"So Hermes is here," Azzie said.
"I am his priestess," said the crone.
"I was under the impression," Azzie said, "that we were in a Christian country and that worship of the old gods is strictly forbidden."
"What you say is true," the crone said. "The old gods are dead, but not really dead because they have returned to life in new forms. Hermes, for example, has changed into Hermes Trismegistus, patron saint of alchemists. His worship is not approved, but neither is it forbidden."
"I'm happy to see that," Azzie said. "But why have you called me here?"
"You are a demon, sir?" the crone inquired.
"Yes. How did you know?"
"There is something lordly and sinister in your mien," the crone said, "an air of brooding, implacable evil that would set you apart from others no matter how large the crowd."
Azzie knew that Gypsies were capable of subtle perceptions which they then phrased to flatter their clients. Nevertheless, he reached into his pouch, found a gold denier, and gave it to her.
"Take that for your cunning tongue. Now, what do you want of me?"
"My master wants to have a word with you."
"Well, good," Azzie said. It had been a long time since he had had a chat with one of the old gods. "Where is he?"
The crone knelt down at the altar and began mumbling. In a moment the white marble was suffused with a rosy glow. The statue came to life, stretched, stepped down from its pedestal, and sat beside Azzie. To the old woman Hermes said, "Go find us something to drink."
When she had left, he said, "So, Azzie, it's been a long time."