Sir Reginald Is Smarter Than You

            “To this day,” Sir Reginald said, “I am still astonished at how much of my life is influenced by firearms.”
            “Shut your mouth and hold the book still,” Karl replied, pushing the .45 into Sir Reginald’s stomach.
            “Oh, of course.” Sir Reginald held his rotted leather copy of MYSTERIOUS CRAFT AND DANGEROUS PORTENT, by Gran Eildris a little higher. It was a rather large tome, and his arms were beginning to ache.
            “So, Karl, could you tell me again why you’re doing this?”
            “If I do, will you shut up?”
            “Most likely.”
             “This is a legendary book, Reg. It turns out that alongside all these stupid spells for making the air smell like ham and testing whether or not an egg is spoiled…well, there’s a coded spell. It’s hidden in all the pages between 23 and 46 and when read aloud, it will siphon all the magic potential off the nearest person and imbue it in the reader. That’s why I’m having you hold the book and I’m doing the reading.”
            “Oh. So it seems that I’m rather doomed.”
            “Yep. Apparently a minor demon named Uruhrps does the actual transfer, then takes the magically emptied soul in trade. Now hold still, you bastard.”
            Karl began reading, and turning the pages with his left hand, the right still holding his gun. His eyes began to glow in the darkness of the den. Sir Reginald’s eyes drooped, his arms began to falter, and as the last line was read, he fell backwards into a chair by the brandy.
            “I...” Karl grimaced, “don’t feel any different.”
            “That’s because you can’t just steal magic from somebody, it has to be given willingly. I wrote that book–I enjoy the scent of ham–to weed out the undeserving from the garden of mysticism. All that spell did was make your eyes glow and summon a demon named Uruhrps to your nearest blood relative.”
            As Karl’s eyes bulged and his face fell, he managed to squeeze out one word.
            “Mom?”
            He turned and ran for the door, and Sir Reginald reached for his spirits. By the time he was pouring himself a snifter-full, his hands were trembling so hard that he dropped the decanter, which spilled across his three-hundred year old Hopi rug.
            “One of these days,” he said, gulping his drink, “One of these bastards is going to be smart enough to shoot me before he leaves.”

b

Who has been editing his brains out for DrMaster and is very, very sleepy.