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LIVING LEGEND

"Make yourself comfortable, Jack," said the man, casually waving to a chair in front of his desk. "We have a lot to discuss.... I think you're the man we need."

Jack grinned. Today was his lucky day.

He sobered almost instantly. There had been no mention of salary. Or exactly what position he was being offered.

"How does a thousand dollars a week sound?" said the bearded man, as if reading Jack's mind.

"A thousand a week?" repeated Jack, stunned. "For doing what, Mr. Ambrose?"

"The forces of darkness and everlasting night are rising in our city. Civilization is terribly threatened. Humanity needs a champion to battle them. You're that man, Jack. And there's no reason for you to use the Ambrose alias. I prefer my real name. Call me Merlin."

"Merlin?" asked Jack, still reeling over the bearded man's initial remarks. "Like the famous magician of King Arthur's court?"

The bearded man laughed. "Like him? You misunderstand, Jack. I am him. I am the legendary Merlin the Magician."

A LOGICAL

MAGICIAN

Robert

Weinberg

Copyright © 1994 by Robert Weinberg

Cover Art by Peter Scanlan

ISBN 0-441-00059-2

cogito ergo sum

(I think, therefore I exist)

—DESCARTES

factlis descensus Averno

(the descent to hell is easy)

—VIRGIL

Prologue

Roger Quinn considered himself a very careful man. Each morning, while still lying in bed, he planned out his day's activities in excruciatingly fine detail. Afterward, he followed that outline in strict order, refusing to deviate one whit from the proper routine. Twenty years of computer programming had instilled in Roger an appreciation for exactness. He thought his actions perfectly normal and extremely logical.

Such a rigid adherence to schedule caused numerous problems for those who had to deal with him on a regular basis. They had to play the game his way or not at all. No one dared drop in unexpectedly on Roger. If they weren't listed in his appointment book, he completely ignored them. It didn't matter who they were or what company they represented. Roger refused to make exceptions. His rules were never bent, much less broken.

Business lunches began exactly on the hour, not a minute late. Presentations ran by the clock. Thirty minutes for a report meant that one second afterward Roger refused to listen to another word. His world ran like clockwork, and everyone on his payroll worked by the same schedule. Or they didn't work for Quinn Enterprises.

Behind his back, most of Roger's several dozen employees agreed that their boss belonged in a lunatic asylum. However, one and all they kept their doubts strictly to themselves. They jumped to obey their boss's slightest whim. In a period of retrenchment and recession, working for a lunatic was a lot better than not working at ail. For, where most other scientific consulting and marketing companies had fallen on hard times, Quinn Enterprises continued to expand.

Without exception, all of the major financial experts agreed that the phenomenal growth of the company related directly to the unique genius of its founder and CEO, Roger Quinn. Virtually unknown only a few years before, he entered an already crowded field and beat the biggest companies at their own game. Started as a small sideline operation in Roger's apartment, Quinn Enterprises had become a major West Coast corporation, poised on the brink of global expansion. In the last six months, QE had opened offices in New York, Chicago, and several other major metropolitan areas. Rumor had it that foreign offices were soon to follow.

What baffled his rivals and many of his own employees was Roger's amazing skill at exploiting the problems and failures of his rivals. Whenever another company experienced difficulty in fulfilling a contract, Roger and his team were there with the necessary answers just in the nick of time. If a material shortage caused a backup in manufacturing a new product, Roger knew where to find the necessary ingredient. Moreover, he oftentimes controlled the only available supply of the goods and priced it accordingly.

It was almost as if Roger knew when and where problems were going to occur before they happened. His rivals suspected sabotage, but there was absolutely no evidence to support such claims. No one could find a thing to link Roger or his employees with any of the problems or failures experienced by the other firms. The only explanation consistent with all the facts, incredible as it seemed, was that Roger possessed a hidden talent for sensing trouble. No one accepted the theory gracefully, but they had little choice in the matter. Roger wisely kept his mouth shut. He didn't really care what his rivals thought. As long as they never guessed the truth.

