The hinge order was complete and on its way to the village. I finished troweling the last of the clay Chord wanted into a barrel, then stooped to wash the clay from my hands in the spring's frothy flow. The air, cool and crisp, complemented the mild afternoon sunlight. Already, orders for pot repairs, new plow blades, and spikes poured in from the keep and surrounding farms. As I rose, Dimanda's lank form wheeled around the backside of the forge, hands deep in her pockets, hair a golden brown billow of smoke in the constant cliff side breeze.

"William! I am sent to remind you to be ready for tonight's work in the cavern."

I patted the filled barrel and assured her I was.

"I'm glad you chose to work here. You were such an awful sight on the road," she said laughing. "How is the bedding I left you?"

Belatedly, I remembered that she had brought the soft furs and blankets. "Best rest I've had in a while, thanks to you," I said gratefully. "Working for your father is exhausting business; the bedding was very welcome."

"Did my father shed any light on your predicament?"

The words brought back images of my small house and shop, and of my strange dreams. I wondered what people would be making of the closed storefront, amazed at how little it consumed my thoughts lately.

I had not developed many close ties in my life, having spent most of it on the move, but the ironworks remains the most solid anchor I have ever known, and furbished largely with the inheritance of my deceased parents, as much a memorial to my heritage as anything I had.

Looking into Dimanda's intent blue eyes, I replied, "Your father suspects the sword may be a re-creation of some ancient weapon named in stories known here, but nothing sure yet. I can see he is concerned for me."

We talked on of the keep, her life here, and something of my former days. She never sat, but we spoke at length, more than I had talked with a girl in a long while. Odd, that I should seek more connection among these strange people than with those who had drifted thorough my life in my own place and time. Perhaps just a reaction to my displacement, a heightened need to find footing after being pulled from all I had known. Or maybe the dispassion of my existence there had been broken by my encounters with the people here.

A good feeling, though.

"Other lands, a world of fantastic machines, doubtless beautiful women, what a life you have had, William!" She pivoted about, and slipped on the slick clay, falling toward the stream with a shriek. My left hand shot forward, grabbed her shirt, and rising, I offered my right. Unbalanced still, she clasped it, pulling me forward so that we both fell, toppling into the cold water. Dimanda laughed the whole time, for the current was not dangerous, here in the shallows. Her hand felt warm and electric in mine, and stayed there. We hauled ourselves back out, and talked further, letting the sun dry us out.

Finally, she left, and taking gauge from the waning daylight, I began rolling the barrel out to the path, and down to the cavern below the tower. Chord had me place the barrel on the dais, and then I waited while he conferred with his acolytes and made his other preparations. The lurid and consistent glow of the volcanic vent, for surely that's what it was, made it difficult to judge time well, but it took easily an hour and a half before the drummers were seated, and a Burlie prepared for the ritual. I followed Chord out of the tearing fumes of the cavern back to the keep, where a corridor hewn through the rocky hill led us to the place I had first seen the conjurer.

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Once more, the eerie arrhythmic beat of the deep drums stuttered through the cave, and again Chord lifted his robed arms and began intoning his reverberant invocation. This time, however, I kept station behind the mage, watching all from the alcove above the cavern floor. Again, the keening and screeching echoed up from the agitated creatures in the oubliette, increasing as the Burlie on the dais began to wipe its crayon of clotted blood and wax around the portal platform.

The blue glow curtained the dais, and as before, the awful image of iridescent red coalesced within its confines. The demon picked up the mewling, kicking thing, placing it upon its ridged back. The Burlie began to lovingly lick and preen the demon's hide, moaning in orgiastic bliss. The demon again thundered at the barrier of light, fixing us with a stare that turned my stomach to cold stone. Eventually the bargaining began. In the end it agreed, for two additional creatures, that weather spells for the farms would be provided.

The pit-black, liquid eyes lowered to the barrel of clay. "What is this for, little mage? I want no clay."

Chord motioned at the barrel and said, "Some further work I would bargain for."

"Ah? What do you require now then?"

"I would have a Golem to work for my estate, tireless and strong."

"What would I be paid for this task? Perhaps you will trade for that weakling cowering behind you there?" The demon's eyes reduced to slits. They bored into me with cold evaluation that froze my racing heart.

Chord's face paled, and then reasserted its composure. "We deal for Burlies as ever we have. Name your price properly!"

"Two times ten years will it endure, and cannot be unmade by the hand of man or his works. It will never sleep, never eat, and never stop in all that time. Then sift to dust, and be gone. It will heed your commands and those given by one other you name, whose blood you must smear within its ears. A tongue I will give it so that it may respond to you. It will defend you and yours, though it can never wield a weapon against your foes. I will do this for the balance of the Burlies you have in your pit, and three more...and that is cheap, little mage, as a favor to you."

Chord reddened. "Five Burlies remain! Five! More than for the control over the season's weather, you ask. Your creatures are not so easily procured, and every gathering puts us at mortal risk! Three will do you for such a task."

The slavering maw wagged back and forth in negation. It raised one balled fist, and bellowed, "No more bargaining! Five it is or nothing! This work will outlast many seasons, and must be powered to animate for all that time. I am tired of standing here in your hole, and would be finished. Decide!"

Chord drew his lips into a flat line. "Very well. A bargain is struck." He motioned to one of the acolytes, who threw a rope over the side of the oubliette, and quickly withdrew. The demon made a honking noise, and jet black Burlies scrabbled up the rope, pulling themselves over the pit's edge, yellow eyes fixed on the obscenity within the pulsing sapphire ring. They crept and scampered forward and onto the dais reaching their long arms up to climb the demon's form. The red giant swarmed with eight pandering creatures, five for the golem, three for the weather work, that scuttled across its legs, arms, back and chest, fawning and caressing it.

Paying no heed, the monster stirred one hand in the clay barrel. I watched as it worked. The red clay roiled and rose, forming a stout figure little taller than a man, head sculpted like a cylinder, with two expressionless holes for eyes and an oval mouth. The demon formed two ears, one to each side of the head, of a more convincing mold.The golem had a slightly rounded chest, like a teapot, and arms and legs like pipes, ending in realistically sculpted hands and feet. The demon cupped his hands, and a yellow fire, like the light in the Burlie's eyes, took form. The monster shoved the burning ball into the mouth of the statue, bent down, and whispered in its ear. The construct then turned on its own to face us. The demon rumbled, "We are finished. Let me go now. Too long have I suffered this place." Chord shouted, and the apparition faded from the circle, and was gone, taking the Burlies and their noise with it. In place of the barrel stood the manlike figure of the Golem, silent and waiting.

We turned and made our way along the small passage and through a door back into the mage Chord's workroom. I followed Chord outside and down to the cavern's mouth. As we approached the dais, Chord produced a small bone knife wrapped in leaves, and turned to face me."Give me your hand," he said.