Ice Cold Anger of Cedelene Torsh

Ivora Tinkanson’s bare boobs banged against the harpsichord keys as her music teacher thrust his baton into her quivering clef again and again. The naughty notes of discordant desire echoed through the mansion’s music room as Steinman Wayfaire increased his tempo and soon Ivora’s amorous outcry reached a crescendo culminating in a fortissimo shriek harmonizing with Steinman’s contrabass bellow. One last convulsion concluded the concert and the copulators uncoupled and Ivora snatched the sheet [[music]] off the harpsichord and shoved it into her soggy sluice. [[the couple quickly<-Continue]]

Bach’s Prelude to a Fugue in F-Major, Opus 140 [[the couple quickly<-Continue]]

The couple quickly donned their clothes – and not a moment too soon, as the double doors slid open and Ivora’s husband entered. “Sparling!” Ivora gasped. “Back so soon?” “You mean back *too* soon, don’t you?” he snapped. “I’ve been out in the hallway listening for the past ten minutes and the sounds I heard in here could hardly be described as music.” “You’ve got it all wrong, darling,” she said, her face crimsoning. “Mr. Wayfaire was just...” [[“Demonstrating how a tuning fork works”]] [[“Helping me dust off the harpsichord bench’’]] [[“Showing me some chord progressions’’]]

Steinman smiled uneasily. “That’s right, Mr. Tinkanson. I was just...” “And where’s the tuning fork now?” Sparling said in a low voice as he advanced slowly toward the tutor. “Oh ... um ... I forgot to bring one with me, so I was demonstrating with my fingers.” He held up two digits. “You see, it all has to do with sympathetic vibrations. When resonance is induced in the prongs, it produces...” “I’m not interested in your prongs, Mr. Wayfaire,” Sparling said. “And I find your teaching methods highly suspect. I don’t think Mrs. Tinkanson will be needing your, uh, services any longer, so I suggest you find yourself another pupil.” He turned toward the door. “Now if you two will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.” He strolled out of the room. The lovers exchanged a puzzled glance. “Well, he certainly took that calmly, under the circumstances,” Steinman muttered. “Too calmly,” Ivora said softly. “That’s not like him at all. He’s up to something. You’d better go.” “Good idea.” [[As Steinman<-Continue]]

Steinman smiled uneasily. “Yes, Mr. Tinkanson. That’s exactly what I was doing.” “I’m glad to hear it,” Sparling said in a low voice as he advanced slowly toward the tutor. “I hate messy things.” He bent down and peered at the harpsichord bench. “You missed a spot.” He looked up. “You know, there’s a better way to clean a bench. You don’t dust it, you shake it. Like this.” He seized the bench, raised it high in the air and slammed it down on Steinman’s head, accompanied by Ivora’s high-C screams. The first blow cracked the music teacher’s skull. The second one caved it in as a portion of bone pierced the forelobe of his brain. The third blow was unnecessary. Just an encore. [[Enter Cedelene<-Continue]]

Steinman smiled uneasily. “Yes, Mr. Tinkanson. That’s exactly what I was doing.” “That’s very interesting,” Sparling said in a low voice as he turned toward the harpsichord. He shoved his hand inside the instrument, grabbed some of the strings and yanked hard, breaking them free. *Twang-anng-anng!* He faced his wife, grinning evilly, holding up the swaying strings. “How do you like *my* chord progression, eh?” “My God, Sparling!” Ivora said. “Have you gone mad?” [[Steinman’s Face Reddened<-Continue]]

Steinman left the music room and made his way down to the first floor. As he approached the foyer, Sparling came charging out of the dining room clutching a carving fork. “I found your fork, you fucker!” he screamed, charging at the music teacher and thrusting the tines into his left eyeball. *Gish!* As Steinman let out a piercing [[scream,]] Sparling thrust harder, driving the fork into his brain. [[Enter Cedelene<-Continue]]

A high C, to be exact. [[Enter Cedelene<-Continue]]