Humming softly to himself, Roger made his way down the lone staircase leading to the subbasement of his mansion. A tall, thin man with a scraggly beard and bright blue eyes, he wore a pair of battered jeans and a faded black sweatshirt embossed with his company's logo—a five-pointed star with a large R in the center.

Surprisingly, no one drew a connection between the symbol and a pentagram. A fact that pleased Roger no end.

Always the maverick, he delighted in thumbing his nose at the establishment. Corporate executives considered Roger eccentric. But plenty of other CEO's of major corporations were equally odd. All each of the money men cared about was that his firm delivered on tough assignments when other businesses failed. Quinn Enterprises had saved dozens of important contracts that otherwise would have collapsed. It provided a necessary service and charged premium prices for that work. "We help you out when you need us most" was the company motto, one that had become famous throughout the manufacturing industry.

Roger chuckled softly. He shook his head, imagining the shocked looks of those same corporate executives if they ever learned the truth behind his success. They might not be so pleased if they knew the whole story. Which was why he kept his revelation locked in the subbasement in a room that only he could enter.

The stairs ended abruptly at the base of a huge steel door that took up the entire rear wall. There was no keyhole or lock visible. A solitary metal plate some six inches square was the only break in the cold, unyielding surface. Roger flattened his right hand against it. It required the built-in sensors a few seconds to recognize his palm print. Silently, the huge door swung open.

Technically, criminals intent on discovering his secret could kidnap Roger, force him down to the subbasement and press his hand against the entry plate to open the vault door. He strongly doubted that corporate raiders would be so bold. And even if they were, the payoff inside the inner room would prove to be something outside their usual line of business.

With a confident smile, Roger entered the nerve center of his secret headquarters. Shaped like a square twenty feet long by twenty feet wide, with a seven-foot ceiling, the chamber was entirely devoid of furniture. The walls were stone, the ceiling and floor both concrete. A pair of naked hundred-watt light bulbs provided the only illumination. More than anything else, the Spartan room resembled an army pillbox.

In the exact center of the room was a vermilion circle some nine feet in diameter. Roger had carefully painted it there a few days after moving into this mansion two years ago. Before that, a similar pattern, drawn in chalk, had decorated the living room carpet of his apartment. Vermilion was used because its color came from mercury and sulfur, key ingredients of the fabled Philosopher's Stone.

Inside the first circle was a second, eight feet in diameter. Together, the two drawings resembled a round plate with a narrow rim. Names of great power were written on that rim, transforming it into a barrier that nothing evil could cross.

Inscribed inside the two circles were the Pentagram of Solomon, as specified in The Key of Solomon, the most famous of all magical texts. It was constructed with two points upward, symbolizing the twin horns of the infamous Goat of the Witches' Sabbath. The sign of a black magician.

Nowhere was Roger's exactness more evident than in the construction of the mystic design. Here his computer background served him well. One wrong MS-DOS statement and your program refused to run. One misdrawn line or incorrect symbol in your pentagram and all hell broke loose.

Roger knew quite well the dangers he faced practicing the black arts. The literature of demonology specified in gruesome detail the grisly penalties paid by those not extremely careful in their dealings with the inhabitants of the nether regions. Death was the least of the fates suffered by the unwary.

The pentagram served as more than a doorway for the inhabitants of the outer darkness to enter our world. It also acted as a trap, holding those monstrous beings prisoner inside the design. Only by performing a specific task demanded by the summoning wizard was the demonic presence allowed to depart. Once banished, the being was never again subject to the whims of the sorcerer. One wish per demon was the rule. But, as Roger discovered early in his experiments, there were many thousands of demons.

Four years ago, he had been a second-rate computer hacker stuck in a go-nowhere job in Silicon Valley. His obsession with exactness had earned him a reputation as a difficult employee. None of the major firms in the area were willing to hire him. So he slaved in obscurity, designing computer games at a salary that barely covered his living expenses.

Supremely egotistical, Roger never once considered changing his behavior. There was no question in his mind that the world was wrong, not him. Thus, he was resigned to earning half of what he should and being routinely passed over when it came time for promotions. Life seemed to have passed him by.

