“Aye, Lord Warlock. When the Queen did return from her progress of the province, she did summon thy wife to tell her what ill luck she had had in seeking out witches to swell the ranks of the Royal Coven—and spoke unto her the why of it, too.”

“The hedge priest.” Rod nodded grimly. “I’ve heard about him. I take it she wasn’t happy?”

“Indeed she was not. But thy wife was never one to think of revenge.”

Remembering some of the things Rod had seen Gwen do, he shuddered. “Lucky for him.”

“It is indeed. Yet she did not think of what he had done; she thought only of other ways to gain more witches for the Royal Coven.”

“Oh?” Rod felt dread creeping up over the back of his skull. ‘’What ways?”

“Why—she did believe the surest way now would be to seek out the ancient witches and warlocks who have hidden away in the forests and mountains, for they care not what the people think or say.”

The dread gained territory. “Yeah, but—I thought they were supposed to be sour and bitter, as likely to hex you as help you.”

“They are indeed,” Puck acknowledged. “E’en so, if aught can bring them to give aid, ‘twould be thy sweet Gwendylon’s cajoling.”

“Yeah, provided they don’t hex her first.” Rod whirled to plop Magnus into Puck’s arms. Puck stared at the baby in surprise, but held him easily—even though Magnus was at least as big as he.

“Where’d she go?” Rod snapped. “Which witch?”

“Why, the most notorious,” Puck answered, surprised, “the one whose name all folk do know, who comes first to mind when mothers tell their babes witch tales…”

“The champion horror-hag, eh?” Sweat sprang out on Rod’s brow. “What’s her name? Quick!”

“Agatha, they call her—Angry Aggie. She doth dwell high up in the Crag Mountains in a cave, noisome, dark, and dank.”

“Take care of the kid!” Rod whirled toward the door.

Air boomed out and Toby was there, right in front of him. “Lord Warlock!”

The beastmen shrank back, muttering fearfully to one another. Yorick spoke soothingly to them—or it would’ve been soothingly if his voice hadn’t shaken.

“Not now, Toby!” Rod tried to step around him.

But the young warlock leaped in front of him again. “The beastmen, Lord Warlock! Their dragon ships approach the coast! And three approach where formerly there was but one!”

“Tell ‘em to wait!” Rod snapped, and he leaped out the door.

Being a robot, Fess could gallop much faster than a real horse when he wanted to; and right now Rod wanted every ounce of speed the black horse could give him. Fess had been reluctant to go faster than twenty miles per hour until Rod had had an oversized knight’s helmet outfitted with webbing, making it an acceptable crash helmet; but he still wouldn’t ride with the visor down.

“But don’t you dare try to get me to wear the rest of the armor!”

“I would not dream of it, Rod.” Which was true; being a machine, Fess did not dream. In fact, he didn’t even sleep. But he did do random correlations during his off hours, which served the same function. “However, I would appreciate it if you would strap yourself on.”

“Whoever heard of a saddle with a seat belt?” Rod griped; but he fastened it anyway. “You shouldn’t have to stop that fast, though. I mean, what do you have radar for?”

“Precisely.” Fess stepped up the pace to sixty miles per hour. “But I must caution you, Rod, that such breakneck speed on a horse will not diminish your reputation as a warlock.”

“We’ll worry about public relations later. Right now, we’ve got to get to Gwen before she runs into something fatal!”

“You have a singular lack of confidence in your wife, Rod.”

“What?” Rod’s double take was so violent, he almost knocked himself off the saddle. “I’d trust her with my life, Fess!”

“Yes, but not with hers. Do you really think she would have gone on this mission alone if she thought there were any real danger?”

“Of course I do! She’s not a coward!”

“No, but she has a baby and a husband who need her. She would no longer be willing to risk her life quite so recklessly.”

“Oh.” Rod frowned. “Well—maybe you’ve got a point.” Then his sense of urgency returned. “But she could be underestimating them, Fess! I mean, that sour old witch has been up in those hills for probably forty years, at least! Who knows what kind of deviltry she’s figured out by now?”

“Probably Gwendylon does. Your wife is a telepath, Rod.”

“So’s Agatha. And what Gwen can read, maybe Agatha can block! Come on, Fess! We’ve got to get there!”

Fess gave the static hiss that was a robot’s sigh, and stepped up the pace. Drowsy summer fields and tidy thatched cottages flew by.

“She’s up there?” Rod stared up at an almost sheer wall of rock towering into the sky above him, so close that it seemed to snare laggard clouds.

“So said the peasant we asked, Rod. And I think he was too terrified by our speed to have prevaricated.”

Rod shrugged. “No reason for him to lie, anyway. How do we get up there, Fess?”

“That will not be so difficult.” The robot eyed the uneven surfaces of the cliff face. “Remember, Rod—lean into the climb.” He set hoof on the beginning of a path Rod hadn’t even noticed before.

“If that peasant is watching, he’s going to go under for good now,” Rod sighed. “Who ever saw a horse climbing a mountain before?”

“Everything considered,” Fess said thoughtfully as he picked his way along a ledge a little narrower than his body, “I believe it would have been faster to have replaced my brain-case into the spaceship and flown here.”

“Maybe, but it would’ve been a lot harder to explain to the peasantry—and the lords, for that matter.” Rod eyed the sheer drop below, and felt his stomach sink. “Fess, I don’t suppose this body was built with a few antigravity plates in it?”

“Of course it was, Rod. Maxima designers consider all eventualities.” Fess was a little conceited about the planetoid where he’d been manufactured.

“Well, it’s a relief to know that, if we fall, we won’t hit too hard. But why don’t we just float up to the cave?”

“I thought you were concerned about our passage’s effect on observers.”

“A point,” Rod sighed. “Onward and upward, Rust Rider. Excelsior!”

Ahead and to their left, a cave-mouth yawned—but it was only six feet high. Rod eyed it and pronounced, “Not quite high enough for both of us.”

“I agree. Please dismount with caution, Rod—and be careful to stay against the rock wall.”

“Oh, don’t worry—I won’t stray.” Rod slid down between Fess and the cliff-face, trying to turn himself into a pancake. Then he eased past the great black horse and sidled along the ledge toward the black emptiness of the cave-mouth. He edged up to it, telling himself that a real witch couldn’t possibly look like the ones in the fairy tales; but all the cradle epics came flooding back into his mind as he oozed toward the dank darkness of the witch’s lair. The fact that Angry Aggie was mentioned by name in the Gramarye versions of most of those stories, in a featured, popular, but not entirely sympathetic role, did not exactly help to calm him. A comparison of the relative weights of logic and childhood conditioning in determining the mature human’s emotional reactions makes a fascinating study in theory; but firsthand observation of the practical aspects can be a trifle uncomfortable.

A wild cackle split the air. Rod froze; the cackle faded, slackened, and turned into sobbing. Rod frowned and edged closer to the cave… Gwen’s voice! He could hear her murmuring, soothing. Rod felt his body relax; in fact, he almost went limp. He hadn’t realized he’d been that worried. But if Gwen was doing the comforting, well… she couldn’t be in too much danger. Could she?

Not at the moment, at least. He straightened and took a firm step forward to stride into the cave—but the testy crackle of the old woman’s voice froze him in his tracks.