Vitarius was trying to work some kind of spell, Conan saw, mumbling and waving his arms; there was no effect apparent to the brawny Cimmerian.

He turned back to the two men facing him and moved on them, weaving a deadly pattern of razor-sharp edges.

The man with the eyepatch tried to circle outside Conan's reach, but the Cimmerian followed him, avoiding the second man, who was too fat to move quickly. The fat man was breathing hard as he tried to bring his sword into play against Conan's side.

The inn shook again, and the sound of the wind and fight was joined by that of voices yelling from up the stair. With a howl of joy Conan jumped for One-eye, blade whirling.

Loganaro watched the approach of destruction, feet frozen by his awe.

Never in all his travels had he seen such a storm; that it was unnatural seemed all too obvious. Who had sent the terrible whirlwind, and why, also flitted across his mind, but that thought was quickly chased away by the fear of dying amid a hail of debris. His cutthroats could look to themselves for survival; the barbarian was not so important as living for a short time more. Loganaro turned and sprinted away from the oncoming disaster. He would worry about what to tell Lemparius later.

Djuvula was nearly home when she saw the magically created monster wind rip its way through the maze of Mornstadinos like a ferret seeking a particular rat. Her occult eye immediately noted the storm for what it was, and it was only the work of a second to realize by whom it had been sent, as well. Hurriedly, the witch turned and began to run back toward the inn, splashing through the gutters and driving rain. If Sovartus's tame whirlwind collected the girl, Djuvula would lose a chance to increase her powers. More, there was the brave-hearted barbarian to consider. Of course, he was less important; Loganaro had another candidate for her, but of his opinion she was less than certain. Any man who could take the hand from a demon and survive had to be more than ordinary. But the girl was paramount in her interest.

Stalking in the wake of destruction walked a giant figure, unseen by the eyes of men. Red the figure was, and one-handed. It muttered to itself as it walked, the rumble of its voice merging with the thunder.

"You think wrongly, magician, if you think to cheat me of my revenge by employing other means to your evil ends. I will have this man!"

The walls of the Milk of Wolves Inn began to moan, as if in antic.i.p.ation of their destruction. The exit door was blown open violently, tearing itself nearly from its crusty bra.s.s hinges; the sign marking the name of the place crashed to the ground and pinwheeled through the open doorway. The wolf salient had finally leaped; it came to rest against a table.

Conan had backed One-eye into a corner, and the man was fighting for his life. The pair of blackguards with daggers had been driven from the doorway by Eldia's small but deadly sword, a.s.sisted by the dagger of her sister; finally, Vitarius must have managed to get some kind of magic to work, for the fat a.s.sa.s.sin screamed as he began to glow redly, and to float half a span from the floor.

Vitarius yelled, to be heard over the heavy thunder created by the whirlwind which was nearly upon them.

"Conan! We must leave! Now!"

The Cimmerian made no answer, but lunged instead at One-eye. The man managed to block the sword, but in so doing, opened his head to attack.

Conan curled the fingers of his right hand into a huge fist and slammed it against the man's jaw. The bone snapped and the man was flung half his length backward. to smack into the now-vibrating wall. He slid to the floor, unconscious. Conan turned. "Go! Get out!"

Vitarius obeyed, leaving the fat man floating and screaming. Eldia and Kinna backed away from the two cutthroats with daggers, who showed no inclination to pursue them as Conan ran toward the door, waving his gore-smeared sword.

Outside, the wind struck the four with such force that for a moment they could make no headway. Conan alone could fight the blasts of the storm, but even his great strength would not be enough to tow an old man and two sisters against the wind.

Vitarius waved madly, his voice lost in the tempest. Conan understood what he wanted: They must move along the building, using it for support.

The four people seemed to be flies sticking to the wall, but they managed to creep along until they reached the corner of the building.

There Conan led the way around the edge, his arm linked to Kinna's. She in turn held her sister, who clasped Vitarius's bony wrist. The wind shoved the human chain down the street like so many leaves. They ran so fast, Conan almost lost his footing. He remembered, however, what Vitarius had said earlier: They must run aslant to the oncoming twister and get behind it. After moving a short way down the street, Conan ducked into the lee of a temple, dragging the trio with him. He paused long enough to allow them to catch their breath.

A portion of some building blew by in the street, torn from a structure. Conan pointed and yelled, "That way!"

They ran, gathering their energies when they had to leave the protection of houses or fences, leaning into the wind.

Behind them, the devil-wind changed direction, so that only its edge sliced into the Milk of Wolves Inn. Conan turned to stare at the rampaging black monster, still reflecting its own ghostly light. He saw the bodies of the cutthroats fly into the air, spinning into the maw of the tornado. There was one he had slain; there went the fat man. He did not see the man with the patch. He did see that the storm tried to pursue them and so redoubled his efforts. Through it, Conan felt no real fear; rather it was the challenge of beating the storm that drove him. By Crom, no storm was as agile as a Cimmerian!