That all changed in the course of one evening. A group of programmers at work, the closest to what might be loosely defined as his friends, invited Roger along to a party where a well-known Channeler was guest of honor. Imbued with the typical disdain felt by all scientists towards New Age mysticism, Roger treated the entire experience as one big joke. Until the Channeler, a short, stocky woman with piercing black eyes that stared directly into your soul, sank into the deep trance necessary for her to call upon her Spirit Guide.

"Who seeks the hidden knowledge?" The voice that emerged from the woman's throat was deep and harsh, a man's voice. A vague thrill of fear swept through Roger as he listened to those guttural tones. In one astonishing instant of epiphany, he transformed from a harsh skeptic to an ardent believer. "Who seeks the hidden knowledge?" the voice repeated, and Roger felt it spoke directly to him.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Whatever revelations the Spirit Guide offered, they made no impression upon Roger. His mind was already buzzing off on tangents far beyond his initial revelation. For once Roger accepted the fact that the occult existed and could be contacted, it opened an entire Pandora's box of possibilities to be explored. A man with unlimited ambition and ambiguous morality could achieve great things if he dared. And Roger dared.

Within a few days, he assembled an occult library consisting of some of the greatest and most frightening volumes of black magic lore ever written. Many of the books were readily available in cheap paperback format, thus leading to Roger's second great revelation. Over the centuries, many thousands of people had access to these same works and the spells they contained. But little evidence existed to show that any of those other seekers successfully mastered the powers described.

It was obvious that the spells as written were not enough to summon the forces of darkness. Ever the computer hacker, Roger guessed the solution in an instant. No magician willingly shared secrets with his fellows. All of the spells in the forbidden books were complete. But they each contained minor mistakes and glitches that only the original user knew to be false. It was as if they had been published in code, without the necessary key to unlock their power.

Fortunately, Roger owned the greatest code-breaker of all time, a home computer. He had been using it for cracking access codes and breaking into secret files for years. The magic tomes were just another hacker challenge—one that he accepted eagerly. For a change, the payoff would be worth the trouble.

Defining terms and listing proper names demanded time. Patiently, Roger fed all of the necessary data into the machine. He spent a day revising his software, making minor adjustments wherever necessary. The work wasn't very hard. Seven nights after his encounter with the Channeler, he was ready to raise his first demon.

The spell he used came from The Key of Solomon, with minor modifications and corrections courtesy of his computer. His magic circle and pentagram followed the instructions of Eliphas Levi, one of the most famous magicians who ever lived. The determination and courage came from Roger.

Slowly and carefully, he recited the summoning spell as reconstructed by his word processing program. Accents were extremely important, and one misspoken word could doom the whole project. Another crucial element in the process was naming a specific demon. Evidently, the summoning spells only worked for distinct supernatural entities. There was no generalized spell to produce a devil. Proper names were a must. Quite handily, the paperback version of The Key of Solomon contained an alphabetical appendix of famous demons. For his first try, Roger settled on Astaroth, the lord of Hell most closely associated with the sciences.

Walking widdershins, counterclockwise and thus unnatural to the order of the universe, Roger began the spell. Once, twice, three times he read through the entire conjuration. Only then did Roger look up from the computer printout. And found himself staring at a creature of nightmare.

It stomped about angrily in the magic circle drawn on Roger's living-room carpet. Four feet tall, the being resembled a bizarre cross between man and lizard. Along with the proper number of arms and legs, it displayed a multicolored crest that ran down its back from the base of its neck to the end of its spine, where it terminated in a long, sinewy tail some six feet long. Completely nude, it was obscenely male, seemingly in a constant state of arousal.

In contrast to its grotesque torso, Astaroth possessed the head and features of a handsome young man. Long brown hair fell to its shoulders. Its cheeks glowed with good health. Bright white, perfect teeth gnashed in anger, while blue eyes that never blinked surveyed its prison. Only an immense, forked tongue that darted in and out of its mouth made mockery of its seeming humanity. There was no mistaking the devil's identity. It matched perfectly the description given in several of the black magic texts. This horror was Astaroth, demon from the foulest pits of Hell.

