Space Magic by David D. Levine, Sara A. Mueller

waited for Agnes to return. She was right; keeping the spell itself safe from harm was a simple and standard part of any spell. How could a wizard of Johannes’ abilities have forgotten it?
    Ulrich cast his mind back over the last two weeks of work. He had not read every page—much of the Zauberschrift was beyond him in any case—but he did remember seeing a clause for protecting the spell-book.
    He broke the seal. A twinge went through him at that, but the weather did not seem to worsen, and he leafed through the book in search of the passage he recalled. The light was terrible, there was barely room to turn the pages, and his vision was blurred from exhaustion, but eventually he found it.
    It was indeed, as near as he could puzzle out, a clause for protecting the spell-book. But there was an addition in Heinrich’s crabbed hand: you and all your brothers shall in this, and in all things, be obedient to Heinrich the wizard above all others .
    Tired though he was, Ulrich seethed. That power-besotted bastard Heinrich had given himself personal command of all the daemons, hiding it here in this obscure clause. And worse, he had done it badly. He had inserted his text in the phrase that invoked the protective daemon, and the insertion had mangled the language of the invocation. This error had left the spell-book completely unprotected. It was a wonder the book had lasted as long as it did.
    Just then Agnes returned. “I brought your materials, and something to eat. But I think they may search the mill soon. You must hurry.”
    Ulrich wolfed Agnes’ bread and cheese, spitting crumbs as he explained to her what he had found. Taking the knife, he scraped away Heinrich’s words, replacing black treason with a pure expanse of creamy vellum. He read and re-read the remaining words, trying to reassure himself that this change would have the desired effect and no other. He thought that it would, but there was much here he did not understand, would not have understood even if his ears were not still ringing.
    And now came the part he had been dreading. “A spell is a compact between wizard and daemon,” he explained to Agnes as he lit the candle with flint and tinder, “It must be sealed with blood. There are errors, in the spell or in the sealing, that can cause injury. Or death. So when the time came to seal the spell, before, I took the coward’s way. I re-sealed it with the old wax. With the two original wizards’ blood. I hoped that would seal the spell without involving me. But it didn’t work. The false seal inverted the meaning of the spells. Brought disastrous weather instead of good.” He dripped fresh wax onto the cord, picked up the knife.
    “This time I use my own blood. This time I take the risk upon my own head. And may God forgive me if I have made any mistake.” He pricked the ball of his left thumb with the knife, squeezed a few drops of blood onto the hot wax. Then he dripped more wax onto the cord and took up his father’s signet ring.
    The moment he pressed the ring into the wax, a blue light burst from the book, illuminating the dank hole like the legendary lighthouse at Pharos. With the light came a great whispering roar like the wings of ten thousand butterflies, and the flavor of cinnamon and salt.
    “How will we know if you have succeeded?” asked Agnes.
    Ulrich sat gape-mouthed for a moment. “Did you not see the light?”
    “What light? The day does seem a bit brighter, if that is what you mean.” Indeed, the light outside was stronger, and the rain seemed to be slackening.
    “Yes, it does,” he said. Though the light and sound had lasted only a moment, the taste of cinnamon and salt remained on his tongue and a peculiar tingling suffused his limbs. “I think that means I have succeeded.”

    -o0o-

    Mud-caked and aching, Ulrich leaned heavily on Agnes as they slogged wearily back to her half-ruined cottage. The spell-book lay in the crook of Ulrich’s arm, miraculously clean. Clearly