Dilvish, The Damned by Roger Zelazny

Author:Roger Zelazny [Zelazny, Roger]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Anthology, Fantasy, Short Stories
ISBN: 0345306252
Publisher: Del Rey / Ballantine
Published: 1982-11-01T07:00:00+00:00

Devil and the Dancer

THE moon hung round and the cold winds blew when Oele danced for Devil, her footmarks traced in fire before the empty stone-faced altar. In the lands below it was already spring, but here in the mountains the night spoke of winter. Still, she danced barefooted, wearing but a flimsy gray garment belted with silver, more revealing than concealing her lithe figure as she raised the fires in ancient patterns, her long blond hair streaming about her.

The ground became a flickering tapestry, yet she was not burned. Far below on the northern slope, a ghostly palace quivered in the moonlight, towers fading to the point of transparency and regaining partial solidity moments later, walls moving to join with shadow and fleeing from it, lights waxing and waning behind high windows. The voice of the wind was a raw, shrieking thing, but neither did Oele feel the cold.

The darkness grew more dense above the altar until finally it blotted out stars. As this occurred, the wind died down and ceased. The flames sprang higher then, but the great blot above the stone was not illuminated thereby. It was a massive, rough-winged outline, great-headed and rippling. It seemed almost a hole in space itself, and she received the impression of enormous depths within it whenever her eyes passed that way.

She had danced thus, at certain seasons, down the years, beyond the memories of any who dwelled in the vicinity. All of these called her witch, and she, too, thought of herself in this fashion. The only one who knew more called her by a different title, though the distinction had become considerably frayed in the years since a dancing girl had slain her lover upon this spot to gain the powers he alone of all men had possessed. A priest he had been, the last surviving worshipper of an old god who, as a result, had valued him highly. Now Oele was the last worshipper, and she did not even know the god’s name. She called him Devil and he granted her wishes in response to her choreographed acts of devotion, which she considered spells. A witch invoking a devil, a god responding to a worshipper, then—it was partly a matter of perspective, but only partly. For the things she asked of him were more in keeping with her own notions, and their relations were far removed from what his had been with his original worshippers long ago.

Yet between them the bond was strong. He drew strength from her dancing, from this final contact with the earth. And she also gained, many things.

At last her movements ceased and she stood amidst her design, facing the dark shape above the altar stone. For long moments a heavy stillness hung between them, until finally she spoke:

“Devil, I bring you my dance.”

The figure seemed to nod, then to grow slightly. Finally, in a voice deep and slow, it replied:

“It is pleasing to me.”

She waited, a ritualistically prolonged silence, then spoke again:

“My palace fades.

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