The Complete Compleat Enchanter by Fletcher Pratt, L. Sprague deCamp Page A

Gritter and we can eat all but the hide and bones. He magics them back to life.”
    Loki was saying to Thor: “Uncertain is it, Enemy of the Worm, whether my fire spell will be effective here. In this hill-giant land there are spells against spells. Your lightning flash?”
    “It can shiver and slay but not kindle in this damp,” growled Thor. “You have a new warlock there. Why not make him work?”
    Shea had been feeling for his matches. They were there and dry. This was his chance. “That’ll be easy,” he said lightly. “I can make your fire as easy as snapping my fingers. Honest.”
    Thor glared at him with suspicion. “Few are the weaklings equal to any works,” he said heavily. “For my part I always hold that strength and courage are the first requirements of a man. But I will not gainsay that occasionally my brothers feel otherwise, and it may be that you can do as you say.”
    “There is also cleverness, Wielder of Mjöllnir,” said Loki. “Even your hammer blows would be worthless if you did not know where to strike; and it may be that this outlander can show us some new thing. Now I propose a contest, we two and the warlock. The first of us to make the fire light shall have a blow at either of the others.”
    “Hey!” said Shea. “If Thor takes a swat at me, you’ll have to get a new warlock.”
    “That will not be difficult.” Loki grinned and rubbed his hands together. Though Shea decided the sly god would find something funny about his mother’s funeral, for once he was not caught. He grinned back, and thought he detected a flicker of approval in Uncle Fox’s eyes.
    Shea and Thjalfi tramped through the slush to the clump of spruces. As he pulled out his supposedly rust-proof knife, Shea was dismayed to observe that the blade had developed a number of dull-red freckles. He worked manfully hacking down a number of trees and branches. They were piled on a spot from which the snow had disappeared, although the ground was still sopping.
    “Who’s going to try first?” asked Shea.
    “Don’t be more foolish than ye have to,” murmured Thjalfi. “Red-beard, of course.”
    Thor walked up to the pile of brush and extended his hands. There was a blue glow of corona discharge around them, and a piercing crack as bright electric sparks leaped from his fingertips to the wood. The brush stirred a little and a few puffs of water vapor rose from it. Thor frowned in concentration, again the sparks crackled, but no fire resulted.
    “Too damp is the wood,” growled Thor. “Now you shall make the attempt, Sly One.”
    Loki extended his hands and muttered something too low for Shea to hear. A rosy-violet glow shone from his hands and danced among the brush. In the twilight the strange illumination lit up Loki’s sandy red goatee, high cheekbones, and slanting brows with startling effect. His lips moved almost silently. The spruce steamed gently, but did not light.
    Loki stepped back. The magenta glow died out. “A night’s work,” said he. “Let us see what our warlock can do.”
    Shea had been assembling a few small twigs, rubbing them to dryness on his clothes and arranging them like an Indian tépée. They were still dampish, but he supposed spruce would contain enough resin to light.
    “Now,” he said with a trace of swagger. “Let everybody watch. This is strong magic.”
    He felt around in the little container that held his matches until he found some of the nonsafety kitchen type. His three companions held their breaths as he took out a match and struck it against the box.
    Nothing happened.
    He tried again. Still no result. He threw the match away and essayed another, again without success. He tried another, and another, and another. He tried two at once. He put away the kitchen matches and got out a box of safety matches. The result was no better. There was no visible reason. The matches simply would not light.
    He stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but something has gone wrong.