"Who dares disturb my rest?" hissed the creature, in a voice sounding like steam escaping from a kettle. Its foul breath stank of sulfur and corruption. "Are you ready to meet thy end, mortal?"

Roger licked his lips, feeling slightly numb. He actually had not expected the spell to work. It took him a few seconds to gather his wits. Meanwhile, the demon peered closely at the lines of the pentagram, searching diligently for any break in the pattern.

"I name you Astaroth," said Roger finally, remembering the necessary binding spell. "And by your true and proper name I command your obedience for one task. Hear me and obey."

Slowly, reluctantly, Astaroth nodded its head in reply. "You know the ritual. What do you want—women, gold.... revenge?"

"None of those," said Roger, on firmer footing now. "Women mean nothing to me. Gold or jewels would raise tax questions I couldn't answer. Revenge is for impatient fools."

"Then what do you desire?" asked the demon, sounding curious.

Roger told him. In great detail. Even Astaroth was impressed.

That night saw the beginning of Roger's empire. His scheme was brilliant in its simplicity. Though the demons he raised were limited in their supernatural abilities, all of them possessed enough skill for the task he required. He used the minions of darkness as an unsuspected business fifth column.

Summoning demons wasn't particularly difficult once he got over the initial shock of their unearthly appearance. Like any routine task, it soon settled into a familiar pattern of behavior for Roger. One that paid incredible dividends.

Again and again, he sent the monsters out searching for secret information he could use to his advantage. The diabolical creatures made wonderful spies. Invisible to all but other magicians, they eavesdropped on confidential conversations and reported their findings back to Roger. Nor did classified documents present any more of a problem. Within weeks, Roger knew all of the innermost secrets of the major corporations in the area.

Such knowledge was worth more than all of the gold and jewels that the devils could offer. Quitting his job, Roger went into business as a consultant. Using what he learned through his spies, he built his new firm into a major force in the manufacturing community. Knowledge was power, and the demons provided all the knowledge he needed. However, in the rare instances when insider information wasn't enough to make Roger millions, he used his evil helpers in other ways.

The demons, agents of destruction and chaos, were astonishingly adept at small acts of sabotage. One tiny mistake was usually enough to doom most complex industrial operations. In all cases, the imps cleverly disguised their interference to look like accidents or employee blunders. Again, no one ever suspected supernatural intervention. They all knew better.

Except Roger, who was too busy using his silent, invisible army to get rich. Very, very rich.

Tonight, he planned to try his most ambitious summoning spell ever. It came from the final chapter of The Lemegeton, a rare magical text known as The Lesser Key of Solomon. According to the book, the conjuration raised one of the High Lords of Hell, a being of immeasurably greater power than any Roger had thus summoned. It sounded risky, but he felt it was worth the gamble. Despite all his newfound wealth, Roger was greedy for more.

One small detail puzzled him. His computer printout emphasized a much different pronunciation of the demon's name from the one commonly accepted. According to the machine, the variation was the correct title of the beast. That explained why most sorcerers had never been able to raise the creature from the pit. For a spell to work, every word and syllable had to be exactly correct.

Roger knew better than to doubt the computer's offering. The machine never lied. Like himself, it was exact in every detail. After all, he had programmed it. Silently, he mouthed the demon's name several times, making sure he had the syllables just right.

One last time, Roger checked the lines on the floor. It paid to be careful. As long as his pentagram and magic circle remained intact, the creatures he summoned could not harm him. Three years of dealing with the powers of darkness had made Roger fearless. Nothing frightened him anymore. Or at least, that was what he told himself.

Taking a deep breath, he began the chanting. Three times he repeated the great spell from The Lemegeton. As he spoke, the air trembled with the force of the words pouring from his mouth. There was a feeling of electricity in the air that Roger had never noticed in any of his previous rituals. Though the lights remained unchanged, somehow the room appeared to grow darker. And then the spell was complete.

Roger stared at the being in the center of the pentagram and shook his head in disbelief. This thing did not look anything like the demon prince described in his books of magic. All of his previous summonings had been hideous abominations, warped twisted hideous mockings of life. The being inside the circle appeared human.

