From: Bookwyrm@voyager.cris.com (BOOKWYRM) Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.creative Subject: NTB: Dance of the Daemon #4 Date: 4 Jul 1995 13:30:34 -0400 Told you it was coming....so it's two weeks late...if Neil can follow a less than monthly schedule, so can I. :) Dance of the Daemon #4 "A Picture's Worth..." MUSEUM OF ANTIQUITIES, ISTANBUL, TURKEY. "Now this is one of our finest pieces," the tourguide beamed, showing much more enthusiam than could easily be believed. The tour group shuffled en masse to the small glass case, ooh-ing and ah-ing appropriately. The guide moved to one side, continuing his speil. "This icon of the Virgin Mary was purchased by the last Czarina of Russia in Novgorod at the turn of the century. It was later given by her as a gift to the infamous Rasputin." "The mad monk?" one polyester-clad woman asked. "Yes, the very same. It was donated to the Museum by a colonel in the Russian army, who's grandfather had found it on Rasputin's body. But come, we must be going." Like sheep to be sheared [an apt metaphor, as the gift shop overcharged shamelessly] the group moved on, save only for a familiar form in a red jacket. Damien stared at the icon, carefully testing the wards it was shielded behind. After he and Max Fremont [ok, Max] had recorded the images found in the book of Thoth, they had decided to load them onto a computer, which would allow them to manipulate the symbols more easily. After a fairly involved discussion with a Maltese compu ter firm, and a hastily conjured gold card, the hardware was purchased, and suitably modified. It was somewhat surprising how easily the images loaded into the system. It was even more surprising when they began running programs by themselves. An obscure combination of Paintbrush, Control Panel, and Tetris merged, causing an image to appear, t he selfsame image he was studying at the moment. The presence of wards, no matter the strength, indicated magic was involved, he mused. And these wards were particularly potent. "Excuse me, sir." came the voice behind him, redolent with the aroma of Turkish coffee. He turned to see a mustachioed guard staring at him. "Yes?" "Your group has left for the gift shop. As that is the last stop, they shall be leaving soon...." "Ah..." Damien murmured. "Is there some way I can help you?" the guard asked politely. "Yes, there is...Is the icon for sale?" The guard shrugged expansively, "I cannot say, sir. Perhaps you might speak with the Director?" "Very well..." As the guard led on, he proceeded back into the bowels of the museum, past relics only slightly older than his memories. Soon, he found himself before an office door, clearly marked with the legend "Kemal Bey, Director." "One moment sir..." the guard said, opening the door. He entered, and Damien sat fairly comfortably on a nearby couch. Fragments of conversation drifted into his consciousness. "I'm sorry, Mr. Samuels..." "No, I must insist..." "Ah, Mustafa.." "...wishes to purch.." "Send him in!" The thick wooden door swung open, and the guard [probably Mustafa] ushered him in. He found himself facing a small man seated behind a large desk. "You may go now, Mustafa." As the guard left, the director smiled, "My wife's brother. I fear I have been cursed with a large family...Now, how can I help you, Mr.." "Cross. Damien Cross. I was wondering if I could purchase the Icon of Rasputin." "How unusual. I just spoke with a man who wished to purchase the same item," he replied, motioning toward the black telephone on his desk, "but I'm afraid I must give you the same response. It is not possible." "Perhaps if I raised the price? Gave you a finder's fee?" Damien riposted, eyes gleaming behind his sunglasses. "Ah....no, I'm afraid not," Bey replied, shaking his head. "Are you sure? I can be most...generous." Damein prodded. "Again, I must say no," Bey stated firmly. "But I forget my manners. Would you like some coffee? A cigar perhaps." "This time, I must say no..." "I hope you are not offended. It is merely the extreme rarity of the item. The Government would never approve." "I understand completely," Damien responded, "I merely wish to return to my hotel." "Very well then, I wish you a good day." "Likewise." Damein threaded his way through the museum, and strode through the glass doors of the entrance. Outside, Max waited, still lugging the laptop they had purchased, which he had dubbed "The Powerbook of Thoth." "Any luck?" Damien shook his head, "Why didn't you give him a little 'These aren't the droids you're looking for'?" "I tried...he's got good mental shields. Let me see the laptop," Max handed it over. They moved to a shady bench, where Damien began typing. While maps and photos rippled across the screen, Max paced back and forth, brainstorming. "Bribery? No, you tried that....Theft? I've heard too much about Turkish prison for that..." "Max?" Damien called, looking up, "Come see this..." Max ambled over, "Hey! That's