Once In a Blue Moon by Simon R. Green

Hawk. “But change spells are no use against us.”
    “Not after everything we’ve been through,” said Fisher.
    “The lesser magics can’t touch us,” said Hawk. “We have been touched by the Wild Magic, and we will always be . . . what we are.”
    “Damn right,” said Fisher.
    Hawk rose unhurriedly to his feet and looked coldly at Patrick Chance. “So. You’re not really the Questor’s grandson, are you? Who sent you?”
    “Who is there who still knows who we really are?” said Fisher.
    Chance drew himself up and sneered at them both. “You’ll never know. You can’t make me talk.”
    “Oh, I think you’ll find we can,” said Hawk.
    “No,” said Chance. “You can’t. This moment was prepared for, before I left. The price of failure was made very clear to me.”
    His back arched suddenly, his face contorted by an awful agony. He fell to the floor and lay there convulsing, trying to force a scream through clenched teeth. Hawk and Fisher hurried towards him, and then stopped abruptly as what had been Patrick Chance changed its shape into something not in any way human. It was a demon. Not the huge and dark-scaled thing they’d seen in the Audition Hall earlier, though; this was just a squat, distorted shape, with needle teeth and scarlet eyes and jagged claws. It kicked a few times, lashed out at them once, for spite’s sake, and then it died. The flesh melted quickly from its bones, which dissolved in their turn, until there was nothing left but a dark stain on the wooden floor and an unpleasant smell on the air. Hawk and Fisher moved over to the open window and breathed deeply.
    “Well,” said Hawk. “That was . . . interesting.”
    “Interesting, hell!” said Fisher. “Someone knows who we really are!”
    “It had to happen eventually,” said Hawk. He turned to look back at the dark stain on the floor, already being absorbed by the wood. “A hundred years since the Demon War . . . and we encounter two demons in one day. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone was trying to tell us something.”
    “Not forgetting the flock of dead birds that landed on our heads first thing this morning,” said Fisher. “What was that? A threat, or a warning?”
    “It’s late,” said Hawk. “And I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”
    •   •   •
     
    I t was late evening and already dark outside by the time they finally got to bed. They hadn’t realised how long the Auditions had dragged on. They sat side by side in a large four-poster bed, on a goose-feather mattress they could sink right down into. Their backs were currently supported by a padded headboard, and a warm golden light glowed from the walls. The Tree looked after its own. Hawk had a nice mug of steaming hot chocolate. Fisher had a large glass of brandy. With a paper umbrella in it. Both of them warming the inner self in their own ways.
    They were both wearing long white nightshirts, complete with their initials picked out tastefully on the left breast. They never used to wear anything to bed when they were younger, but they’d reluctantly agreed to wear the things because otherwise it shocked the students when they went to the jakes in the early hours of the morning. And besides, the winters were a lot colder these days. Their room was comfortable, even cosy, though, and absolutely nobody bothered them.
    Hawk and Fisher sat slumped together, the bedclothes pulled up round their waists, quietly discussing the day’s events. At the foot of the four-poster, on a pile of really smelly blankets, their really smelly old dog lay curled up, snoring loudly. He was a great, long-legged, high-shouldered brute of an animal, of no particular breed, old now, as they were old, but still active enough to get into his own fair share of trouble. His fur was grey, and white around the muzzle. He twitched restlessly, chasing rabbits in his dreams. He farted loudly.
    Hawk shook his head slowly. “He’s getting past