As the wizard busied himself with the reorganization of his cupboards and with the eradication of all traces of complex sugars and starch, below, in the town, the governor, Rotomund Phlab, watched as the Captain of his guards paced back and forth in his small office. Rotomund Phlab considered himself a lucky man, a self-made man, a self-indulgent man, an optimistic man.
“We’re screwed, Jenkins,” he said to the Captain, cradling his head in his hands. “We’re screwed!”
“We just need to think is all,” said the Captain. “Think, sir!”
Rotomund Phlab was not a thinking man. He began to sob. “What am I going to tell the people? Dear gods, what am I going to tell my wife? She never wanted to move here—and that father of hers! He’s never had a good word for me. The last time we visited he took me aside and insinuated that I was—well, I shan’t repeat it in polite company, but let’s just say there was a question regarding my manhood.”
“And how did he insinuate that, sir?”
“He asked me if I was impotent.”
“Are you sir?” asked Jenkins, suddenly interested, which he expressed by adjusting his eye-patch to his other eye.
“Jenkins, you know very well that I have two children.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They have my eyes. I’ve always said that.”
“Naturally, sir. Unmistakably blue.”
“Mine are brown.”
“Yes, sir, lovely shade.”
“I meant the shape. Very much like my own. And little Tyler is a spitting image, and—and earlobes. My grandfather used to say that earlobes were the only proof you needed. Attached you know, all of them—and mine,” he offered the Captain a good look. The Captain confirmed with a grave nod of his head, returning to his pacing.
“Living tribute. Living tribute. Surely it can’t be that, sir?”
“Most assuredly it is, Jenkins. This is a Wizard we’re talking about. A kind of god in the flesh—and what do the gods mean when they ask for tribute, Jenkins?—rhetorical question Jenkins,” warned Phlab, for the Captain was ready to answer. “They mean flesh. Virgin flesh.”
“Yes, sir. Flesh. Virgin.”
“Alas, chastity has gone out of fashion in Towerton.”
And Jenkins, being a bachelor, thanked the gods for it every night.
“There has to be someone, sir, someone that isn’t a child and that isn’t of much use to Towerton. Who’d no one miss and suchlike.”
Phlab, who’d been banging his head against his desk, suddenly sat up, illuminated by a flash of synaptic light. “Jenkins, my good man, you’re a genius!—hyperbole Jenkins,” warned Phlab again, for Jenkins was ready to accept the title. “Yes, yes,” said Phlab, hastily putting on his coat. “I know just who to send.”

Meanwhile, the wizard had just finished removing the last of a particularly good chocolate cake his mother had baked for him (she used sugar to force a kind of emotional debt upon her two children, for which guilt was the interest), when Mortimer informed him that, “My lord, I’m afraid the duck is gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“Gone: the past participle of go; no longer present; departed, as in “the Wizard’s tender lover is gone”. Informally, having reached a specified time in a pregnancy, as in ‘the Wizard is now four months—’”
“Silence! Where has the duck gone to?”
“Ah, now that’s the question isn’t it?” The skull paused dramatically. “I don’t know.”
“Mortimer, I swear, I’m going to turn you back into sand.”
“That’s a master level spell, my lord.”
“I’ve studied sand crabs for the last six years, Mortimer. What do you think is their specialty?”
A pause.
“As I was saying, my lord, I don’t know where the duck is presently, but I did see him being taken away by several gnomes.  The duck, for one, did not seem agreeable to the arrangement.”
Gnomes. Zod had never liked them—not even the few gnome Wizards that were in the Gathering. They were always looking for ways to fill their coffers, not at all concerned with knowledge, just the bottom line. He didn’t know why they took the duck, but he’d be damned if a couple of gnomes were going to make him break his word.
Now, there was a certain catharsis in handling things oneself, but being a Wizard of such high Caliber, Zod felt it would be unseemly to mingle with lesser life-forms. Nearly all Wizards employed an array of slaves, serfs and servants, ever ready to fulfill their master's every whim. Wizards of Zod’s Caliber also took on apprentices, what were known informally in the community as “prags”. Zod had never developed a taste for mentorship and had instead resolved to using agents with a little less free will.
