BEGINNING

                               by Ashtoreth

            Copyright (c) 1993, 1996 Ashtoreth (William Haas)
                            All rights reserved


                                 Foreword

This story isn't one that I'd consider part of the official canon of 
Mnemora and Arial stories; it seems to me that origin stories crop up 
way too much, especially in fantasy fiction, but this was one of those 
stories that I felt needed to be told just to get facts set down and out 
of the way.  Initially it was just going to help explain why Mnemora and 
Arial are the sort of individuals they are, and why they dislike their 
creator so, but what I should have foreseen and didn't was that I'd need 
to explore Grentvark's personality and show something about how he 
works, something I don't think I did adequately in "Lies."  This story 
also took far too long to complete, given its actual content.



	The two vixenmorphs in the crystal tanks looked like they had been 
skinned, but the fact was that their skins hadn't yet been attached.
	Truthfully, at this stage the vulpines appeared genderless, but 
Grentvark was sure that when they were complete, 'vixen' would be the 
most apt description of them.
	"Ehh," Grentvark said as his apprentice tried to ask him 
something.
	The wizard browsed through a large tome, each page turned with an 
irritable /fnap!/ sound.  The apprentice, whose name was Balarr, sensed 
a growing cloud of ill-mood over Grentvark's head, and unconsciously 
hovered a bit further back into the lab.  He didn't literally hover; he 
didn't even qualify as a novice spellcaster, and given who he was 
studying under, it was questionable as to whether or not he ever would.
	Grentvark, due to his age-reduction and physique-enhancement 
spells, looked like a gigantic bronzed surfer in blue wizardly robes, 
and his weedy apprentice was the 98-pound weakling to his beach bully, 
unwilling to get in the wizard's way.  When he moved, and moved 
suddenly, the wizard's actions had the threat of rapidly-propelled mass 
behind them.
	/Dammit the hell,/ Grentvark thought.  /What is this person trying 
to say?/
	The wizard's speed through the book increased, as he searched in 
growing desperation for any clue to help him understand its contents.  
He leaned closer to the nearest light source, as if this would reveal 
something in the meaning of the words... the nearest light source was 
his current project.
	Grentvark the Groovy (for that, astonishingly, was the title he 
was known by) wasn't a great sorceror, though you'd be hard-pressed to 
find anyone who believed this.  In his past, someone or another had said 
something about his potential in the magical arts, his talent, so on and 
so forth, and his career was off and running.
	Sure, the person who said it had been a thaumaturgic equipment 
salesman, if his increasingly fuzzy memory of that time was correct, but 
despite that, he /could/ cast spells.  He wasn't too bad at it, really.  
Just not as good as people thought, and consequently not as good as he 
wished he was.
	Maverick.  Vanguard talent in the field.  These sorts of things 
were said about Grentvark, and it would really not be good if he 
disappointed the people saying them.  But he always felt  he was on the 
verge of doing so.
	/I can do this, really.  It's just faster this way./
	Grentvark squinted at the index.  Even if he had spectacles on, 
the text was somehow inherently unreadable.  His eyes grew watery, 
befuddling him deliberately.  He clawed through his blonde goatee.  He 
swallowed.  He pushed his pointy wizard hat around his head, and then 
pulled it off.  It wouldn't have been inaccurate to bring to mind the 
image of a poorly-maintained machine, its wheels seizing up and starting 
to smoke.  He just wasn't getting anywhere with the book.  For an 
instant, his mind turned itself to memories of his past... only for an 
instant.  It often did this when he encountered some difficulty in his 
magery.
	In that past time, he remembered, he was glad to be good at 
something that brought him attention; it was the attention he liked.  
Grentvark hadn't been certain he even wanted to be a sorceror, but the 
expectations of people-- his parents, their friends, and /their/ 
important friends --kept him at it, and by the time it started to get 
hard and he started to not want to do it quite so much as he had, he 
couldn't turn back.  He couldn't imagine why he hadn't quit.  His 
parents had wanted him to be a sorceror... that was all he really 
remembered.  It wasn't like they'd forced him to become a sorceror.  