It resembled a short, elderly man, crippled and bent with age. The creature stood perhaps five feet tall but was so badly crouched over, like a hunchback, that its hands almost touched the floor. Completely hairless, with skin the color and texture of aged parchment, the being wore a dark blue tunic and wood sandals. A large hook nose and pointed chin gave the creature a vulturelike appearance. Not until it turned and stared at him across the circle did Roger know he had not made a mistake.

Monstrous eyes burned with an inner yellow fire, harsh and unblinking, in the light. Seen directly, the being's face faintly resembled that of a monstrous jungle cat. "Where am I?" the demon whispered, looking around the room. It even sounded human. "When am I?"

Roger saw no harm in answering the question. "1997," he said, "just outside San Francisco, California."

Then, remembering the correct procedure, he named the demon and demanded its service.

The creature laughed. "You know my earthly name, mortal. Few dare pronounce it. No matter. Such puny binding spells mean nothing to me. Nations quail at my fury. I am not yours to command."

Roger grimaced in annoyance. He should have realized that someday he would run into this problem. Many demonic titles in the Bible originated in other sources. They were corruptions of names drawn from older civilizations' religions. Instead of raising a devil from the pits of Hell, by using the correct pronunciation of its name he had summoned forth a demigod from ancient history.

All of Roger's magic depended on Christian tradition. None of it meant anything to his captive. It came from a time before Christ walked the Earth. The creature was not subject to the rules of sorcery Roger practiced. Only the magic circle and pentagram, whose origins were lost in ancient prehistory, kept the creature imprisoned.

"Release me," said the crouching man, as if sensing his captor's plight. "Or suffer my wrath. The Lord of the Lions is not yours to command."

The thing waved one gnarled hand in the air. Blue sparks crackled between its fingers. Roger gulped and tried to think of a banishing spell. Sometimes being exact had its drawbacks. He was not very good at improvising.

A minute passed. Roger stood motionless, his thoughts racing through all the mystic lore he had studied in the past few years, trying to come up with a way out of this fix. Meanwhile, the crouching man paced back and forth in the pentagram, softly muttering threats that Roger tried to ignore. It was a stalemate of sorts. Roger couldn't send the demigod back to the outermost dark, but neither could the being escape from the prison in which it was trapped.

Being eminently practical and depressingly materialistic, Roger finally settled on the only possible course of action. He would leave the room and then seal it closed forever. Maybe even fill the outer chamber with concrete for additional security. The creature he summoned would remain trapped inside the pentagram for the foreseeable future, unable to cause any harm. Roger could continue his work elsewhere, exercising a good deal more caution in his selection of demons.

He was turning to leave when the earthquake struck.

It wasn't much of a quake, barely registering on the Richter scale. Dishes rattled, dogs howled, and a few VCRs clicked on for no reason. Other than that, most people looked up from whatever they were doing, hesitated for an instant waiting for worse, then settled back to their normal activities.

In Roger Quinn's subbasement, a little more than a mile from the center of the quake, the concrete floor growled and shifted. It moved less than a hundredth of an inch. Barely enough to send a hairline crack running directly through the center of the magic circle.

Roger blinked in astonishment. The threatening presence no longer stood in the pentagram. Rather, it crouched at Roger's side. Fingers cold as ice clenched him by the elbow.

"Come, my young friend," said the Lord of the Lions, a ruthless edge to his voice. "We have much to discuss."

Unblinking eyes, bright yellow like a cat's, glowed with inner fire. "I want to hear all about this modern world. You have much to tell me—concerning war, plague, pestilence, death, and destruction. And... especially... about the gods you worship."

1

Standing alone in the elevator, Jack Collins pulled the classified ads from his back pocket. For the tenth time that day, he studied the black-bordered notice he had circled the night before. As the lift silently headed upward to the thirty-fourth floor, Jack carefully searched for the hidden catch in the wording, trying to find a loophole he knew had to exist. There had been too many other ads, too many other disappointments for him not to be suspicious.

Logical young man with an open mind and active imagination wanted for highly unusual but financially rewarding career opportunity. Some risk involved. Background in mathematics and fantastic literature advised.

