Azzie turned and considered the legs. "A merry sort, obviously, for look you, they are still wrapped around with gaily colored woolen strips, of the sort that dandies and fellows who think well of themselves affect."
"A dandy, do you think?"
"Most certainly, for look how exquisitely the calves are turned. And notice how perfectly formed and finely muscled the thighs are. You might also notice the small foot, with high, aristocratic arch, well-shaped toes, and evenly clipped nails. Nor is there much in the way of callusing on the heel and along the sides. This fellow did not have to do much to get his living, certainly not with his feet! How do you suppose he met his fate?"
"I know not," Hermes said. "But we can soon find out."
"Have you some trick?" Azzie asked. "Some feat of conjuration unknown to the common lot of demons?"
"Not for nothing," Hermes said, "am I the patron saint of the alchemists, who invoke me when they concoct their mixtures. They seek to turn base metal into gold, but I can turn dead flesh into living memory."
"That seems a useful trick," Azzie said. "Can you show me?"
"With pleasure," Hermes said. "Let's see how these legs spent their last day."
As is customary in conjurations, there was a puff of smoke and a sound as of a brazen gong. As Azzie watched, the smoke parted and he saw...
A young prince marching off in defense of his father's castle. A fair young man he was, and well set up for the warrior trade. He marched at the head of his troop of men, and they were a brave sight, their banners of scarlet and yellow fluttering finely in the summer breeze. Then, ahead, they saw another body of men, and the prince pulled his mount to a halt and called up his seneschal.
"There they are," the prince said. "We have them fairly now, between a rock and a hard lump of ice, as they say in Lapland."