They just /really/ wanted him to be one.
	Still, he wouldn't give it up now, would he?  Look at the 
prestige!  Look at how famous it had made him.  Other wizards waited on 
his every word, and-- and this was the greatest part --many of them were 
/better/ wizards than he was.  And many of them weren't.
	/Is it too much  for the author to just tell me what the variables 
are?/
	He slammed the book shut and set it down next to his crystal ball, 
where, he realized, he would just have to find his page again.  It was 
time for his first tutorial of the afternoon, some little scrub at the 
University of Vorr whose parents were paying Grentvark handsomely to be 
his advisor.  Good thing, too... he was just about fed up with this 
/Elementals of Simulacra/ book.
	Grentvark squinched his eyes shut and tried to calm himself down.  
He opened them again, and his eyes were drawn to the primary source of 
his frustration, the simulants.
	Containing the developing creatures were two massive vessels of 
quartz, laboratory glassware of an extraordinary scale, dramatically 
mounted in a biomechanical equipment pedestal to stand over the room.  
Even though the familiars could very well fall and break their necks 
when they finally emerged, it was important that the experiment look 
impressive.  The two vessels were filled with a pinkish fluid, and 
seemed to glow with an inner light.  They did in fact glow... that was 
how they were designed.  With the laboratory fireglobes mostly turned 
off, the equipment was impressive indeed.
	But its contents looked like sadly de-skinned animals pickled in 
tremendous preserving jars, their bare muscles covered by a thin, milky 
sheen of developing connective tissue, and their muzzles raised as 
though seeking divine guidance.  Occasionally one or the other would 
twitch in some dream-thought.
 	When they were completed, they would be the result of his most 
ambitious project to date.  While they weren't much to look at now, 
rather gruesome-looking in fact, the final results would be most 
pleasing to the eyes, and that would only be the beginning of their 
desirable qualities.  They would be everything he needed.  Right now, 
though, they looked depressingly incomplete, and they had done for 
several weeks now.
	Not for the first time, the thought passed through Grentvark's 
mind that the project was insanely complicated, and he despaired that 
they should ever be finished.  He crouched before the nearest tank, 
looking up at its glow, as if imploring the simulants to successfully 
develop, watching the hypnotic swaying of the nascent vixen's umbilicus 
as it moved in the slight currents of the fluid within.
	Their umbilici draped down to their feet, where each wrapped in 
fleshy tendrils around spectacularly large jewels of the purest sort, 
through which magical energy and sorcerous commands would emanate... one 
crystal was a gentle green, the other golden-amber.  He didn't suppose 
the colors made much difference.  They'd been damned expensive, even at 
the purported bargain he'd gotten them for.  The fluid in the tanks 
contained nutrients and the physical building blocks from which the 
familiars were slowly being constructed, or condensed, as the 
terminology went.
	Balarr stood nearby, and watched the wistful-seeming wizard.  
"Nearly finished now, master?" he said, giving a friendly-enough smile.
	Grentvark turned and responded by shooing him out of the lab.  "I 
require quiet to think... begone." he said, his deep and slightly 
gravelly voice carrying with the authority of a practiced speaker.  The 
young apprentice pulled on his not-very-pointy hat and scuttled out of 
the laboratory, slamming the door behind him.
	"And don't slam the door," muttered the sorceror, paging through 
the book again.  Moving his fingers in circles over its surface, he 
fired up the crystal ball, which was the standard telecommunications 
device for magic-users everywhere.  He didn't really want quiet, he 
wanted privacy while he was making some calls.
	Scrying was an accepted and traditional method of acquiring 
magical information and advice.  It was just that, typically, a sorceror 
would call upon the knowledge of extradimensional creatures, or daemons, 
or the spirits of long-dead wizards of renown... not undergraduate 
students.  The wizard addressed his crystal ball, telling it who he 
wished to contact, and the distorted clarity of the sphere grew milky 
and swirling.