Cedelene Torsh, professional witchilante, patted Ivora Tinkanson’s hand and urged her to go on with her terrible tale. Ivora took another sip of chamomile tea and continued. “After he murdered dear Steinman he got an axe from the tool shed and demolished my hundred-year-old harpsichord. It was a priceless heirloom and he reduced it to kindling!” “Monstrous!” “Then he booted me out of the house and trashed all my belongings. I sent two friends over there the next morning to fetch them and they found everything strewn all over the lawn, my clothes ripped to shreds, my dolls decapitated, my keepsakes crushed, my ... well, you get the idea.” “Despicable!” Ivora’s eyes narrowed. Her tremulous voice took on a steely edge. “I want justice, Miss Torsh. I want Sparling to pay for what he did!” “I gather the criminal justice system has proven unsatisfactory in that regard?” Ivora laughed bitterly. “Sparling Tinkanson is one of the most influential men in Drauthenboch. Oh, the authorities questioned him after the incident, but it was merely a formality. He pleaded self-defense and claimed the harpsichord got broken accidentally during the struggle. Pure poppycock, but no one dared doubt him. I tried to tell them my version of events, but they dismissed me out of hand.” “And so you’ve come to me.” Ivora nodded gravely. “And so I’ve come to you.” A few minutes later, Cedelene began to cast her spell of vengeance, using... (text-colour:#ee4b2b)[[a carbuncle amulet]] (text-colour:#b4c424)[[a peridot amulet]]

Steinman’s face reddened with outrage. “That was barbaric! Absolutely barbaric!” Sparling approached the tutor, holding the strings in both hands like a jump rope. “No need to get hysterical, Mr. Wayfaire. These strings can still play a pretty tune. Allow me to demonstrate.” He punched Steinman in the gut and the music teacher doubled over and Sparling got behind him and looped the strings around his neck and tugged with all his might – tight ... tighter ... tightest! “Ach! Gurgh!” Steinman grabbed his assailant’s wrists, but Sparling had played a lot of croquet over the years and possessed tremendous arm strength. A shrieking Ivora tried to intervene, but Sparling elbowed her in the face and she staggered back, stunned, as he resumed his grisly garroting, and soon Steinman’s gurgles subsided into a sigh ending in a death rattle – music to Sparling’s ears. [[Enter Cedelene<-Continue]]

After finishing off his brandy, Sparling Tinkanson set down the glass, got up from his gray troll-leather chair, crossed the study and slid the doors open. “What the...” A long, carpeted hallway should have stretched before him. Instead he saw a wall of swirling gray mist, only three feet away from him, with a four-foot-high hexagonal hole in the middle framed in shining silver. And beyond that... He expected to see the well-groomed grounds of his estate, with croquet wickets on the left and a fountain on the right with water bubbling from a cherub’s mouth. But the view was drastically different: a messy mass of fecund foliage bisected by a twisting path leading to a clearing where a stone temple loomed, about two hundred feet high, its base decorated with carvings of grimacing gods. He heard a soft plop at his feet and looked down, saw two medallions lying on the floor right next to the threshold. One was made of orichalcum, the other silver, each one embossed with an onyx pentagram, below which a single word was inscribed, rendered in ruby – “Elasippos” on the orichalcum medallion, “Gadeiros” on the silver. He picked up the medallions, admiring the craftsmanship, then noticed an [[inscription]] on the back.

After finishing off his brandy, Sparling Tinkanson set down the glass, got up from his gray troll-leather chair, crossed the study and slid the doors open. “What the...” A long, carpeted hallway should have stretched before him. Instead he saw a wall of swirling gray mist, only three feet away from him, with a four-foot-wide hexagonal hole in the middle framed in shining silver. And beyond that... He expected to see the well-groomed grounds of his estate, with croquet wickets on the left and a fountain on the right with water bubbling from a cherub’s mouth. But the view was drastically different: a cobblestoned street in a small village he did not recognize, with a church on the closest corner next to a graveyard full of weathered tombstones glowing softly in the moonlight. In front of the church a crowd of several dozen men had gathered on the lawn, many holding torches, standing before a large mound of branches with a seven-foot-high wooden post rising from the center. He heard a soft plop at his feet and looked down, saw three medallions lying on the floor right next to the threshold. One was made of gold, the second bronze, the third opal, each one embossed with an onyx pentagram, below which a single word was inscribed, rendered in ruby – “Atlas” on the gold medallion, “Mestor” on the bronze, “Autochthon” on the opal. He picked up the medallions, admiring the craftsmanship, then noticed an [[inscription2<-inscription]] on the back.