an MPEG of a street in Harvard Square! Where'd you get that?" "You've had some fun, Now pay the tax. Your task is done, Go home, Max." As Max blinked, the image expanded, swallowing him up. Momentarily dizzy, he sat up, finding himself seated on the curb of JFK Street, Cambridge Mass. Damien watched the fuming figure for a short while, before closing the laptop. For all his knowledge about the occult, Max had forgotten the law of Similarity. Of course, this was a new approach. As the cries of the muezzins echoed from the minarets, the sun set over Istanbul, and the tourists left the streets, leaving only pickpockets, prostitutes, and one semi-possesed sorceror. Whispering a cantrip, he passed through the now-locked front door, and moved toward the case he had studied earlier. In this form, the wards flamed with tightly leashed power, but Damien had a key. Murmuring to himself, he conjured a visual duplicate of the image, preparatory to replacing the object of his larcenous intent. With the skill of a surgeon, he eased his spectral hand past the bars of the wards, and touched the icon. Words do not easily describe the effect his contact had. The closest words to describe it would be a flash of darkness. Dropping into solidity, and to his knees, Damien felt his strength vanish, drawn into the gold engraving. "How unsurprising..." came a familiar voice behind him. Bey walked into view, nattily attired in a Sydney Greenstreet suit, complete with red fez. "For someone of such power, and it is impressive, you obviously do not know what you are dealing with." Tugging on his lapels, he began to lecture, "It seems that the owner of the icon is drained of all magic, to be directed toward whoever is attuned to the radiation. I am of course, so attuned." "I believe the monk used it to kkep the Czarevitch alive. Silly man. He could have used it to become immortal, but instead he had to defile himself to feed enough power to that ungrateful Russian brat." Noticing that Damien was slumping, he swiftly kicked him in the ribs, "Pay attention! After all, very soon, I will have all your power, and you should receive something in return. After all," he smiled wolfishly, "I don't want to forget my manners." Mercifully, Bey's gloating voice was fading fast. Unfortunately, so was Damien. All he could see were the lights flickering off his sunglasses, knocked off as he sprawled on the floor. The lights resolved, forming into a stage, where a slender, storklike man began to speak. "Friends of the Royal Society, My name is Nikola Tesla..." Damien watched curiously as the figure created marvels of light, seemingly without wires. One phrase in particular struck his attention: "Phenomena which we used to regard as baffling we now see in a different light...It is more than possible to harness power already present in our atmosphere...the entire earth seethes with more power than we could possibly use in a million years!" Bey watched curiously as the figure before him stred glassily into the ether. With no sense of concern, he continued his observations, as Damien slowly, painfully, raised his hand, fingers spread wide. The lights flickered, as sparks licked the fanned fingers. Damien rose to his knees, then to his feet. Now, Bey was concerned. "It is not possible. I am receiving no more power from you..." Damien smiled, as his sunglasses reappeared on his face, "Now who is uninformed...the daemon who cursed the icon bound it with all of the forms of power he knew. He didn't know this one....." The lights went out, but the room was lit by the aura engulfing Damien. "You wanted power," he went on, "have some of this." His hand closed into a fist, and flames licked about Bey's form. These, however, provided more than illumination. Within moments, Bey was consumed. All that remained was a charred fez, rolling on the ground. Damien carefully strode over to the case, picking up the icon. With a patting motion, he placed it on his coat, directly below the breast pocket. Glimmers of light traced the brocade, as the picture melted into the design. Damien whistled tunelessly, as he ambled over to the entryway. Once again, the locked doors proved to be less than a hindrance. Breathing deeply, he looked out over the darkened city. "Oh right...I almost forgot." he muttered, snapping his figures. Across the city, power returned, much to the relief of the power company, and to the dismay of several entreprenurial possesion redistributors. "OK," Damien sighed, drawing the laptop from the ether, "what's next" The screen flickered to life, and as the drive whirred, resolved into the heraldic image of a dragon... [Author's Note: The Tesla speech is adapted from _Tesla_ by Tad Wise.] ************************************************************** Mario "The Bookwyrm" Di Giacomo: bookwyrm@voyager.cris.com Visit the Bookwyrm's Lair at http://www.cris.com/~bookwyrm "Writers, by definition, have tremendous egos"- Harlan Ellison