	A bespectacled face, young and shiny pink with acne, appeared in 
the slight distortion of the crystal sphere... the boy wore a not-quite-
so-pointy wizard hat, marking him as a novice, and bore the colors of 
the University of Vorr.  The crystal made him look like he was in a 
fishbowl.
	For a half-second Grentvark had the urge to ask him if his mother 
was home.  But he didn't, and just smiled invisibly.  Invisibly because 
he kept visual capability firmly shut off on his end, and if he was 
asked he feigned some technical difficulty which he hadn't gotten around 
to repairing.  Loftier ambitions, don't you know.  He didn't want his 
students seeing his work-in-progress... and it was amazing how much more 
respect a disembodied voice commanded.  Grentvark had had a miserable, 
hellish time as an apprentice wizard, and in the perverse manner that 
the human mind sometimes takes, he was determined that every one of his 
young students share this experience.
	"Lord Grentvark," said the student, nervously addressing him.  
'Lord' was the standard way of respectfully addressing a teacher, 
usually alternated with 'sir.'  Both words got a lot of use in the 
apprentice game.  Grentvark cleared his throat, to let him know he was 
listening.  "Er, hello, sir."
	The sorceror paused a few seconds before saying "How have your 
studies been progressing?"
	"Oh, very well, sir.  Placed eleventh in my form on the last 
exam," said the novice with a shaky smile.  "Probably going to be moved 
up to the /gifted/ gifted section."  He pushed his glasses up the bridge 
of his nose.
	Grentvark rested his chin on his hand, looking bored, but 
entertained by his intrepid young student mage.  "That's excellent, lad.  
What was your name again?"
	"Skaben, sir," said the boy with a bit of surprise.
	"Skaben."
	"Yes, sir."
	"Good, good.  How have your studies been progressing?"
	Skaben made a little 'ulk' noise in his throat.  "Very well, sir.  
Er, you already asked me that, sir."
	"Of course.  I'm glad that you're listening."  Grentvark grinned 
and let the student make the next move.
	There was another long pause, and then "How's /your/ work going, 
sir?" asked the novice, finally breaking the silence.
	"Fine, thank you... fine."  Just a touch of exasperation.
	"Something spectacular soon to be coming out of the laboratory of 
Grentvark the Groovy?" said the student cheekily, desperate to seem 
personable to his master.
	The wizard held his breath, trying to convey displeasure by his 
silence and not doing too bad a job of it.  "Yes, yes.  Something 
spectacular," Grentvark growled almost inaudibly into the crystal ball.
	The boy /did/ ask too many questions.  Magic questions were fine, 
as long as they weren't questions about Grentvark's magical activities.  
The last one was harmless and general enough, but he didn't want the 
apprentice breaking the ice to impress him, he wanted to be impressed by 
an ever-increasing cascade of useful knowledge... that was the real 
point of this, despite what misguided conceptions of the student-teacher 
relationship his apprentices had.
	"Sir, before we start, let me thank you again for taking the time 
to help me with my studies."
	/Yes, whatever./  "Yes, whatever," said Grentvark.
	The student cleared his throat.  "I'm sorry, sir.  You must be 
very busy..."
	"Let's get on with it."
	"Yes, sir."
	The wizard quaked a little with silent bemusement, and said "Now.  
What aspect of final condensation of the simulacra body is the most 
critical?  In your opinion.  Explain your answer, and be as detailed as 
possible."
	Grentvark was certain that his creations would be groundbreaking, 
would be the finest and most talked-about in his circles, because they'd 
been designed, piece by piece, by the most innovative young minds that 
could be plagiarized from.