(b4r:"ridge")+(b4r-colour:white)[SORCERAMA FATE SHIFTER. Advances astral locus by: One degree. Limit: One medallion per customer. Good for: One use. To activate, use code word imprinted on front of medallion.] And in smaller letters: (b4r:"ridge")+(b4r-colour:white)[Positive results not guaranteed. Made in Atlantis.] He smirked. What nonsense! Magic medallions from Atlantis! It sounded like something straight out of *Weird Digest* or *Uncanny Quarterly,* pulp publications that appealed to gullible fools. Still, the medallions were quite pretty and might fetch a good price from a curio dealer – novel baubles for customers who possessed more money than common sense. (text-colour:#fcc419)[[Pick the orichalcum medallion]] (text-colour:#adb5bd)[[Pick the silver medallion]] [[Pick both medallions]]

(set: $orichalcumMedallion to 1) He hung the orichalcum medallion around his neck and was suddenly seized by vertigo. He stumbled forward, falling through the hexagonal hole. [[altar stone<-Continue]]

(set: $silverMedallion to 1) He hung the silver medallion around his neck and was suddenly seized by vertigo. He stumbled forward, falling through the hexagonal hole. [[altar stone<-Continue]]

He hung the medallions around his neck, and as they touched... *Clink* *Zazzaap!* Sparling Tinkanson vaporized in a flash of crimson light. (Next time, follow the damn instructions. Only ONE medallion per customer!) [[Pick the orichalcum medallion]] [[Pick the silver medallion]]

Wearing only a loincloth, Sparling lay on a hot disk of pitted gray stone, about seven feet in diameter, his limbs bound to slots in the stone by cords woven from vines. A relentless sun glared at him from a cloudless sky. He looked down at himself, startled to see a body he did not recognize – swarthy skin, a scrawny and hairless chest, short and sinewy legs. He jerked and twisted his arms, trying to break the vines, but failed. A man loomed over him, blocking the sun, his face full of solemnity and wrinkles, his skin dark and leathery. He wore a ridiculous getup – a droopy headdress of bright red and yellow plumage and a pectoral of bones interspersed with black and blue beads, and a mangy leopard cloak. His left hand held a dagger with a wavy-edged flint blade. A few feet to the left sat a four-foot-high pedestal inscribed with strange glyphs and topped by a blackened bronze brazier in which flame fluttered. “What the hell is going on?” Sparling demanded. To his surprise, his words came out as gibberish. The man replied, also in gibberish, yet somehow Sparling understood him: “You shall be silent!” [[The Man Cast<-Continue]]

The man cast his eyes to the sky and his scowl transformed into a rapturous expression, his harsh voice softening to reverent tones: “Oh mighty Thulchulu, we offer up this fine young man to atone for our many sins. We implore thee to accept this offering and end the curse upon our land! Drench the thirsty fields with rain, drive the hideous spider-faced dog-beasts back to their stinking lairs, stop the prickly weasel-fish from befouling our ponds and streams with their purple offal. Feast on the beating heart of this strong and handsome youth and be satiated by his sacrifice.” He made a sacred sign with his right hand and raised the dagger high. “Wait!” Sparling cried. “Don’t do it! You’re making a terrible...” “Hold your tongue, lest your inane blather anger the gods! Didn’t you learn anything in sacrifice school?” The priest returned his gaze to the sky. “As I was saying, feast on the beating heart of this blabber... uh, this strong and handsome youth and be satiated by his sacrifice!” (if: $orichalcumMedallion is 1)[[death dagger<-Continue]] (if: $silverMedallion is 1)[[conquistadores<-Continue]]

Desperately Sparling invoked the word on the front of his orichalcum medallion: “Elasippos! ... Elasippos!” (bg:red)[A second later the dagger plunged into his body, just missing the medallion, and the priest sawed a long slit in his chest as Sparling screeched in agony. The priest reached into the opening and grabbed Sparling’s heart, cut it free, pulled it out and held it aloft as blood from the still-beating organ spurted into Sparling’s face and pooled in his mouth, drowning his screams. The priest tossed the heart into the brazier and the divine fire devoured it as the aroma of cooked meat wafted into the holy man’s nostrils and the sacrificial smoke ascended to the heavens, where the gods sucked on Sparling’s soul till they drained it dry.] (In case you hadn’t guessed, the medallion was a dud! Sorry, no refunds.) [[conquistadores<-Try again]]

