Free Hunting in Hell by Maria Violante Page A

than a German Shepherd.  
    "A trick pony!" exclaimed Laufeyson.
    Alsvior kicked with his back legs, and the blow threw the man to the ground.
    "Alsvior hates ponies." De la Roca smiled sweetly.   "We saw a small family of Falabella miniature horses once in Argentina and he was quite enamored with the form for a while.   He considers ponies too short and fat, too awkward and ungainly."
    Laufeyson sat and rubbed his arm.   He turned his upper body to address Alsvior directly.   "My apologies, sir.   I was merely impressed by your powers of transformation."
    The horse pointedly ignored him.
    "Even if day and night do not exist, I would rather us depart in the morning.   I would give both Alsvior and myself an extra night to rest and heal."
    "Fair enough," said Laufeyson, and he lay down by the fire.   Within minutes, he was snoring soundly.
    "Do not judge him too harshly, De la Roca."   The Mademoiselle's voice was barely a whisper.
    De la Roca had been thinking about the possible nature of the demon she would be facing soon, and the Mademoiselle's kind words surprised her.   She got the feeling that there was something else, something painful—
    But then the Mademoiselle laughed lightly.   "He is a fool, true, but there is wisdom in a fool."
    "He is a mercenary," said De la Roca, as if it settled the matter, and she lay down to sleep.
    * * *
     
    It was time to open the waypoint.
    Laufeyson sighed. "I wish I could tell you more about this world, but each one has its own rules.   The only advice I can give is to keep your eyes open and your wits about you."
    "As if I had planned to do anything else."
    Ignoring their exchange, the Mademoiselle sat cross-legged and mumbled to herself.   Somehow, De la Roca knew that the words were ancient ones, of a language so old that it was still instinctive, not burdened with the artifice of years of arbitrary growth and change.   They were words that, without knowing the meaning, still evoked pictures and emotions, colors and sensations.  
    She looked up to find Laufeyson staring at her.   "It is the old language, of the land before this one."
    De la Roca did not reply.  
    Alsvior raised his head and sniffed the air.   It was then that De la Roca noticed it, a faint odor on the wind that was growing stronger by the second.   Soon, it was a jumble of familiar notes, sand and earth, smoke and rain.   Clouds drifted in, more rapidly than she had ever seen them move, and formed a towering anvil that stretched far into the heavens above.
    They waited for the rain, but still, it did not come.   The air grew heavier and hotter, a thick, misty blanket that settled over the mesa and obscured their view.   A bolt of lightening streaked across the sky, followed by a bold thunderclap.  
    Just when the air grew so stifling that she thought she would no longer be able to stand it, she felt the first raindrop fall, a warm drip onto her face.    The drops increased in number until they fell with an unbroken rhythm, giant warm conglomerations of water that splashed so hard they cut hollows into the earth and threw up halos of dirt and mud.
    "Keep your eyes open for it!" yelled Laufeyson.   He pointed out at the lake.  
    The water swirled slowly, the directional pattern evident through the confusion caused by the raindrops.   A funnel appeared, a minor dimple in the surface that grew deeper with each passing second, until she was sure it would touch the bottom.   They could hear the roar of the water and the howling of the wind over the rain.
    "Go.   Quickly!"  
    De la Roca ran, springing into the air with the coiled leap that had so often proved a lethal surprise to her enemies.  
    As she dove into the center, she made out details in the sides of the whirlpool's eye.   The water ceased swirling, and solidified into a trembling wall.    She landed at the bottom and turned her head at a slight thump—there was Alsvior.    The walls quivered, and De la Roca, suddenly uneasy,