THE FROZEN EMBER
Dorgas Chill Chatiwah swept into the room, leaned her broom against the wall, set her tiara on the mantel, kicked off her shoes, and sank with a sigh into the cushioned bliss of the sofa. It was right then just there before she closed her eyes to fall dreaming that she noticed in the red glowing embers of the almost spent fire a shining tiny crystal of pulsing blue. She sat up, curling forward. What was it? Suddenly nervous, she drummed her fingers along the Mohawk Halloween wig resting on the arm of the sofa. She looked around for something to poke with. The poker? No. The sharp stick? No. The cattle prod? No. The studded handle of the bullwhip? Yes! She crawled to the fireplace, took the bullwhip from its golden receptacle there, and reached out gingerly to touch the blue pulse with the butt of the whip’s handle. Hiss of blue smoke. Dropping the whip, she scrambled back like a crab and bumped against the sofa. The smoke billowed out and formed into a taxidermist.
“Geez, thanks,” he said. “I’ve been cursed to remain a frozen ember until touched by the butt end of a bullwhip. What are the odds THAT was ever gonna happen? Like, a gazillion to one? Don’t ever mess with customers who also happen to be sorcerers. Just a little word of advice. Thanks again. If you ever need anything stuffed, look me up. It’ll be a freebie. Later.”
So saying, the taxidermist left the room. Dorgas Chill Chatiwah resumed her place on the sofa and snuggled down for a nice long nap.
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