Desperately Sparling invoked the word on the front of his silver medallion: “Gadeiros! ... Gadeiros!” *Bang! Bang! Bang!* The startled priest spun around and scurried to the edge of the temple top, staring down at the ground far below. Sparling couldn’t see what was happening at the base of the temple, but heard shouts and the *twang twang* of bows shooting arrows, followed by more gunfire. Loincloth-clad natives surged onto the summit, unleashing another archery attack – until a fresh fusillade of gunfire erupted, wiping out the warriors. Cowering behind the altar, the priest raised supplicating arms heavenward. “Thulchulu, Thulchulu, oh mightiest of mighty! Why hath thou sent strange man-devils to invade this sacred place? Have our sins truly been so great? I beseech thee, Thulchulu, give us another chance! We may yet atone!” He looked down at Sparling. “Let this be the first act of that atonement!” He got to his feet and raised the dagger high. [[Bang<-Continue]]

*BANG!* (bg:red)[The priest’s head exploded in a spray of brain blobs and fragmented feathers and he pitched forward, landing on Sparling – the dagger clutched in his dead hand nearly impaling the captive’s chest.] Soldiers swarmed into view, bearded men wearing silver helmets and cuirasses and brandishing blunderbusses with smoke still streaming from the muzzles. *Conquestoroes! Saved in the nick of time!* One of the soldiers approached the altar. “Thank God you came when you did!” Sparling said, his words instantly translating into yet another foreign tongue. “That savage was going to sacrifice me to some pagan god!” The soldier shook his head. “Such a stupid waste of able-bodied men.” He drew a dagger from his belt and swiftly severed the vines binding Sparling to the altar stone, then shouted a command to two other soldiers who were crouched nearby, stripping necklaces and bracelets from dead natives. “Fanuel, Sosay, take this slave down to the encampment and put him with the others.” The two soldiers trotted over to the altar, seized Sparling’s arms and hauled him to his feet. “Hey wait a minute!” Sparling said. “You can’t make me a slave! I’m not one of these heathens, I’m a civilized man!” The soldier in charge smirked. “Are you?” [[Yes. I Know<-Continue]]

“Yes. I know you may find this hard to believe, but I fell through some sort of magic window and it brought me to this godforsaken jungle and changed me into a native. This isn’t my real body. Truly it isn’t!” The soldier laughed. “You’ve been out in the sun too long. It has driven you mad. But no matter. A slave does not require a sound mind, only a strong body.” “No, no, let me show you.” Sparling wrenched an arm free from one of his captors and grabbed the medallion. “Gadeiros! ... Gadeiros!” Nothing happened. The soldier in charge snatched the medallion from Sparling’s hand, breaking the chain with a vicious jerk, then held up the glittering disk, peering at it with appraising eyes. “Very nice. It shall fetch a good price.” He slipped the medallion into his pocket and nodded at Fanuel and Sosay. “Take him away.” [[Sparling Spent<-Continue]]

Sparling spent the next thirteen years toiling under a blistering hot sun on a mango farm in central Esponzi, whipped every day by cruel overseers and forced to subsist on weevils and cow urine. Eventually Cedelene’s spell wore off and Sparling returned to his own dimension, a broken man. He tried to tell people what had happened to him, but they didn’t believe his story and he ended up in a lunatic asylum, where he expired thirteen years later ... on the anniversary of Steinman Wayfaire’s untimely demise, so very long ago. [[death dagger<-Try again]]

(b4r:"ridge")+(b4r-colour:white)[SORCERAMA FATE SHIFTER. Advances astral locus by: One degree. Limit: One medallion per customer. Good for: One use. To activate, use code word found on front.] And in smaller letters: (b4r:"ridge")+(b4r-colour:white)[Positive results not guaranteed. Made in Atlantis.] He smirked. What nonsense! Magic medallions from Atlantis! It sounded like something straight out of *Weird Digest* or *Uncanny Quarterly,* pulp publications that appealed to gullible fools. Still, the medallions were quite pretty and might fetch a good price from a curio dealer – novel baubles for customers who possessed more money than common sense. (text-colour:#ffd700)[[Pick the gold medallion]] (text-colour:#cd7f32)[[Pick the bronze medallion]] (text-colour:#a8c3bc)[[Pick the opal medallion]]

(set: $goldMedallion to 1) He hung the gold medallion around his neck and was suddenly seized by vertigo. He stumbled forward, falling through the hexagonal hole. [[Found himself bound to stake<-Continue]]

