by Laurence Raphael Brothers
The sorcerer stands in the center of a magic circle, a conservative gray business suit showing under his white ritual mantle, the traditional rod of blasting in his hand. I'm off to the side, in the triangle of summoning.
"Come not in that form! I adjure thee. In the holy name of--"
Okay, so maybe the roiling nest of cobras was a bit over the top. But I hate this slow, grainy material world. These sorcerers think we've got nothing better to do than wait on them.
"Hold on," I say. "How's this?" Now I'm a rotating polyhedron, Kepler's stella octangula. I didn't mind it when Johannes summoned me. At least he knew his geometry and orbital mechanics.
"Not in that form, either," says the sorcerer.
I'd roll my eyes if I had them. Maybe if they'd tell me up front what form they wanted, I wouldn't have to go through this every time. I try again.
"Oh my god, that's disgusting! Come not in that form lest I scourge and blast thee!"
Blah blah blah. Too many eyes, I suppose. I run out an old standard.
"Now that's more like it," says the sorcerer.
I'm wearing thigh-high leather boots and a corset. Red skin grading to orange. D cups. A snaky barbed tail. Kepler liked me this way too, but we both knew it was a joke.
"Okay," I lie, "I am bound by your power, master. What is your desire?" Ha. As if.