Part 5 (1/2)

”Unless Pandora's box is watched all of the time, what is within is able to get out.”

”That's not fair!”

”I've played fair with you, Westfall. You should know these things always have a trick to them. Good luck.”

He began to make a gesture to conjure himself out of there.

”Remember,” Westfall said, ”I still have the talisman. I can call you up when I wis.h.!.+”

”I wouldn't advise trying it,” Hermes said, and vanished.

Westfall waited until Hermes' smoke had faded away. Then he turned to the box. ”Miss Ylith?”

”What is it?”

”Could we have a talk, you and I?”

”Open this box and let me out. I'll give you talk.”

Westfall shuddered at the sound of rage in her voice. ”Maybe we should wait a little while,” he said. ”I need to think this out.” Ignoring her curses, he walked to the other end of the chamber and settled down to think. But he didn't take his eyes off the box.

Westfall kept the box on his nightstand. He did have to sleep occasionally, but he wakened himself periodically to make sure Ylith was still in there; he had become concerned that she would get out on her own. He began to dream that she was about to open the box, or that it had opened during the night. Sometimes he woke up screaming.

”Listen, miss,” he said, ”what say we forget all about this? I'll let you go and you leave me alone. Is that okay?”

”No,” Ylith said.

”Why? What do you want?”

”Indemnity,” Ylith said. ”You can't expect things to happen as easily as that, Westfall.”

”What will you do if I let you out?”

”I don't honestly know.”

”You won't kill me, though, will you?”

”I might. I just might.”

It was a standoff.

Chapter 8.

Pietro Aretino was somewhat surprised to find a red- haired demon at his door that day in Venice in 1524. But not too surprised. Aretino made it a point never to be put out of countenance by anything.

He was a big man, his own red hair receding from his high brow. Thirty-two years old that month, he had spent all his adult life as a poet and playwright. His verses, which combined the utmost scurrility with an exquisite sense of rhyme, were recited and sung from one corner of Europe to the other.

Aretino 'was able to live well on the expensive presents that kings, n.o.blemen, and prelates were forever forcing upon him to induce him to desist from attacking and mocking them. ”Pray take this gold salver, good Aretino, and be so kind as to disinclude me in your latest broadside.”

Aretino had been expecting something of the sort when the knocking came on his door. He opened it himself, his servant having gone home for the day. One look told him that this fellow who stood before him was no Earthly messenger. No, this foxy-faced and bright-eyed personage had that air about him of one of the supernatural ones that Aretino had always heard about but had not up until now met.