(set: $bronzeMedallion to 1) He hung the bronze medallion around his neck and was suddenly seized by vertigo. He stumbled forward, falling through the hexagonal hole. [[Found himself bound to stake<-Continue]]

(set: $opalMedallion to 1) He hung the opal medallion around his neck and was suddenly seized by vertigo. He stumbled forward, falling through the hexagonal hole. [[Found himself bound to stake<-Continue]]

He was standing atop the mound of branches, bound to the stake, and the crowd of grim-faced men in black frock coats and tricorn hats was glaring up at him, their torches painting their faces in sinister splashes of lurid light. A tall, rail-thin man with a vulture-ish visage stepped forward, clutching a big black Bible in one hand, a torch in the other. He fixed Sparling with a baleful stare. “Billington Culpa, thou standeth accused of blasphemy and [[debauchery!]] [[What the hell<-Continue]]

(bg:purple)[“Thou hath indulged in barnyard bacchanals, undertaking unnatural acts with innocent animals! Thou hath preyed upon young maidens, plying them with puerile poetry praising peculiar practices, seducing them with strong spirits, inducing them to inhale vile vapors so you might impose your depraved desires upon them! Thou hath evoked evil entities and enlisted their aide in making malevolent magick!”] [[What the hell<-Continue]]

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sparling said. “My name is Sparling Tinkanson and ...” “Do not try to hide behind some alias, Culpa! Nothing can conceal your evil identity from the all-seeing eyes of the Almighty! Thou art a depraved and devious servant of Satan!” “That’s a lie!” The man thrust a bony finger at Sparling’s chest. “Then why, pray tell, do you proudly wear the symbol of your dark master instead of the holy cross of our Lord and Savior?” “Oh, that? Heh. It’s just a little bauble I found on ...” “Silence!” The man raised his torch high. “I consign your foul soul to the purifying flames!” (if: $goldMedallion is 1)[[burnt<-Continue]] (if: $bronzeMedallion is 1)[[rasputinMestor<-Continue]] (if: $opalMedallion is 1)[[rasputinAutochthon<-Continue]]

(bg:red)["No, don’t!” Sparling cried. He looked down desperately at the medallion. “Atlas! ... Atlas!” The Bible-toting bully tossed his torch into the branches. The flame fed on the fuel and flared up, climbing the post, blossoming. “Atlassssss!” The flames flowed over Sparling’s twitching body as the branches crackled and the crowd cackled, drowning out his shrill screams. His fried flesh blackened and his body sagged and stilled and the crowd fell silent, bowing their heads as the torch-tosser led them in prayer, pausing to cough several times as the stench of the cooked corpse invaded his nostrils.] (You picked the wrong medallion. You should have settled for bronze instead of going for gold.)

The handsome woman with the upswept reddish-gold hair and grey-blue eyes shimmied out of her pearl-encrusted satin gown, wriggled out of her corset, tugged down her frilly lace drawers and lay down on the red velvet couch, spreading her legs and grinning lasciviously. *Now that’s more like it!* Sparling mused. *Plenty of heat, but no flames!* The woman spoke to him in a foreign tongue, yet somehow he understood her: “Come, Grogary! Lay your holy hands upon my body and salve my soul as only you can! Take me to heaven, Grogary! Take me to heaven!” *Grogary? Who the hell is Grogary?* He started to say that out loud, then bit his tongue. If this sexy lady had mistaken him for someone else, it would be rude to disillusion her. With his eyes glued to her buxom body, he reached for the top button of his shirt ... and touched hair instead. He frowned and looked down. *What the...* A beard? He’d never had a beard in his life, and if he ever chose to grow one it would be properly groomed, not this long, tangled, greasy, matted mess. And why was he wearing a dirty, wrinkled robe instead of his tailored dress shirt and slacks? “Hurry, Grogary!” the woman moaned, driving all other thoughts out of Sparling’s mind. [[he shucked<-Continue]]