He descended to his laboratory. All was as he had left it—the operating table, the workbench, the summoning circle, the pit of snakes—the pit of dead snakes—and of course, Lawson, the suit of living armor, lying in a small pile at the far end of the room. Still in good shape, albeit a little dusty. A quick wave of the wizard’s hand vaporized the dust and the cobwebs. A touch of the crest on the breastplate brought it to life. It self-assembled, piece by piece, like a car accident played in reverse. A greenish-blue flame appeared where the head would’ve been and formed into something like a candle-flame, with two holes and a small slash for a mouth, from which a thin, fragrant smoke periodically emanated, as if it were smoking an invisible cigar.
“Well, boss,” said Lawson, “been a while—he said, in a voice as smooth as buttered glass.” This latter statement was spoken as an aside, as though he was dictating to an invisible tape recorder. Zod remembered why he had stopped using this idiot.
“Yes, yes. Let’s just skip the pleasantries shall we?”
“Now isn’t that a fine how-do-you-do—he thought.” Smoke-rings now. “Whatcha need boss? Got a job for me?—The old man had been hitting the iron. Forget looking good for his age—the man was marble.”
Zod pinched his eyes. “Yes, Lawson. I have a job for you. I need you go into town and retrieve a certain duck for me. Mortimer says the gnomes have got him.”
“Duck?—he smirked nonchalantly.” The two eyeholes casually scanned the room. “You starting a petting zoo?—The old man was charmed by his wit, he thought.”
“No, the old man was not,” said Zod. “As for the duck… it’s a long story.”
“So gimmie the short version.”
“Gnomes took the duck. I want it back. Can you do that?”
“Easy-peasy—he lied. Lying was as easy as breathing now. The old man didn’t suspect a thing.”
“Gods give me strength.”
“This duck got a name?”
“Porter.”
“Porter—good name for a duck, he thought. Porter. Port. Very aquatic.”
“Yes, great. Look, I need you get him back before day’s end. And he needs to be in one piece. I don’t want another severed head fiasco.”
“He wanted to tell the old man that if he didn’t want a severed head, he shouldn’t have said ‘I want his head on a silver platter’—but he kept his mouth shut.”
“It’s an EXPRESSION, you utter pillock. And where did you steal that silver—” the wizard rubbed his eyes. He should have stayed in Ghol. “Look, bring back the duck. ALIVE. Is that clear?”
“Anymore clear and it’d be crystal.”
“Mortimer, get this idiot out of my tower before I suffer a stroke.”
A poof, a flash of light, and the suit of armor was gone. All that remained was a final smoke ring, drifting lazily across the room. The wizard returned to his dining hall to take his supper—prepared now according to the nutritional guidelines set forth by the burly men of Ghol—and then retired to his study to smoke. That was the one point upon which he and Ghols disagreed—they hated smoking—but what was a Wizard without his pipe? All Wizards smoke. And all Wizards smoke Southern Star. Southern Star—it’s downright magical.
He had just made himself comfortable on the sofa when Mortimer again interrupted him. “My lord, brace yourself.” Death itself could not have been more grim. The wizard bolted up from his chair, realizing instantly his fatal misstep.
“Oh dear gods. I forgot to call her. I forgot to call her after I came home. Do you know what this means? It’s been six years, Mortimer. SIX YEARS. WHY DIDN’T YOU REMIND ME?”
“I-I forgot, my lord.”
“YOU FORGOT?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t hold her back much longer.”
“What do you mean you can’t—don’t you dare open that scry-channel, Mortimer. I’m warning you, you son of a bitch, don’t you dare let her in.”
“I’m sorry, my lord—”
“MORTIMERRRRRR”
“I’m so sorry.”
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”
The mirror shimmered a moment, the skull vanished and in its place appeared the warm, wrinkled, already teary-eyed face of Zod’s dear mother. “Zoddy? Are you there? Can you see me?”
