And why, hmmm? Is it ... unfair?" Astogoroth asked innocently.

The retreating Ren feinted right, then right again, then right again, moving with such mechanical routine that the attacker, almost imperceptibly, began shaving a little off of each response to the feints. The attacking Ren pushed straight on, turning into each feint, yes, but with a growing hint of impatience and expectation.

"Tell me, Master Jig, what do you know about paradoxes?" Astogoroth asked, dabbing in his milk absently.

Jig cocked his head suspiciously. "Why?"

The inevitable occurred, obvious and expected only to those intensely trained in combat, and also not immediately involved in it. The retreating Ren feinted once more to the right, transferring his knife into his left hand, and he lunged in that direction and flipped a table up and at the other, who reacted instinctively by turning toward the table and slashing across its surface.

"If you were to die a few moments before right now," Astogoroth asked, "would you be alive right now?"

Jig's brow furrowed over the wizard's question. "You ..." The words walked through Jig's thoughts like a chain-bound specter, rattling again and again: If you were to die a few moments before right now, would you be alive right now?

The table crashed to the floor, and the retreating Ren whirled around smoothly and rammed the length of his blade through the throat of the attacker.

"Then no matter who wins ..." Jig said slowly.

Even as the knifed Ren collapsed, the throat of the standing Ren burst apart, looking as if an invisible blade had been driven into it. He too tumbled to the floor, sprawled over his twin.

"Yes, yes, Master Jig," Astogoroth said, watching with mild distaste the spreading gore. "Had my 'younger' Ren beaten yours, the match would have belonged squarely to me. As it happened, your 'older' Ren beat mine, but in turn slew himself. The result? I chose a combatant that could - and did - beat yours. The first match, dear boy, is mine."

Jig's mind staggered under the paradox, he thought and thought about it, trying to puzzle it out. "I ... I don't ..."

"I will give you the opportunity to clean -" Astogoroth indicated the site of the battle, "this up, and shall return shortly so that we may continue our wager, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the next day."

Jig nodded, troubled. "Yes, okay, tomorrow," then he added with a pointed finger, "but you can't do this anymore. You can't choose the same one that I choose, and you can't travel in time for an opponent. Okay?"

Astogoroth smiled benignly. "Of course. It would be unfair if I did such a thing. Make your next choice carefully." Then the wizard and his milk-clogged bowl vanished in yellow.

"I will make my next choice carefully," Jig said, vaporizing the pair of Rens, the pools and smears and spatters of blood, the shattered and scarred tables and chairs, all with an angry glare. "I definitely will."

"Tricky," Dixon said, pulling apart his honeyed bread and gnawing at it, unaware of the late hour, seemingly unaffected by weariness. They sat at the bar together, Jig relating the previous night's events, Dixon gorging himself on sweets and apple cider ... and occasionally speaking around a mouthful of food.

"Yes, tricky, right," Jig said irritably. "Now I've given up one match, and if I give up another one, this wager is over ... and I've lost again."

Dixon rolled a strawberry in a shrinking mound of sugar and popped it into his mouth. "What did you say the prize was this time?"

"Oh, this time he said that the loser has to do whatever the winner says. He'll probably just have me walk around some huge city with no pants on, or something embarrassing like that. That wizard just loves making me feel like a fool."

"Will you do that? Walk around a city with no pants, I mean?" By his expression, it was apparent Dixon could imagine no worse punishment.

"What choice would I have? Whatever the winner says. We even have a binding in place. I don't want to lose this one, Dix."

"So you need the perfect opponent," Dixon said, thinking. "Somebody who can't lose, no matter who he picks."

They looked at each other at the same time, and mirrored smiles crept up their faces.

"Can I?" Jig asked, grinning now, shaking his head.

"Why not?" Dixon asked. "There's no rule against it, is there? What is it that the old buzzard says, everything's fair? I think you should turn that back on him."

"Masters Jig and Dixon," came a reproachful voice from behind them.

Jig turned, surprised at Astogoroth's unexpected presence. He hadn't seen the wizard approach, and hadn't heard him appear. "Astogoroth," Jig said. "Back already?"

"Yes, yes, I thought you might wish to get on with our wager, Master Jig," the fat wizard said, heaving himself onto a stool beside Dixon, then clapped Dixon on the back tenderly. "How have you been, Master Dixon?"

"Good, good," Dixon said, then exchanged a meaningful look with Jig, and both boys giggled.

