Demons of the Dancing Gods by Jack L. Chalker

in
    agony. "Now what?"
    "We're not alone up here," she responded, sounding worried.
    "I think you better draw Irving."
    "He's so damned hot I can't even touch him," Joe called
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    DEMONS OF THE DANCING GODS
    ^ACK L. CHALKER
    51
    back in disgust, but he did try the sword hilt—and found he
    wasn't kidding.
    A series of small, dark shapes that looked like moving globs
    of obsidian formed around them on the peak. Joe couldn't get
    a good look at them, but Marge had no trouble at all. They
    did, in fact, appear to be made out of the same stuff as the
    melted material on which they all stood, but these creatures
    had definite form. They looked like, funny little men—or,
    rather, statues of funny-looking little men, she decided, with
    short, stocky bodies, stubby limbs, and huge balloonlike noses.
    She couldn't help thinking of Grumpy from Snow White as she
    stared at them, and that certainly fitted their expressions and
    mean-looking gazes.
    "Are you union or scabs?" the lead one rasped out in a stem,
    deep, gruff voice.
    The question took her aback. "What do you mean? All we're
    trying to do is cross this mountain before the man with me and
    the horses die. Please let us past!"
    "Are you union or scabs?" the creature repeated, unmoved.
    "I am Kauri, and no scab!" she responded angrily. "You
    should know we have no need of a union!"
    "Hah! Sexual exploitation without love or involvement and
    all for some cheap bauble," another of the creatures muttered.
    "And they're so dumb they don't even see how they're exploited."
    Marge was acutely aware that time was running out, but
    she decided she had to play their game before they forgot their
    challenge and started debating among themselves. She'd had
    enough of that with the Kauri. "We're independent, yet collective!
    You know that! It's in our nature to be so! What sort
    of creatures are you that you don't know this?"
    "We're kobolds, of course," the leader snapped.
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    Chalker, Jack L - Demons of the Dancing Gods
    "And we're on strike," another piped up. Joe felt his horse
    shudder, and began to feel that he was going to pass out on
    his feet, as well. He couldn't take much more of this.
    "Aye," another kobold responded. "No more of them fairy
    rings and stuff until we get our contract!" The rest of them
    cheered.
    "Your dispute is none of our affair," Marge argued pleadingly.
    "Please—this man will die if we're delayed even a few
    moments longer."
    The leader looked over at Joe. "How do you stand on unions?"
    Right then Joe was not feeling in a fraternal mood. He
    decided that, if he weren't about to die, he'd like to chop these
    bastards up into-little pieces. He tried to snarl a reply, but only
    inhaled more of the acrid smoke and started coughing.
    "He is a union man!" Marge told them, thinking furiously.
    "He's a Teamster."
    The kobolds all looked at Joe critically. "Indeed? He don't
    look like no wagon driver to me," the leader noted. "Let's see
    your union card!"
    At that moment, Joe's horse gave another great shudder and
    this time collapsed onto the hot surface. Joe whirled, then fell
    almost completely over the horse.
    Marge yelled in a mixture of anger and panic, "In the name
    of the Earth Mother, help me get him off this place before he
    dies and quickly!"
    "Religion is the opiate of the masses," one of the kobolds
    muttered, seemingly unmoved.
    "Still," the leader mused, "we can't have a popular workingmen's
    movement—"
    "And women," another added.
    "—sullied at its great beginnings by a lack of compassion
    ... Hmm... You! Imli! Zimlich! Grab his head and feet!
    You, Kauri—get going! We'll follow!"
    Quickly the little men snapped to action. They were extremely
    strong and powerful, despite their small size. It took
    only two of them to lift Joe as if he weighed next to nothing,
    and four more actually lifted the horse and started after Marge
    and the others at what was close to a trot.
    The obsidian bridge thinned appreciably as they went, and
    it was