myth-taken identity

Cire clutched his chest in mock outrage. "That was one time in Imper! Well, maybe a few times. Who else are you going to ask? The purple bath mat here?" "Not I," Chumley interjected at once. "If I employ unaccustomed loquacity to make a good impression, I shall spoil my marketability as a hired threat."

I fixed my eyes on Massha. She levitated away from me in alarm.

"Oh, no, Big Spender! We just spent a load of money and magikal energy putting up a firewall around me. And aren't they going to recognize me as the owner of Massha's Secret?"

Parvattani cleared his throat. "Madama, you would be surprised. To the shoppers, you can-a put on a pair of glasses, and you are disguised. Different clothes, a different hairstyle, and you are another person!"

She played her final, desperate card. "What would Hugh say?"

I advanced on her. "He'd be proud of you, stepping into the face of danger to save a friend. We're doing this for Skeeve, remember?"

She stopped floating backward. "Of course I remember, Green and Scaly. That's why I came. But what good will it do if Rattila gets my soul because I put myself up where he can take another crack at me?"

"Because he won't get anything real out of you," I assured her. "In fact, if we can get him to overload, maybe we can contaminate some of the talent he's already gathered, set him back a ways."

Massha looked dubious. "And how are we going to do that?"

I gri

TWENTY-TWO

"No push!" Chumley cautioned an overeager Deveel who tried to climb over the velvet ropes surrounding Massha's lush throne inside her scarlet silk pavilion.

Gold-plated standards shaped like medieval trumpeters held ba

In the days we'd been there I had seen raffles, drawings, talent contests, concerts, circus acts, square dances, formal dances, sock hops, animal acts, makeovers, caricaturists, fortune-tellers, food tastings, and product demonstrations of every kind, as well as the endless and ongoing hall music. The latter convinced me that whoever held auditions Moa—or his agent—had a tin ear, to make sure they were getting the worst possible performers in the entire universe. I knew street musicians in a hundred dimensions who played on homemade instruments who were a thou- sand times better. I needed my concentration intact. After an hour or so of persuasion, I had managed to convince the Mall manager to silence the bands within a half-block radius of Massha's encampment. Otherwise, I was going to go crazy, and I needed my wits at their sharpest. Even with the full complement of security guards sprinkled through the crowd, it still looked like a disaster bubbling toward overflow.

I admit that I had underestimated the number of cardholders, or maybe word had spread to other dimensions over the three days we had had the posters up advertising Massha's appearance. meet the red fairy ! the one-sheets screamed, win a

DATE —AND A WISH!

In smaller print below the rules of the contest had been set out: only holders of credit cards would be allowed to enter the drawing, one entry per person, wi

In the meantime, each of the lucky contestants would get a chance to meet the Red Fairy. Massha sat in her tent, sprawled a little uneasily on a pile of cushions in the triple-wide throne intended to be roomy enough for any kind of pseudoroyalty from the Lollipop Queen to the King of the Elephant Gods. What remained of her harem costume had formed the inspiration for her present getup, filmy red robes covered with rhinestones and sequins. On her feet were shining ruby slippers, a crown adorned her freshly coiffed, newly dyed scarlet hair, and on her back, the cause of her uneasy posture, were a pair of huge, filmy wings, tinted garnet red, iridescent as soap bubbles but more durable than fast-food condiment packets. She had gotten over her initial discomfort and was now dispensing beatific smiles and gracious nods to the awed passersby through the fine veil over her face.

"I look like the Ghost of Christmas Hangovers," she murmured to me, out of the corner of her mouth. I stood at her side, dressed in a spiffy herald's uniform.

"You look terrific," I shot back. "Hugh would be crazy about you in that outfit."

She paused, as Chumley roughly escorted a family of Imps out of the tent. "You think so?"

"I know it," I flipped off, with airy confidence.

Her husband, retired General Hugh Badaxe, had fallen madly in love with Massha a few years back. The two of them had taken to disappearing together whenever possible. In their case, getting married seemed like an almost u

I leered. "He'd like you in nothing better."

"I know that," Massha replied, with a giggle.

A Deveel female in a chic shirtdress with a notebook floating beside her was the next to enter. Her pointed ears were almost perked forward. Clearly she had heard a little of our exchange. She went forward to take Massha's hands, but a growl from Chumley stopped her at a respectable distance.

"Dear Red Fairy, I'm Somalya. Love the color scheme, baby! I write a popular column of who's hot and who's not for the Hottenuf Gazette. You're definitely hot, so we want all the dish from you. Who's he? Is he your significant other? My readers would love to know."

I cleared my throat. Massha didn't really need the warning.

"Well, I don't really like to give personal details in public," Massha began in a conspiratorial undertone, "but Guthlab's a real looker from Capri."

"A Capricorn?" The Deveel signed to her pencil, which wrote avidly in the notebook. "Is it true what they say about Capricorn males—"

"Oh, yes," Massha assured her, settling back on her cushions with a luxurious wiggle. There was a crunch! from her wings. Gamely, she ignored it. "Horny all the time."

"Really! Well, are you going to, er, tie the knot at any time in the future?" "Just as soon as his divorce is final," Massha stated, with a wink.

"Give our readers just a few more personal facts," Somalya urged. "What is your favorite food?"

"Er, chickalick stew."

I kept my face from breaking into the grin that hovered just below the surface. Massha hated chickalick stew. She always said the beans made her break out. She was doing a good job under pressure of pulling fibs out of thin air.

Somalya was delighted that our "star" was willing to share. "What do you like to do on the perfect date?"

"Skee-ball."

"What's your shoe size?"

"Seven and a half."

"When's your birthday? Paper or plastic? Boxers or briefs?"

"Dat enough," Chumley uttered suddenly. He dropped a heavy hand on the Deveel's shoulder and turned her toward the exit.

"Oh, please," Somalya begged, hopping up and down to be seen over Chumley's huge arm. The scribbling notebook hovered over her head. "Just one more statement for our readers."

Massha fluttered her fingers in farewell. "I love you all."

"Whew!" she whistled, as the flaps sagged closed behind the reporter. "I thought my mind would go blank if she asked me anything else. Thanks, Chumley."

"My pleasure," the Troll replied, with a gallant bow. "Your prevarications were most glib, I must say."

"We're not going to fool Rattila, though." She sighed. "He already knows who I am."

"We're not trying to fool him," I reminded her in a low voice. "We're trying to cut down on his workforce. If we can get him, too, all the better. Cire's standing by outside with his spell on 360-degree reception."