The wind tried to turn, but the clouds from which it dragged its sucking tip could not adjust their path so easily. The storm angled toward them, but slowly. When Conan judged they were far enough, he turned again, heading more into the wind. Debris smacked into him, but he held fast to the woman behind him. digging his boots deeply into the churned mud of the street. At one point Vitarius slipped; such was the wind that for an instant he floated flaglike from the taut arm of Eldia. Fortunately for him, the girl's grip was strong, else he would have been blown away.

The tornado raged, ripping the houses and stables and temples asunder, shredding planks as if they were straw, driving the resulting straws like spears to impale all before them. A stick of wood penetrated a thick fence post in front of him as if the stick were steel and the post no more than b.u.t.ter. The whirlwind seemed to stretch, to try to reach its quarry, brushing aside obstacles as easily as a man brushes crumbs from a table. Such a force seemed unstoppable; indeed, nothing man-created could withstand it. After what seemed several lifetimes, the Cimmerian drew level with the wind-devil; several lifetimes later, he was past-and behind it.

The tornado seemed to stand still: it tried to move back along its path. Conan held his breath, watching. After a moment. one stretching very long, the funnel began to move again, away from the young Cimmerian and the others.

The storm had been defeated. In a moment the swirling clouds overhead lifted their dragging tail of destruction, and the whirlwind was reclaimed. Gone.

Chapter Eight.

Conan saw the demon first. The wind died slowly after the clouds sucked their whirling maw skyward: gone the tornado might be, but not the rain and ordinary airs of the storm. Conan led Vitarius, Eldia, and Kinna across the path left by the wind-beast, a path much like a road cut through a forest. Following the whirlwind's trail was the red demon, who saw Conan near the same instant he himself was spotted by the man.

Despite the lashing rain, the Cimmerian could observe the demon's face as it contorted in hatred. Conan drew his sword as the monster turned and began to sprint toward him.

"Vitarius!" This from Eldia, who pointed at the approaching devil.

The old magician turned and beheld the scene. Quickly, he laid one hand upon the head of the girl; the other hand he raised and pointed at the fast-arriving creature.

The demon skidded to a stop twenty paces away. "No," he said loudly.

"Score me not with your Fire's tongue again."

Vitarius hesitated. He looked at Conan.

The Cimmerian shook his head. "Nay," he said. "He would speak, I think.

Allow him."

The demon drew himself up to his full impressive height. "I would have you know my name," he said. "You are of the White, and so cannot use it against me even were I not bound to another. I am Djavul."

Conan never lowered his blade a hair. "Why should we care, demon?"

Rivulets ran down the sharp steel onto his hands.

"I am bound against you, wasp. but even were I not, your life is still forfeit under any circ.u.mstances. You owe me for this." Djavul raised his arm and extended the stump toward Conan. "Because you have done what no other man has ever done in injuring me so, I would have you know the name of the one who sends you to the gray lands. Ah, but very slowly you shall make the transition, wasp."

Vitarius raised his hand and aimed it at the demon, but Conan shook his head. "Nay, I say again, magician. I have my blade; I need not your protection. Let him come." The young giant shifted his stance, spread his legs wider for balance, and gripped the wet leather handle of the broadsword tighter. "You have been stung once, Djavul of h.e.l.l; come, I shall sting you again." Conan shook rain from his eyes.

Djavul looked from Conan toward Vitarius and Eldia, then back at the Cimmerian. "I think not, wasp."

"The magician stays out of it," Conan said inching forward slightly.

Mud squished under his boots.

Djavul laughed. "Trusting the words of men has led more than one night-child into foolishness. This is not the time or place. But I will see you again wasp." Djavul flicked a red-eyed glance back at Vitarius.

"And you as well, White one."

Abruptly, there came a clap of noise that rivaled the storm's thunder, and Djavul vanished.

With the rain still falling upon them, Conan turned to glare at Vitarius. "It would seem that I have made an enemy for myself. "

"The fault is mine," Vitarius said.

"It would seem you have made more than one enemy, Conan." This from Kinna, who stood staring at the spot where Djavul had vanished.

The Cimmerian looked at her. "How so?"

"Those men who attacked us as we left the inn. They came for you, not for us. Recall what the patch-eyed man said?"

Conan brought the memory forth: There he be, boys. Come to save us a climb, l reckons. Kinna was right. But-why had they come for him? He had no enemies in this place save the h.e.l.lsp.a.w.n, Djavul. The devil wanted him, to be sure, but it seemed unlikely he would have sent human cutthroats to do his bidding. Who had sent them, then? It was a puzzle, a mystery, and Conan liked such things not.

"Perhaps we would be better served to get out of the rain," Vitarius said. "We might sort things out just as well dry as wet."