isn't it?" He laid the magazine on his lap. "Put some yellow in the upper right quadrant," he said, gesturing impatiently toward the abstract oil on the easel. "The balance is off."
Aubrey tapped his fingers to his lips, thinking. "Exactly what does it mean to lose one's soul?"
"Not much," Saladin answered. "Until you die."
"What happens then?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"According to the magicians with whom I studied, one forfeits any life after this one, and therefore the opportunity to perfect oneself." He shrugged.
"That doesn't seem like a very high price to pay," Aubrey said, feeling better.
"My sentiments exactly. No choirs of angels with harps, no fellows with pitchforks, no coming back as a snake or a tree or a one-armed beggar. Just one jolly, self-indulgent life, and then..." He held out his empty hands. "Nothing."
Aubrey stood up and walked to his easel. "A little more yellow, you said?"
"Cadmium. Mix some burnt sienna into it."
Aubrey added a splash to the painting. "Saladin," he asked brightly, "what did you wish for?"
The tall man stretched in his chair. "Haven't you guessed?"
Aubrey turned around, the brush poised in mid-air. Saladin's face was as unlined as the day he had first met him, his hair as black, his knowledge as profound. "You said the chant last night came from Nineteenth Dynasty Egypt."
Saladin nodded. "The reign of Ramses the Second."
"Now, how would you know that?" Aubrey demanded. "No written music from Pharaonic Egypt exists. No one's ever heard it."
"Perhaps someone."
Aubrey closed his eyes with dawning understanding. "Good God, you were there," he whispered. "Your wish was to live forever."
Saladin rose and walked across the room.
"But that's brilliant! What do you care about losing your soul? You'll never know what it's like to die."
"I might."
"How? What can harm you?"
"Only magic stronger than my own. If there is such a thing."
"I doubt that."
"Hmm." He leaned against the doorway. "It might be nice if there were."
"Nice? To die?"
The tall man shrugged. "A life that goes on too long ceases to seem precious. It becomes a burden, like an overdue pregnancy."
Aubrey snorted. "Give it to me, then. I'll take it."
"Yes," Saladin said slowly, his ancient eyes shining with malevolent humor. "I imagine you would."
T wo months later Saladin was arrested in England for the murder of the washerwoman in the sculpture and eighteen others whose bodies had been similarly preserved. Aubrey never saw him again.
The paintings which had begun to take shape on the night of Aubrey's initiation into the coven in Tangier sold almost immediately. The name Katsuleris circulated quickly, first through esoteric European art circles, then on a broader scale. Within six months, a prominent gallery in Milan offered Aubrey a month-long exhibit for which people waited hours in line. Time magazine ran an article about the phenomenal resurgence of interest in the field of abstract art.
Through it all, Aubrey continued to participate in the rites of the coven. The rituals filled the places in his psyche that his work did not. They suffused him with energy and purpose; they focused his mind. They led him to a series of teachers around the world, all of them soulless as he was, all masters of the dark ways.
He excelled as a student. When he returned to the coven in Tangier, he took over as its leader, wearing the inverted silver pentagram that Saladin had once worn.
He became comfortable with the two lives he led, painting by day, then celebrating in the thick of night the magic rituals that brought him into deep communion with the powers of the demon gods.
And afterward, after each rite, he killed.
The killings were the great exultation of his new life. At first he murdered only women, and only for the pleasure it brought him. But women, he soon learned, were too easy to kill, and too easy to get away with killing. Aubrey longed to explore new frontiers in murder, to develop his skill to the level
Aubrey tapped his fingers to his lips, thinking. "Exactly what does it mean to lose one's soul?"
"Not much," Saladin answered. "Until you die."
"What happens then?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"According to the magicians with whom I studied, one forfeits any life after this one, and therefore the opportunity to perfect oneself." He shrugged.
"That doesn't seem like a very high price to pay," Aubrey said, feeling better.
"My sentiments exactly. No choirs of angels with harps, no fellows with pitchforks, no coming back as a snake or a tree or a one-armed beggar. Just one jolly, self-indulgent life, and then..." He held out his empty hands. "Nothing."
Aubrey stood up and walked to his easel. "A little more yellow, you said?"
"Cadmium. Mix some burnt sienna into it."
Aubrey added a splash to the painting. "Saladin," he asked brightly, "what did you wish for?"
The tall man stretched in his chair. "Haven't you guessed?"
Aubrey turned around, the brush poised in mid-air. Saladin's face was as unlined as the day he had first met him, his hair as black, his knowledge as profound. "You said the chant last night came from Nineteenth Dynasty Egypt."
Saladin nodded. "The reign of Ramses the Second."
"Now, how would you know that?" Aubrey demanded. "No written music from Pharaonic Egypt exists. No one's ever heard it."
"Perhaps someone."
Aubrey closed his eyes with dawning understanding. "Good God, you were there," he whispered. "Your wish was to live forever."
Saladin rose and walked across the room.
"But that's brilliant! What do you care about losing your soul? You'll never know what it's like to die."
"I might."
"How? What can harm you?"
"Only magic stronger than my own. If there is such a thing."
"I doubt that."
"Hmm." He leaned against the doorway. "It might be nice if there were."
"Nice? To die?"
The tall man shrugged. "A life that goes on too long ceases to seem precious. It becomes a burden, like an overdue pregnancy."
Aubrey snorted. "Give it to me, then. I'll take it."
"Yes," Saladin said slowly, his ancient eyes shining with malevolent humor. "I imagine you would."
T wo months later Saladin was arrested in England for the murder of the washerwoman in the sculpture and eighteen others whose bodies had been similarly preserved. Aubrey never saw him again.
The paintings which had begun to take shape on the night of Aubrey's initiation into the coven in Tangier sold almost immediately. The name Katsuleris circulated quickly, first through esoteric European art circles, then on a broader scale. Within six months, a prominent gallery in Milan offered Aubrey a month-long exhibit for which people waited hours in line. Time magazine ran an article about the phenomenal resurgence of interest in the field of abstract art.
Through it all, Aubrey continued to participate in the rites of the coven. The rituals filled the places in his psyche that his work did not. They suffused him with energy and purpose; they focused his mind. They led him to a series of teachers around the world, all of them soulless as he was, all masters of the dark ways.
He excelled as a student. When he returned to the coven in Tangier, he took over as its leader, wearing the inverted silver pentagram that Saladin had once worn.
He became comfortable with the two lives he led, painting by day, then celebrating in the thick of night the magic rituals that brought him into deep communion with the powers of the demon gods.
And afterward, after each rite, he killed.
The killings were the great exultation of his new life. At first he murdered only women, and only for the pleasure it brought him. But women, he soon learned, were too easy to kill, and too easy to get away with killing. Aubrey longed to explore new frontiers in murder, to develop his skill to the level
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