“Mother!” he said, casually emerging from behind the sofa. “What a wonderful surpri—”
“Why didn’t you call me once you’d returned, Zoddy? And not a single scry since you’d left? Not even a letter? Six years, Zoddy! I’ve been worried sick! You’ve no idea how anxious I’ve been—and after six years you don’t even think to let your mother know you’d returned?”
“Mother, I’ve only been back a couple of hours. Of course I was going to call you…eventually.” She begins to cry, using her apron (which she still wears despite the fact that she has several dozen servants waiting on her hand and foot) to dry her eyes. “Oh, mother, please don’t cry,” said Zod, clasping his hands to his chest.
“I hope you have a good explanation for breaking your poor mother’s heart,” she replied.
“I wanted to call you but there’s no scryception in the Wasteland.”
“You couldn’t write a letter?”
“Erm… there weren’t any pens in the Wasteland?”
His mother folded her arms. “Zoddy, don’t lie to your mother.”
“I’m not!”
“I know for a certainty that you were in that awful place for only four years. You were with those barbarians the rest of the time.”
“What, the Ghols? I’m not sure they’d take kindly to being called barbarians, Mother. Theirs is actually quite a sophisticated culture. Did you know they settle all their disputes with harmless competitions of strength? Better than the wars we have in our so called ‘civilized society’.”
“I see they’ve gotten to you,” said his mother, giving him an censorious look.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve been starving yourself—just look at you! I’ve always suspected you were of the other persuasion, and now I see that it’s all true. It’s all so clear now,” she started to dab her eyes again, “this is why you won’t give me any grandchildren.”
“Now wait just a moment! That’s a common misconception. Just because the Ghols like to exercise and are inordinately fond of wrestling and anointing themselves with scented oil, does not mean that they’re—besides which I’m not—I’m married to my work, Mother! To Truth. To my research.”
“Ha! Yes, your research. And? Any progress these last FORTY years?”
“It’s an unsolved problem, Mother,” he said, grinding his teeth. “We’ve talked about this. Its solution would change the world, would transform magic as we know it, would turn me into a living god!” A peal of thunder cracked outside in the cloudless sky. Somewhere a dog howled.
“Meanwhile,” said his mother, unaffectedly removing a piece of lint from her sleeve, “Todd has a prosperous little kingdom with a wife and three children.”
“Ohhh, here we go again. Yes, let’s hear more about Todd, shall we? The golden child, the son who can do no wrong.”
“I love all my children equally, Zoddy,” his mother said, gravely. “I play no favorites. Todd is very happy, and if I mention him, it’s because I want you to be happy, too.”
Damn her. The wizard slumped down on his chair, resignedly rubbing his forehead. “I am happy, Mother.”
“Oh, yes! All alone in your tower, doing god knows what—going off on dangerous trips—also alone—carousing with savages—a man your age shouldn’t be alone, Zoddy.”
“I’m seventy-seven years old, Mother. And I’ve never ‘caroused’ in my entire life.”
“I want you to do something for me.” Here it was. He braced himself, but his mother never got to finish her thought. Mortimer appeared again, with a new message.
“Sorry to interrupt, my lord—Mother Zod—but we have a visitor.”
“Visitor?” Lawson couldn’t be back this soon—but it was just the excuse he needed. “Oh. Excellent! Yes, yes, send the visitor in! Send them in! I’m so sorry, Mother, but I really must go. Can’t keep the visitor waiting.”
“But I—”
“We’ll talk again soon, Mother. Love youuuu!”
The connection was cut and the mirror went blank, reflecting for a moment, only the wizard’s own tired form.
“Um, excuse me sir,” said a small voice behind him. He turned. He rose from the seat. A small girl, fourteen or fifteen at most, with sunken eyes and skin as pale as a vampire with an erection, cowered before him.
“Mortimer, what in gods’ name is this?”
“It’s your ‘living tribute’ my lord.”
“This is a little girl,” said the wizard.
“My name is Charlotte, sir,” said the little girl, curtsying. “I’m a virgin—but not by choice.”
“Oh dear god.”
“Kinky,” said Mortimer.