Nowhere in the ad was there any mention of the advertiser's name or the exact nature of the job. Still, the clipping did provide the address of a major office building in the Chicago financial district and a suite number. And the high-rent location indicated that the position wasn't in sales or telephone solicitation.

At twenty-seven. Jack was willing to gamble. After nine years of college, he wanted out. Four years spent earning his bachelor's degree, two for his master's, and three more towards his Ph.D. had finally caught up with him. He wanted nothing more than to earn a living in the real world. It was time to break away from university life. Unfortunately, getting a job was proving more difficult than he had imagined.

To his dismay, he found that advanced degrees in pure mathematics meant nothing to most employers. Worse, several companies made it exceedingly clear they couldn't hire him because of his education. According to one painfully honest recruiter, he was overqualified for any entry-level position. Even worse, his advanced degrees could intimidate the other workers.

It was the nineties version of the old paradox of jobs needing experience and vice versa. Now it featured advanced degrees against entry-level positions. The better educated you were, the less chance you had of finding work. In any case, it meant Jack was out of luck.

Weeks of searching for employment had left Jack frustrated and depressed. All his years in graduate school seemed wasted. None of his course work had prepared him for the harsh realities of the everyday world. The only jobs readily available were at fast-food joints, working a cash register and making change.

The spring semester was almost at an end. Over a month ago, Jack had informed his faculty advisor that he did not plan on returning to the university in the fall. Committed to earning a living, after three weeks of searching he was running out of options.

If nothing turned up soon, he would be forced to move back to the East Coast and work in the family import-export business. For that, he didn't need a college degree. Especially one in advanced mathematics and logic. He knew that for the next twenty years, his father would remind him of that fact whenever possible. As would his mother. And his brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, first, second, and third cousins, all who labored for the Collins consortium.

His relatives never understood why he left home to attend college in Chicago. There was no way Jack could tell them of his need to get away from his close-knit family and make a name for himself in the world. He wanted his own identity, his own life, his own successes to enjoy. Returning to the family business after all these years of school would be admitting defeat. And Jack wasn't ready yet to surrender his independence.

The elevator door slid open, breaking his train of thought. Mentally crossing his fingers, Jack marched into the deserted landing. There were only eight offices on the floor. The one he wanted was at the end of the hallway to the right.

Jack paused a second to straighten his tie and push back his hair with his hands. Six feet tall, slender, with pleasant features and a ready smile, he was better looking than he realized. Gathering his courage, he proceeded down the corridor.

The frosted glass door proclaimed Ambrose Ltd., Investments in bold black letters. Etched underneath was the saying, "We Guarantee Your Futures." Jack grimaced in disgust, his high hopes plummeting. He knew nothing about the commodities and futures market. Another opportunity doomed before it started.

For an instant, he considered just turning around and leaving, not bothering to waste his and the interviewer's time. Then, with a heavy sigh, he straightened his tie, threw back his shoulders, and put his hand on the doorknob. No matter how slim the chance, he had to make the effort. Otherwise, it was the import-export business, and his relatives. Resolutely, he pushed open the door and stepped into the office.

The room surprised him. Instead of being filled with massive wood and leather furniture, bustling executives, and a constant din, the reception area was almost empty and absolutely quiet. A few chairs pressed up against the side walls. At the far end of the room, a young woman, engrossed in a paperback, sat reading behind an immense desk cluttered with papers. Beyond her was a solitary door leading to an inner sanctum.

The girl glanced up for a second as Jack approached, then plunged back into her novel. "Be with you in a sec," she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "As soon as I finish the page."

Shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, Roger took advantage of the time to stare at the receptionist. She was stunning, and well worth a second look.

The word "elfin" immediately came to mind. The girl had incredibly delicate features, narrow cheekbones, and long upward-sweeping eyebrows. She wore no makeup and needed none.

Her nose was best described as pixieish, while her thin, ruby-red lips, pressed tightly together, spoke of a hint of sensuality. A fluffy mass of light brown hair fell in immense curls past her back and down her shoulders.

Sh...