The Magister heard a satisfying gasp on the other end of the line. “Fluffy? Are you sure, Dark High One?”

“Very sure. And don’t tell anyone about him. I want it to be a surprise.”

“Oh, it will be, Magister. It will be.”

“Let me know as soon as he’s ready for company. I want to be in my nicest robes. Maybe the red ones, with the blue trim.”

“A very flattering combination.”

“All right. Get on that. Oh, and have them send me up some fries. That dopey girl Carol left me with fries on the brain.”

“Do you want some balsamic with them?”

“Now, what do you think?”

“Silly question. Sorry, Lord.”

The Magister hung up and looked at the TV. The credits were rolling on The Price Is Right. He’d missed the whole damned showcase. Abaddon save me from my own people, he thought as he reburied the TV under the rugs.

Salzman sat in a top-floor suite in the Mondrian Hotel, on a very comfortable leather chair across from a man in an identical comfy-looking chair. There was a chilled bottle of champagne between them. The man across the table was large, roughly the size of a walking refrigerator and just as graceful. Arrayed around him were several even larger men in glistening, strangely angled body armor. Salzman thought they looked less like bodyguards than like cubist waiters.

“I am Zavulon,” said the large man. They shook hands.

“I thought I was meeting Olga,” said Salzman.

“She took sick. They call me,” said Zavulon. “I usually transpire in South America—Argentina, Brazil—so my English is not so good as hers.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to muddle through,” said Salzman. “Nice guards, by the way. That’s anti-thaumaturgic armor they’re wearing, isn’t it?”

Zavulon turned around, then looked back at Salzman. “Anti-what?”

Salzman wiggled his fingers mysteriously. “Hocus-pocus. It protects from magic.”

Zavulon laughed and pointed. “Yes. Hocus-pocus armor.”

Salzman leaned back, crossing his legs. “You should understand something: mooks are made by magic, but we’re not magic ourselves.”

Zavulon leaned forward and his chair creaked a little. “But box is magic.”

“I don’t have the box with me.”

“I notice. Where is it?”

“Technically, not on this Earth,” said Salzman. “So if anything should happen to me it will never be seen by anyone again.”

Zavulon opened his arms wide. “Who would do that? Who would hurt you? Besides, to kill a dead man. I would have no notion how.”

Salzman put a deeply sarcastic hand over his heart. “I don’t believe you, but it’s a comfort to have you say it.”

Zavulon took hold of the bottle between them. “Let’s have champagne. Government has already paid, so let’s not go to waste.”

“Good idea.”

Zavulon poured two glasses and the men toasted each other.

“You like?” said Zavulon, slurping his.

“Very much. I’ll have to get the name before I leave.”

“Don’t bother yourself. Give me address and I will send you case.”

“That’s very kind.”