"Robert Weinberg - Logical Magician 01 - A Logical Magician" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weinberg Robert)

 Roger saw no harm in answering the question. "1997," he said, "just outside San
Francisco, California."
Then, remembering the correct procedure, he named the demon and demanded its
service.
The creature laughed. "You know my earthly name, mortal. Few dare pronounce it.
No matter. Such puny binding spells mean nothing to me. Nations quail at my fury. I am
not yours to command."
Roger grimaced in annoyance. He should have realized that someday he would run
into this problem. Many demonic titles in the Bible originated in other sources. They were
corruptions of names drawn from older civilizations' religions. Instead of raising a devil
from the pits of Hell, by using the correct pronunciation of its name he had summoned
forth a demigod from ancient history.
All of Roger's magic depended on Christian tradition. None of it meant anything to
his captive. It came from a time before Christ walked the Earth. The creature was not
subject to the rules of sorcery Roger practiced. Only the magic circle and pentagram,
whose origins were lost in ancient prehistory, kept the creature imprisoned.
"Release me," said the crouching man, as if sensing his captor's plight. "Or suffer
my wrath. The Lord of the Lions is not yours to command."
The thing waved one gnarled hand in the air. Blue sparks crackled between its
fingers. Roger gulped and tried to think of a banishing spell. Sometimes being exact had
its drawbacks. He was not very good at improvising.
A minute passed. Roger stood motionless, his thoughts racing through all the mystic
lore he had studied in the past few years, trying to come up with a way out of this fix.
Meanwhile, the crouching man paced back and forth in the pentagram, softly muttering
threats that Roger tried to ignore. It was a stalemate of sorts. Roger couldn't send the
demigod back to the outermost dark, but neither could the being escape from the prison in
which it was trapped.
Being eminently practical and depressingly materialistic, Roger finally settled on the
only possible course of action. He would leave the room and then seal it closed forever.
Maybe even fill the outer chamber with concrete for additional security. The creature he
summoned would remain trapped inside the pentagram for the foreseeable future, unable
to cause any harm. Roger could continue his work elsewhere, exercising a good deal more
caution in his selection of demons.
He was turning to leave when the earthquake struck.
It wasn't much of a quake, barely registering on the Richter scale. Dishes rattled,
dogs howled, and a few VCRs clicked on for no reason. Other than that, most people
looked up from whatever they were doing, hesitated for an instant waiting for worse, then
settled back to their normal activities.
In Roger Quinn's subbasement, a little more than a mile from the center of the
quake, the concrete floor growled and shifted. It moved less than a hundredth of an inch.
Barely enough to send a hairline crack running directly through the center of the magic
circle.
Roger blinked in astonishment. The threatening presence no longer stood in the
pentagram. Rather, it crouched at Roger's side. Fingers cold as ice clenched him by the
elbow.
"Come, my young friend," said the Lord of the Lions, a ruthless edge to his voice.
"We have much to discuss."
Unblinking eyes, bright yellow like a cat's, glowed with inner fire. "I want to hear
all about this modern world. You have much to tell meтАФconcerning war, plague,
pestilence, death, and destruction. And... especially... about the gods you worship."