"Excellent, dear boy, excellent, glad to hear it." Astogoroth picked through Dixon's mound of sweets, helping himself to bits moldering banana squashed at the bottom, then turned his attention back to Jig. "So, you are ready for our next match, yes?"

"Yes, I think you could say I am," Jig said, and again both boys giggled.

"Well now, well now, let's have it, Master Jig, let's have your combatant, I would love to meet this brave and dangerous soul."

"Oh, I think you know him," Jig said.

"Do I now?" Astogoroth asked.

"I pick," and Jig glanced at Dixon, who nodded encouragement, "you, Astogoroth."

Astogoroth smiled. "An excellent choice, Master Jig. Certainly I would do everything within my power to stay alive," and he leaned over to Dixon and confided, "It's my survival instinct, of course." The wizard straightened and said, "Yes, yes, to be certain, an excellent choice."

"Thank you," Jig said smugly.

Astogoroth went on smiling, but said nothing.

"Well?" Jig prodded.

"Well what, Master Jig?" Astogoroth asked.

"Who's your choice? And remember, you can't just pick yourself, not like last time."

"No, of course not, what would I have to gain by doing that? No, I can assure you I will not be picking myself." Astogoroth stared at Jig evenly.

Jig started, then pointed accusingly, "Wait, you can't pick me either. You can't just do what I did, that would be unfair."

Astogoroth was silent a moment, then nodded. "Unfair? No, I wouldn't say that, certainly not, imprudent perhaps, but hardly unfair. No, I won't be choosing you as my champion, Master Jig." He turned toward Dixon. "I choose this one, a brave and noble child, to be sure."

"What?" Jig screamed. "You can't pick him! You'd destroy him in combat!"

"Optimism, Master Jig, optimism. Certainly this poor soul would die horribly under my magicks," Astogoroth's smile glittered, "but you would win a match."

Dixon's head dipped, and he closed his eyes. "Jig," he said softly.

"Shall the battle begin?" Astogoroth asked, rubbing his hands together.

"No." Jig placed his hand on Dixon's shoulder. "No. I forfeit this match."

Dixon stared up at him, surprised, grateful, bewildered.

Astogoroth inclined his head. "And in so doing, you lose the wager. Yes? Do you concede?"

Jig shook his head. "We still have one match left."

"The wager is over, dear boy, I've won two. It is impossible -"

"'A trilogy of battles,' that's what you said. Give me the chance to win one match. It doesn't matter now, does it?"

Astogoroth thought on it, then nodded. "Very well, you shall have your final match, but its outcome is immaterial. This wager is mine, I demand that concession from you."

"One more match, that's all I want," Jig said.

Dixon stared and stared, his mouth moving but saying nothing. Jig nodded back, understanding.

"You shall have your final match," Astogoroth repeated, then vanished.

Inside the Coven Hall, Astogoroth ul-Time Demonbinder, the Crystal Wielder, paced and muttered.

"Show me the boy," he commanded to the sheet of gurgling water suspended above the council table, but the sheet reflected only his own blurry image. It had been this way for hours now, cloudy and unresponsive, unable to peer in on the activities of Jig an-Slopdale.

"Jig an-Slopdale indeed," Astogoroth said, chuckling without humor. He was unable to explain the demon's apparent weakness, its disorientation, but he had seen clearly its powers, and realized quickly its attempted deception.

From all around him, lined along the great walls, statues of his Coven siblings stared mutely, as though silently passing judgment. They were gone now, destroyed a millennium ago in their successful effort to drive the Beast into the Crystal Cage. Now only Astogoroth remained, the last of the great wizards, the one to whom the responsibility fell.

The statues watched, twenty-nine in total, with one empty pedestal which seemed to Astogoroth even more convicting than any of the pairs of marble eyes.

"You agreed with me, Brother Cain," Astogoroth said to the statue of a fanged and pockmarked giant, Cain ul-Council Windrider of the Night Blade. "Yes, yes, you agreed that we were not strong enough to confront Gantegor, and yet ... and yet ... and yet, you went still. And you, Sister Natalia," Astogoroth said to Natalia ul-Galloway, Mage of the Five Stones, a small woman with bands of jagged electricity carved between her spread fingers, "you led our siblings to their destruction. Had I gone, no one would have remained to restore the Crystal Cage, to recapture the demon."

He gingerly lifted the cracked and fragile yellow bottle from the table, held it forth gently to the statues. "Behold my triumph, triumph through trickery, the method by which we could have beaten Gantegor the first time. No one need die, a battle need not be fought. The demon is deceived, and bound by my magicks. He must go into the Crystal Cage now, voluntarily. And this time, brother Warrum," Astogoroth said to Warrum ul-Dancer, Spider Slave, a long-limbed and eight-eyed man cast in an eternal crouch, "it will not be entrusted into the clumsy hands of others, it will not be given over to the Emperor's Vault for safekeeping, no, no. Broken again, its magic will be lost forever."