	He hadn't wholly stolen ideas, of course.  /And when you come down 
to it, there's no such thing as stealing knowledge, is there?/  But now 
more than ever, when he was working on awe-inspiring projects he hadn't 
the faintest idea how to execute, he would talk to the many students 
seeking advice from senior wizards such as himself, share information 
with them, the glamour of his status usually occluding the fact that he 
was getting the larger share.  Shaddoth, he had to do /something./  His 
reputation and his peers' expectations continued to spiral upward with 
each miracle he performed, and the demand for more impressive wonders 
was greater each time.  He just couldn't keep up by himself.  Probably 
nobody could, he suspected... he sometimes wondered if all the great 
magic-users of history had been cheating as badly as he was... but that 
was neither here nor there.  He had to continue to top himself, until he 
could retire honorably, or at least reach a level of apparent 
proficiency from which he could gracefully fail to progress.
	The students' help would be appreciated.  There were always 
acknowledgments to be written at the beginnings of major thaumaturgic 
articles, or more likely the ends of them in this case, or possibly 
hidden in footnotes with arcane abbreviations and self-exclusionary 
references, yes.  Grentvark allowed himself to smile a little at what he 
understood was really a low and dishonest thing.
	Anyway, he'd had his hand in it too, hadn't he?  Who had 
engineered their personalities?  Who had gone to the trouble of 
researching the subject?  Granted, the familiars weren't animate yet... 
they might end up with pretty heads full of straw when he finally woke 
them up.  But it would be /his/ straw, and that settled the matter for 
him.
	To his credit, Grentvark was well-prepared for these sessions.  He 
knew exactly what questions he wanted his students to answer.
	"How would /you/ apply developmental variables?"
	A pause.  "I'm not sure I understand the question, sir."
	"What somatic style would you employ?  For instance, to a standard 
SCT interface?"  Grentvark cleared his throat, and added "For any models 
from the 26a to the 26f."
	The student wizard's expression blankened as he was momentarily 
lost in thought.  "I... would use the Industrial Size alphabet, probably 
with--"
	Grentvark scribbled this down.  "Industrial Size?  Even with a 
smaller unit like the 26a?"
	"Er, yes, sir.  With selenium finger extension you can get a more 
precise application of the equations.  I know that more delicate 
somatics are used for smaller casting areas, generally, but Industrial 
Size is so solid that, well, why not try to make it work on a smaller 
scale?"
	Grentvark stared at the ball, his mind attempting to get around 
this information.  He thought he followed that.  Better to write it down 
instead of thinking about it now, and try to translate it later.  Or get 
the next student to explain it to him.  He smiled grimly.
	"Sir?"  Some time had gone by.
	"Ah, yes.  That's a very intriguing idea.  Very good."  Grentvark 
stroked his goatee in a dignified manner, but who this affectation was 
for was unclear.  The novice couldn't see him, after all.  "And which 
developmental helix variables control primary sexual characteristics?"
	"Primary, sir?  Sexual?"  The novice stammered.  For a moment 
Grentvark had an absurd vision of the student's acne-inflamed face 
swelling like one gigantic zit and exploding... he wondered if there was 
a spell that produced this effect, then returned his attention to his 
note-taking.  "Er, that would be... seven, eight, and twelve through 
twenty, sir."
	"Very good."  Scribbling.  "And which variables control secondary 
sexual characteristics?"
	"Secondary... that's nine, ten, and twenty through thirty-four."  
Usually Grentvark wasn't so blunt with his questioning, and usually got 
a little exchange going between the student and himself to mask what he 
was doing, but he really wanted to make some progress today, for once.
	So maybe he hadn't intended to build their personalities himself, 
either.  Touchy thing, the persona.  But there weren't a lot of people 
well-versed in the subject, at least not in prep school.  He'd talked to 
biology students, he'd talked to psychology students.  He'd talked to 
his psychiatrist, for that matter.  Not about this project, that was for 
sure; Dr. Glankkrundt would have had volumes to say about the 
significance of what Grentvark was attempting, and none of it would have 
had to do with the advancement of magical science.
