The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 by Cristopher Stasheff

it.'
    'Well, just thought I'd make it official. Now, you don't seem to bear me any particular ill-will, so, uh, may I ask... - ... why am I paralyzed?'
    'Ah, that,' said Puck. 'We must find if you are a white warlock, or black.'
    'Oh.' Rod chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. 'If I'm a white warlock, you'll, um ... let me go?'
    Puck nodded.
    'What happens if you decide I'm a black warlock?'
    'Then, Rod Gallowglass, you shall sleep till the Trump of Doom.'
    Rod felt as though a weak electric current had been applied to his jaw.
    'Great. The Trump of Doom. And I never was much good at bridge.'
    Puck frowned. 'How...?'
    'Skip it. "Sleep till the Trump of Doom." A very neat euphemism. Why don't you just come right out and say you'll kill me?'
    'Nay.' Puck thrust his lower lip out, shaking his head. 'We would not kill you, Rod Gallowglass. Thou shouldst but sleep forever, and with pleasant dreams.'
    'I see. Suspended animation?'
    Puck's brow wrinkled. 'I know not that word. Yet rest assured, thou shalt not be suspended. The Wee Folk have no fondness for a hanging.'
    'Well, I suppose that's something of a comfort. So how do I prove I'm a white warlock?'
    'Why,' said Puck, 'by our enlarging you.'
    Rod stared. 'How's that again? Aren't I big enough already?
    The elf's face split into a broad grin. 'Nay, nay! Enlarging you!
    Removing the spell that binds you!'
    'Oh.' Rod lay back with a sigh of relief. Then he jerked back up.
    'Freeing me? That's going to prove I'm a white warlock?'
    'By itself, no,' said Puck. 'Tis a question where we free you.'
    He clapped his hands. Rod heard the scurrying of scores of small feet coming from behind him; a fold of dark cloth was drawn over his eyes, knotted behind his head.
    'Hey!' he protested.
    'Peace,' said Puck. 'We do but bear you forth to your freedom.'
    A host of tiny hands lifted Rod. He resigned himself and lay back to enjoy the trip.
    It was a rather pleasant way to travel, actually like an innerspring mattress with four-wheel drive.
    His feet tilted up higher than his head and the pace of the scuttling feet under him slowed - they were mounting an incline. Damp night air struck his face; he heard the breeze sighing in the leaves, accompanied by a full complement of crickets, with an owl and maybe a curlew providing the harmony.
    He was dropped unceremoniously; the blindfold was whipped from his eyes.
    'Hey!' he protested. 'What do you think I am, a sack of potatoes?'
    He could hear a stream gurgling off to his left.
    'Tha'rt free now, Rod Gallowglass,' Puck's voice husked in his ear.
    'May God be with you!' And the elf bounded away.
    Rod sat up, flexing his limbs to make them realize they could move again. He looked about.
    It was a moonlit forest glade, with a silver stream trickling past on the left. The trees were bright steel trunk and tinsel leaf, and black shadow among the trunks.
    One of the shadows moved.
    It stepped forward, a tall figure in a dark, hooded monk's robe. Rod scrambled to his feet.
    The figure moved slowly toward. Rod, halted ten feet away, and threw back the hood.
    Wild, disordered hair over a long, thin face, with hollows under the cheekbones and caves for eye sockets, with two burning coals at their backs - and the whole face twisted, curdled with bitterness. The voice was flat and thin, almost a hiss. 'Are you, then, so tired of life that you come to a werewolf's cage?'
    Rod stared. 'Werewolf!'
    Well, why not? If elves were a basic assumption.
    Then Rod frowned. 'Cage?' He looked around. 'Looks like the great outdoors to me.'
    'There is a wall of magic around this grove,' hissed the werewolf.
    ''Tis a prison the Wee Folk have made me - and they do not feed me in my proper fashion.'
    'Oh?' Rod looked at the werewolf out of the corner of his eye. 'What's your proper fashion?'
    'Red meat.' The werewolf grinned, showing a mouthful of canines. 'Raw, red meat, and blood for my wine.'
    Something with lots of cold little feet ran down Rod's spine. 'Make peace