The Feline Wizard by Christopher Stasheff

of his own, and swept it in a horizontal arc, shouting a staccato rhyme. Matt felt a blow strike his own wand aside, as though Torbat's stick had actually knocked against his instead of being five feet away. It was enough to ruin his aim; as he finished the final line, an expanding cone of frigid air shot out from the end of his wand, locking the mist of undetermined atoms into lattices of crystal—snowflakes that drifted off into the grayness.
    Torbat shouted out another verse, stabbing his wand straight at Matt, who barely had time to riposte, crying,
    “Parry spell in terce and quart!
My foe's verses shall abort!”
    Torbat's wand spat a line of fire. Matt's wand locked atoms into molecules of air, a stiff, narrow breeze that blew Torbat's fire aside. Matt riposted both physically, with the wand, and verbally:
    “Shaman, you who would dethrone
The emperor of this happy land,
For your crime be turned to stone,
And cease your treacherous demand!”
    Again Torbat flourished his wand and ruined Matt's aim. Matt hoped there hadn't been anything human and male lurking out in the mist, because if there had been, it would have become a silicate sentient. He made a quick frantic circle with his wand, hoping to bind Torbat's, but the sorcerer swung his stick high with a laugh.
    He'd left himself wide open. Matt lunged, crying,
    “Give me the avowed, erect and manly foe,
Firm I can meet, perhaps return the blow.
Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just,
But four times he who gets his blow in fust!”
    He hoped George Canning wouldn't mind his verse being mixed with one of Josh Billings' sayings.
    A blow from an unseen hand sent the shaman sprawling on the invisible plane that served as a floor. Matt came after him, glowing with victory—but Torbat jabbed with his wand, calling out his own equivalent of Matt's freezing verse.
    Matt slowed as the chill bit. He struggled to hurry, but could feel his feet turning into blocks of ice, his ankles stiffening, the chill rising up his calves as the spell drained the heat from his body…
    Heat drain! Matt remembered an old friend—well, associate—who would be perfect for this environment. He called out, quickly, before his jaw froze solid,
    “Maxwell's Demon, come in aid!
Your friend by heat has been betrayed!
Molecular motion's been transferred,
And Newton's Laws are being blurred!”
    With an explosive snap like a carbon arc lighting up, a spark so intense that it hurt the eyes appeared near Matt, humming like a transformer. “What besets you, mortal?”
    “A sorcerer who's playing with the Laws of Thermodynamics!” Matt pointed at Torbat. “He's trying to freeze me one minute and burn me the next!”
    “Does he dare?” the demon buzzed. It shot over to Torbat, and a ring of fire roared up about the shaman. Torbat cried out and covered his eyes.
    “Uh, could you thaw me out now?” Matt asked.
    The demon swooped back over to him. “Thaw … ? Why, he has gelled you quite, from toe to waist! A moment, mortal.” The spark of light swept down over Matt's legs, and he felt them loosen up.
    With a sigh of relief, he stumbled, caught himself, and stood straight. “Thanks, Max. I appreciate the break.”
    “You did not break, but thaw,” the demon corrected, “but I cannot criticize your inversion of logic, since that is what I enjoy about your company. Who is this primitive, and why did he plague you?”
    “Aieeeee!” Torbat cried, shielding his eyes from the glare as he huddled into a little ball. “I yield me, I surrender! Only quench your blaze before it crisps me quite!”
    “Crisps you?” Looking up, Matt saw the ring of fire contracting, moving inexorably closer to the shaman on all sides. “Yeah, that is a problem. Could you douse the fire, Max? I think he'll behave now.”
    “I shall give him the chance, at least,” Maxwell's Demon hummed. As the flames died, it added, “Yet advise him that I understand perversity.”
    “What… why does he say that?”