	"And I'm sure you can tell me what your sources were..."
	"Yes, sir.   The /Encyclopedia Thaumaturgica,/ the /Scryer's 
Digest Book of Synthetic Life Forms, Elementals of Simulacra,/ the 
/Tome--/"
	"Page numbers?"
	"Er, well..."  The novice riffled through a stack of yellowing 
paper bound with rough twine.  "For the Scryer's Digest book it's 
chapter twelve, pages four hundred fourteen through seventeen, and in 
/Elements of Simulacra/ there's a great big table on pages 1296 and 
1297.  The references in the other books are a little more obscure...." 
He chuckled, and stopped quickly when met with silence, as Grentvark 
took a few seconds to scribble this down next to the other notes.
	"Sir?"
	"Good.  I must be running now, lad.  Lots of work in the lab 
waiting."
	"But we've hardly started..."
	"Good luck on exams, Scarren.  Good day!"
	"Sir?"
	Grentvark cut him off, chuckling a little, and told one of the 
laboratory imps to get him some more parchment from his scribe table.  A 
diminutive, roughly humanoid creature responded, its features 
rudimentary and its skin the color of burnished copper.  It pounced over 
to the table and rooted around in the dark interior of a cubbyhole.
	Now that he'd found out what the variables were, he had to call up 
his next student at Monvadian Academy and find out what their effective 
ranges were.  After him... oh, bother.  It would be the biotheurgy 
student from Nickson.  He was /useless./
	/Like some other young student from long ago,/ he thought.
	Balarr was peeking at him again through the partly-cracked 
laboratory door.  "No, not now!"  Grentvark yelled, waving his hand for 
him to go away.  The apprentice disappeared again like a startled 
rodent, pulling the door shut with a thud.
	Bringing the crystal ball up again, Grentvark contacted the other 
student and went through a similar routine.
	Doing his research this way was going to work as long as the 
students knew what they were talking about.  If they didn't... well, he 
usually confirmed the information.  At any rate, he was advisor to only 
the brightest students.
	When Grentvark was done with the Monvadian student, Balarr 
cautiously pushed the door open and crept back into the lab.  Grentvark 
heard him but was unconcerned, as he'd finished with his calls.  He'd 
put off the biotheurgy student and make an excuse later.  The boy 
wouldn't dare call /him./
	Armed with his new information, he stood before the jeweled 
terminal of the condensation tanks, and slowly began to enter 
information with gestures of his hands.
	Pausing, he snapped his fingers, well out of the terminal's 
effective range.  "Balarr, bring me a cup of coffee."  Resuming his 
casting, he moved his hands and fingers in the physical equations which 
made manna obey his will, or in this case controlled the equipment.  His 
apprentice ran off to get coffee, pleased to see that his illustrious 
master was hard at work.
	/Who can say this isn't my creation?/  he thought.  /I'm working.  
This is labor./  Grentvark gazed up at the naked creatures floating in 
the slightly pearlescent pink fluid.  /Hrrrm.  Variable thirty-two.  
Bust./  He smiled to himself.  /I think we may exceed the recommended 
range on that variable,  yes./  He moved his hands in spidery patterns 
to inflict this calculation upon the equipment, and then waved his open 
hand before his eyes, blinking rapidly.
	Returning with the coffee, the apprentice admired as his master 
moved his hand in a rapid somatic too arcane for him to recognize.  
Something to do with flight, perhaps, or the wind.
	/Whew,/ thought Grentvark.  /No more bean burritos for me./

                                * * *


	In the weeks to come, the artificial familiars continued to 
develop, realizing their final appearance as their fleshier parts formed 
and completed the whole of their bodies.  The hard, angular forms 
softened as a layer of fat and skin grew to envelop them, the latter 
being very pale and wrinkled from its constant liquid bath, but the 
simulants were soon covered by fur, a sandy golden color in the main, 
which sprouted slowly and then seemed to explode over their bodies, 
until it radiated around them, moving like sea vegetation in the gently-
circulating nutrient liquid.
