Mortal Enemy

The Challenge

“It is done!” Cackling joins the echoes of the words inside of a dingy, underground alchemy room. Like the cough-ridden euphoric laughter, groundwater seeps into each of the walls and cuts deep Vs behind shelves packed with all manners of herbs, bottles and tinctures. From a stack of jars containing pickled animal parts, the grisled, old man draws out a bottle containing chicken’s feet.

“Ahh, with this I shall finally tear down the ivory castle that Grigoropoulos has built during all three Olympiads he has run in.” He sighs with such immense pride that he can’t help but smile so much that his eyes sparkle staring at the effigy he made. He sows the legs into the linen clothing wrapped around a carved turnip. Grabbing one of the frog leg arms, he uses it to straighten effigy-Hermes’ winged helmet.
“In place, in place!” He chants, making the effigy dance on the table, “But, but-but-but… it is not all done yet. Not yet…” he slips the effigy into his belt sack. In a deep, gnarled voice he whispers, “Soon. One last thing.”
Plunging his hand into a clay pot of congealing lamb’s blood, he traces a circle around a mirror. It ripples like a stone through water, slowly forming a frustrated face of a woman so old as to look ancient compared to the Sorcerer. He grins at her with reproach, persisting even past the downward curl of her lip.
“A goddess,” she begins. “You think that you, a mortal, can speak to me, daughter of Nyx, whenever you desire?”
“I promise, oh Bringer of Justice, Nemesis, that this is the last thing I will ask of you. You owe me!” He shakes his fist at the mirror, “Yes, you owe me for when I cursed the merchant’s boy to speak only in aramaic around his father; just as you had asked me to do!” He coughs more than he laughs, “And I have come to collect.”
“Very well.” Nemesis’ gaze switches to one of curiosity, “I am, for my part, prepared to assist you in finally evening our scales.”
“Fabulous.” He takes a shaky breath, “Transform me into the local runner, Grigoropoulos, for a short time.”
“This I can do, but I must ask: for what reason?”
“Reason? Yes, yes, my goal… If you knew him, you would strike him down without me having to ask.” He presents his arms before speaking in a poetic flow, ”Beautiful and eloquent, and as fleet of foot as he is with the ladies. Yet, you know as well as I that the quickest of all is Hermes,” he pauses to cough.
“Yes, he is,” Nemesis interrupts during the Sorcerer’s coughing.
The Sorcerer regains his breathing, “With his winged sandals, he shall humiliate Grigoropoulos in tomorrow’s races. His defeat will burn sadness in all their faces!” He cackles raucously, “And he shall find that then they part-”
“If you are speaking in couplets intentionally, desist immediately.” Nemesis backs away in the mirror, showing her crossed arms and threatening pointer finger.
“But of course, of course! Turn me into the runner, now - and quick! Do this, and there shall be no more verses that make you sick.”
Nemesis waves her hand, “Enough.” Bright light fills the room as it covers the sounds of cracking of bones and the cackling laugh that turns into a deep, honeyed tone. “Térma,” she says, snapping the mirror back to its original state.

The Sorcerer inspects himself in the reflection of the mirror, happily drawing a hand over the right corner of his sharp jaw and down to his broad chin. Long, golden hair has replaced his head of fuzz with a radiating emptiness at the crown. No longer draped in jiggly bubbles of fat, his body flows in the round peaks and valleys of muscle; more Adonis than man. He laughs with such a hearty, rich voice that the whole room cannot help but warm at its presence. Straightening his hair, he walks over to the corner of the room where the old, wooden ladder to the cellar doors are. As quickly as his transfigured legs can take him, he walks the three miles to Grigoropoulos’ house.
He slams the door behind him and scurries over to the brazier in the center of the room. He takes out the effigy and a small amount of pig fat wrapped in a grape leaf from his belt pack, scraping the fat into the burning offering pit. Slowly and carefully, he draws his breath in.

“Sokos Eriounios Hermes, your speed is mere myth! You can run no faster than an amputated chicken, and I shall prove it!” He throws the effigy into the brazier as well. The fire burns hot and bright, morphing into a sickly, green color as the tendrils begin to lap the ceiling adjoining the flume. The Sorcerer laughs, “Yes, yes! Your winged sandals mean nothing to the length of my stride or the sinews of my knees. I will shame your skills at tomorrow’s Olympiad, sure as the Phoenecian Bear rests in the throne of Boreas. No man or God could ever hope to match my skills!”

The fire grows to an inferno within an instant of him finishing speaking. A growing ring of flame scars circles the flume, threatening to take down any house not made of stone.The Sorcerer backs up from the brazier, edging his way back to the door that he entered from. Halfway through the room, the door swings open and slams the wall opposite it. Without a second to waste, he runs his elderly legs to an open window and flings himself out. The ground is unkind to the old man as it steals the breath from his lungs when he lands. While he catches his breath, Grigoropulos hums a tavern song in the entryway. Grigoropoulos notices the inferno in his hearth, shouting and clattering objects frantically. When he finds a bucket of water to douse the flames, the Sorcerer regains his breath with the changing of the winds and sprints off home.