He shucked off the robe, crossed to the couch and climbed on top of her. A few minutes later their simultaneous spasms sent shockwaves through their gasping, grasping bodies – just as the clock chimed one. “Good Lord,” she panted, “look at the time! Nuckolas will be back soon!” *Nuckolas? Her husband, no doubt. Drat!* The lovers disengaged and quickly donned their clothes and the woman scurried to the door, opened it and poked her head into the hallway, then turned and smiled at Sparling. “The coast is clear, dear friend! Farewell ... for now.” He gave her a peck on the cheek, then walked out the door and headed down a long, wide hallway full of large paintings – men in military uniforms dripping with decorations, and women in shimmering gowns with twinkling tiaras. He passed several large rooms, pausing at each doorway to gape at the ornate furniture, colorful tapestries, glittering chandeliers and exquisite oriental vases, the latter filled with orchids, tulips and Kadupuls. He descended a spiral staircase to another hallway where a row of tall windows looked out on a lavish lawn replete with fanciful topiaries, breathtaking flower gardens and massive fountains. *This must be a palace. No mere mansion could offer such opulence! But where in hell am I? And why did that woman call me Grogary? Wait a minute. ... Grogary ... Nuckolas ... Those names sound familiar...* [[Good lord<-Continue]]

*Good Lord! Grogary Razcupin. Tsar Nuckolas the Second. I’ve gone back in time to imperial Brushia, just before the revolution! And this is the Cautherone Palace in Saint Petrovsbarg. And the babe I just humped is Empress Eluxaundra! But how could I possibly... That weird window outside my study. It must have been some sort of magical portal that transported me through space and time... No, that’s utter balderdash. Only fools believe such things. I must have had too much to drink and I passed out, and right now I’m sitting in the chair in my study having one helluva dream. Except... Why did the empress feel so real? So very, very real?* “Ah, there you are, dear friend!” He spun around. The man walking toward him bore a striking resemblance to one of the portraits in the first hallway. Nuckolas? *Uh oh.* [[I’ve been looking<-Continue]]

“I’ve been looking for you,” the tsar said. “There’s something we need to discuss.” His tone was pleasant enough, but there was a touch of frost in his penetrating gaze. He clapped a hand on Sparling’s shoulder – a friendly gesture, but his fingers dug in so hard Sparling almost winced. “Come, dear friend. Come.” Nuckolas escorted him down the hall and opened a door at the far end... *Oh my God!* [[they entered a room<-Continue]]

(text-colour:#ffbf00)[They entered a room of glittering, gleaming walls covered in amber panels backed with gold leaf – and adorned with carvings of cupids, crests, sailing ships, citadels, chariots, gods and more – interspersed with jeweled mosaics and tall, slim mirrors in gilded frames. A painting on the ceiling depicted cherubs dancing atop clouds, and an intriguing pattern swirled across the parquet floor.] Nuckolas gestured at two high-backed chairs, upholstered in forest-green dragon leather, positioned on either side of an octagonal ebony table near a massive mahogany desk. A porcelain plate sat on the table, heaped high with little cakes, and next to them a bottle of Madeira wine and two silver goblets. “Have a seat and partake,” Nuckolas said. The men sat down and Sparling grabbed a cake and gobbled it up. Nuckolas brought one to his mouth but did not bite into it. “Delicious!” Sparling said, reaching for another. “Glad you like it,” Nuckolas said, staring intently at his guest with an odd gleam in his eyes. He picked up the wine bottle, poured some Madeira into both goblets and handed one to Sparling, who took a healthy swig... “Aach!” A sick sensation suddenly seized Sparling’s stomach and throttled his throat as an expression of triumph blazed on Nuckolas’ face. *Oh shit! The bastard knows I humped his wife. He’s poisoned me! And there’s not a damn thing I can ... Wait a minute. The medallion! It’s a long shot but it’s my only hope!* (if: $opalMedallion is 1)[[amber escape<-Continue]] (if: $bronzeMedallion is 1)[[rasputin2Bronze<-Continue]]

Sparling clutched the opal medallion and croaked, “Autochthon! ... Autochthon!” *Fwinng! Fuff!* His body instantly dissolved into a million grains of soul sand, a sparkling, tingling humanoid-shaped shell of astral energy that floated up from the chair and drifted across the room as a gobsmacked Nuckolas leapt to his feet, gasping. Black particles of poison made little sifting sounds as they trickled to the bottom of the spectral Sparling and dribbled out through the soles of his feet, ridding him of their toxic presence. His purified essence wafted over to the wall and seeped into one of the amber panels, then solidified. *Trapped! Like an insect under glass!* But Sparling’s panic subsided quickly as his mind melded with the amber, and bemused musings claimed his consciousness forever. Slowly Nuckolas approached the wall, staring at the twinkling mosaic inside one of the panels. With great trepidation he reached out ... hesitated ... jerked back his hand without making contact. “Devil’s work!” he muttered, then spun around and stormed out of the room. Thirteen days later, the Bulshivocks overthrew the government. They arrested – and subsequently executed – the entire royal family and ransacked all the palaces, stripping them of their “decadent trappings of imperial excess.” This included the amber room, whose entire interior was dismantled and placed in twenty-four crates, then loaded onto a truck and taken to ... [[God knows where<-Continue]]

