Azzie flew low and slow over the city, noting the many small houses and, among them, the palaces of lords and high churchmen. On the outskirts of the town a fair was being held. He flew above its tents and pennants, attracted to its cheerful bustle. He decided to pay it a visit.

He came to Earth and changed into one of his standard disguises: a kindly, portly man, balding, and with a twinkling eye. His toga, which came with the disguise, looked out of place, so he purchased a cloak of homespun at a booth and looked more or less like everyone else.

He strolled along, looking around, still slightly disoriented. There were several permanent structures and a field scattered with tents. All sorts of things were sold here-weapons, cloth­ing, foodstuffs, livestock, tools, spices.

"Hi there! You, sir!"

Azzie turned. Yes, the old crone was beckoning to him. She sat in front of a small black tent, cabalistic figures painted on its sides in gold. She was dark-skinned, and appeared to be an Arab or a Gypsy.

"You called me?"

"I did, sir," she said, in a villainous North African accent. "Come inside."

A human might have been more cautious, because you can never tell what might happen inside a black tent with cabalistic figures. But for Azzie that tent was the first familiar thing he had seen in a long time. There are whole tribes of demons who live in black tents and wander up and down the waste places of Limbo, and Azzie, although Canaanite on his father's side, was related to some of the wandering Bedouin demons.

Inside, the tent was lined with richly figured rugs. There were oil lamps of finely wrought pewter on the wall, and em­broidered cushions lay all over. At the far end was a low altar with a table for offerings. Behind it, looming high, was a heroic statue in the Grecian manner, of a handsome young man with a wreath of laurel in his hair. Azzie recognized the features.