"Astogoroth," came a voice from the head of the table.

Astogoroth whirled, shock and horror on his face. "You!" he barked accusingly.

There, seated in Natalia ul-Galloway's throne, was Jig. He appeared no different than usual, still in his peasant's clothes, drawstring pants, rough tunic, leather shoes, just a boy, unnaturally clean but not apparently the source of inhuman might.

"How did you come here?" Astogoroth sputtered.

"I followed you, a little while after you left," Jig said, looking about the Hall. "Where is this? Are we between dimensions?"

Astogoroth blinked, his lips trembled. "You ... how long have you -"

"I'm still owed one match," Jig interrupted. "Sorry, but you promised."

"I ..." Astogoroth cocked his head. "Yes, I suppose I did. Ah, perhaps we could agree on a time and place, so that you might decide on a combatant."

"Oh, I have already, I have my choice. If you're ready, I think we should go to it."

Astogoroth became aware he was clutching something tightly in his hand, and he looked at it dully. A yellow bottle. The Crystal Cage! Absurdly, futilely, he tried to tuck it behind his back as if it were some sort of present, not knowing where he could hide it, not knowing where the demon would be unable to look. "Ah, yes, certainly, certainly -"

"Is this what you've been watching me with?" Jig said, indicating the sheet of water. "I thought it would be some kind of ball."

"Ah, yes, well, watching, I wasn't -"

"Whatever," Jig said, dismissing the matter. "My choice for the last match is a good one, I think you'll like it, anyway. I pick ... hmm, now how does it go? Oh, yes, the demon Gantegor, Devourer of Flesh, Eater of Souls, Scourge of Humanity, once-prisoner of the Crystal Cage."

There was a terrible ripping, wet scream, which doubled, and trebled, transformed into a chorus of screams, like an army of men being torn apart, and then it all evaporated into a soft puff.

Gantegor stood above the pair, glowering down at them, its wings spread, its clawed hands curled into horned fists.

Astogoroth gaped at it, then at Jig. "Gantegor? Here? Then you're -" He could not finish. "Oh, Jig, Jig, what have you done?"

Astogoroth! the demon howled. I have come for you!

Jig only shrugged, smiling at the wizard.

Gantegor lifted its arms up and roared, a sound like an exploding volcano, which rocked the Hall, knocked statues from pedestals, flipped the table, blasted Jig and Astogoroth off of their feet.

Astogoroth sprang to his feet and yelled at Jig, "You must help me, Jig, use your powers to help me!" Astogoroth shook the bottle desperately at the boy. "If we can force Gantegor -"

"I'm not helping you, we still have one more match," Jig argued, sitting up and folding his arms resolutely.

Astogoroth! Gantegor roared, reaching down a huge claw toward Astogoroth, its eyes afire while unholy energy. Astogoroth!

Astogoroth paled, and shrieked, "Forget the match, forget the wager, you won, you won, but I need your help -"

Then it all stopped. Silence.

Jig stood, stretched, and said, "I'm sorry, what was that?"

A moment passed, two. Astogoroth glanced around, confused. "What is happening?"

The immense, black and purple form of Gantegor puffed away like a smothered fire, to be replaced by a small and grinning Dixon. "Did you really think I was the demon?"

"What ... is ... happening?" Astogoroth asked again, slower this time.

"Oh, I don't know," Jig said, pretending to consider the question. "I believe - please correct me if I'm wrong - but I believe I just won our little wager. At least that's what you said."

"Wait. Wait, wait, wait," Astogoroth said, shaking his head in disbelief. "The demon ..." He looked at Dixon. "You didn't ..."

"You tricked me, I tricked you, and I won." Jig bowed to the wizard. "And I recognize that expression of yours, oh yes, I do. You're thinking, 'but that's not fair.' But then, what is that you say about our wagers?"

Astogoroth gazed stupidly at the Crystal Cage. He had pushed his thumb through its side when he had shaken it at Jig, and now it no longer glowed. It would never glow again. "Are you the demon, Jig?" he asked in a small voice. "Are you Gantegor?"

Jig laughed. "No. Why would you think that?"

"Let's go back to your bar and get a drink, Jig," Dixon said. "It's thirsty work, this terrifying old wizards."