“Mestor!” Sparling croaked. “Mestor!” A soothing, cooling sensation washed over him ... through him ... replacing the pain with a feeling of total wellbeing. Nuckolas stared at him in astonishment. Then anger. Sparling grinned, grabbed another cake, snarfed it down, drained his goblet. “Thank you for the snack, Nuckolas,” he said, rising from the table. His host remained seating, gaping and glowering. Sparling headed for the door. He had no idea where he was going, but he damn well couldn’t stay in that room with a man who wanted him dead. Somehow he had to return to his own identity, his own world. But how? He hadn’t the foggiest. Maybe the medallion could help. Or had he already used up its... He heard a growl behind him, and a desk drawer sliding open. *BANG! BANG! BANG!* [[he felt the slugs<-Continue]]

God knows where. To this day, people wonder what became of the “Eighth Wonder of the World.” And they speculate about the fate of the notorious mystic Grogary Razcupin, who insinuated himself so masterfully into the lives of the Bromanufs before mysteriously disappearing without a trace. No one has ever suggested there might be a connection between the two mysteries. Until now.

He felt the slugs punch into his back and head, but the soothing, cooling sensation returned, ending the pain. He steadied himself, turned slowly, saw Nuckolas standing by the desk, a smoking [[pistol]] in his hand, a gobsmacked expression on his face. [[The irate<-Continue]]

A Nagant M1895 seven-shot revolver, to be exact. [[The irate<-Continue]]

The irate husband fired four more times, emptying the gun. Sparling started to smirk – till he realized the seventh bullet had struck the medallion, shattering it into half a dozen pieces. Sputtering curses, Nuckolas tossed down the gun, snatched a letter opener off the desk and charged at Sparling, who spun around and dashed out of the room with the tsar chasing after him, screaming for the guards. Two soldiers – clad in crimson-and-cream dress uniforms and clutching rifles with sterling silver bayonets – emerged from a side corridor just as Sparling passed by. “Arrest Razcupin!” Nuckolas yelled. “Arrest the mad monk!” Sparling picked up a three-foot-high vase made of white porcelain with a cobalt-blue pagoda motif, then turned around and hurled it at the guards. The vase struck them at the knees, bowling them over, then shattered. Nuckolas slipped on a shard and he, too, went sprawling. Sparling sprinted to the end of the hallway, skidded to the left and found himself in the grand foyer. He rushed to a sky-blue door at the far end, flung it open, bolted outside and raced across a lush lawn toward a massive [[fountain.]] [[mesmerized<-Continue]]

A dozen streams of water spouted twenty feet high, flanking six marble tiers populated by eighteen golden statues wreathed in mist haloed by shimmering little rainbows. The falling water bathed the golden figures and cascaded down the tiers, emptying into a hundred-yard-long reflecting pool that mirrored the cloud-fleeced sky. [[mesmerized<-Continue]]

Mesmerized by the splashy display, Sparling almost forgot his troubles – until he heard shouts behind him and turned to see a dozen soldiers pouring from the palace and fanning out to right and left, their eyes scanning the vast grounds. *They haven’t spotted me yet. Maybe I can hide in the...* “Ach!” *Spoosh!* He should have watched where he was going. He fell into the fountain, conking his head on the knee of a nymph. The soldiers found his lifeless body ten minutes later. When a doctor examined the corpse, he discovered six bullet wounds – any one of which could have proved fatal – and enough cyanide to kill a dozen men. But the doctor noted one other thing, disturbing and inexplicable – a large amount of water in the lungs. The doctor’s hand trembled as he wrote down the official cause of death: Drowning.

“No, don’t!” Sparling cried. He looked down desperately at the medallion. “Mestor! ... Mestor!” BABOOSHAWHOOSH! [[rasputin<-Continue]]

“No, don’t!” Sparling cried. He looked down desperately at the medallion. “Autochthon! ... Autochthon!” BABOOSHAWHOOSH! [[rasputin<-Continue]]