“I don’t know where the dyke is, or the old willow.”

“I wouldn’t suggest the race if you knew. I like competitions but I don’t like losing.”

“I’ve noticed. No, we won’t race each other. It’s very hot today.”

“Pity. So maybe we’ll pit ourselves against each other in a different way?” The sylvan bared his yellow teeth and picked up a large stone from the ground. “Do you know the game ‘Who shouts loudest?’ I shout first. Close your eyes.”

“I have a different proposition.”

“I’m all ears.”

“You leave here without any competitions, races or shouting. Of your own accord, without being forced.”

“You can shove such a proposition a d’yeabl aep arse.” The devil demonstrated his knowledge of the Old Language. “I won’t leave here. I like it here.”

“But you’ve made too much of a nuisance of yourself here. Your pranks have gone too far.”

“Duvvelsheyss to you with my pranks.” The sylvan, as it turned out, also knew the dwarves’ tongue. “And your proposition is also worth as much as a duvvelsheyss. I’m not going anywhere unless you beat me at some game. Shall I give you a chance? We’ll play at riddles if you don’t like physical games. I’ll give you a riddle in a minute and if you guess it, you win and I leave. If you don’t, I stay and you leave. Rack your brains because the riddle isn’t easy.”

Before Geralt could protest, the sylvan bleated, stamped his hooves, whipped the ground with his tail and recited:

It grows in soft clay, not far from the stream,

Little pink leaves, pods small and full,

It grows in soft clay, not far from the stream,

On a long stalk, its flower is moist,

But to a cat, please show it not,

’Cos if you do, he’ll eat the lot.

“Well, what is it? Guess.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the witcher said, not even trying to think it over. “Sweet pea, perhaps?”

“Wrong. You lose.”

“And what is the correct answer? What has… hmm… moist pods?” “Cabbage.”

“Listen,” growled Geralt. “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”

“I warned you,” chuckled the sylvan, “that the riddle wasn’t easy. Tough. I won, I stay. And you leave. I wish you, sir, a cold farewell.”

“Just a moment.” The witcher surreptitiously slipped a hand into his pocket. “And my riddle? I have the right to a revenge match, haven’t I?”

“No!” protested the devil. “I might not guess it, after all. Do you take me for a fool?”

“No.” Geralt shook his head. “I take you for a spiteful, arrogant dope. We’re going to play quite a new game shortly, one which you don’t know.”

“Ha! After all! What game?”

“The game is called,” said the witcher slowly, “don’t do unto others what you would not have them do to you.’ You don’t have to close your eyes.”

Geralt stooped in a lightning throw; the one-inch iron ball whizzed sharply through the air and thwacked the sylvan straight between the horns. The creature collapsed onto his back as if hit by a thunderbolt. Geralt dived between the poles and grabbed him by one shaggy leg. The sylvan bleated and kicked. The witcher sheltered his head with his arm, but to little effect. The sylvan, despite his mean posture, kicked with the strength of an enraged mule. The witcher tried and failed to catch a kicking hoof. The sylvan flapped, thrashed his hands on the ground and kicked him again in the forehead. The witcher cursed, feeling the sylvan’s leg slip from his fingers. Both, having parted, rolled in opposite directions, kicked the poles with a crash and tangled themselves up in the creeping hemp.