	Grentvark the Groovy took to spending long periods of time sitting 
and watching the tanks, as if he could see the familiars grow, finding 
them increasingly compelling.  It seemed all at once that they had 
changed from synthetic, embryonic objects to something which could very 
well be alive.  Or at least that's what he said to himself.
	Even in their raised position it was clear that the vixens were 
very tall, as tall as men.  Their scale was to be comparable to their 
master's, while still being small enough for him to manage.  They had a 
markedly different physique, however; he had the look of a bodybuilder, 
thanks to well-practiced self-morphing spells, while the vixens had 
remained narrow-bodied and wiry, exaggeratedly so, even with their 
surface layers added.  The wizard knew this was deceptive.  If he'd 
built them correctly, they'd have an inherent magical enhancement which 
made them more than a match for his current strength.
	They weren't entirely whippetlike in form... each vixenmorph was 
endowed with an almost absurdly generous pair of ellipsoidal breasts 
which somehow still managed to conform to the flow of their bodies.  
Perhaps he'd tweaked that variable a bit too much.  Their legs, too, 
seemed overmuscled compared to the narrowness of the torso, which was 
long and weasellike, almost snakelike.  It seemed impossible that their 
internal organs could fit in so narrow a space-- but they were magical 
creatures.  They didn't have to make sense. 
	These oddities were especially noticed by Balarr, the apprentice.  
He found them disturbing, and didn't like to go near the tanks.
	There was something else about the simulants.  Although they 
simultaneously evidenced all the voluptuousness and hardness that the 
female form could muster, there were some decidedly un-female appendages 
growing from between the vixens' legs; and somehow, with all the 
contrasts that their bodies offered, they didn't look out of place.  
Again, this was in Grentvark's opinion.
	He didn't know why he'd made them that way... it just turned him 
on.

	The day came.  The instruments said to Grentvark that his 
simulants were as complete as they were going to get.
	The wizard had his apprentice turn the lab's lighting way down, 
heightening the already eerie effect that the pink-glowing capsules gave 
the chamber.  It didn't help Balarr's nerves any.  He hated this 
project... he found simulants to be kind of creepy, even the small 
shapeless lab-imps that fetched objects and cleaned up after the wizard.
	His heart stuck in his throat when the wizard told him to come 
over to the developing tanks.  Balarr squeaked something.
	"Yes, of course you," said Grentvark, fiddling with the controls.  
"They're going to need help getting out of the tanks, and there are two 
of them.  One for me and one for you."
	"What, master?"
	"You're to help one out of the tank, to her feet, and dry her off.  
That's all."
	"Wh-WHAT?!" yelped the apprentice, as a lab-imp bumped into his 
leg, carrying a stack of nice fluffy towels.  The tales this boy would 
tell when he left, thought the sorceror, would make Grentvark the Groovy 
seem like the darkest necromancer in this part of creation, always an 
excellent thing to have to one's credit.
	Grentvark returned his attention to the terminal, studying it and 
looking up at the simulants one last time, grinding his teeth.  /What if 
they don't work?/  During the long weeks when the project had been 
completely stalled, he had had a recurring image in which he performed 
the final activation sequence and the simulants just did not wake up.  
That possible failure troubled him more than any previous, for a number 
of reasons.
	He caught himself standing there, and clenched his jaw tighter, 
swallowing.  "Happy birthday," muttered the wizard.  Grentvark moved his 
hand through a simple pattern.
	The twin tanks began to vibrate, their lighting pulsating, and a 
low basso throb of escaping manna expanded and flowed through the 
laboratory.  The few lit fireglobes seemed to dim in submission to the 
dramatic illumination of the equipment, the perfectly identical vulpine 
bodies of the simulants at once lightcast and silhouetted.
	It was a fantastic waste of manna, since all that was required was 
to give the simulants a light mental nudge to get them going, and the 
fluid would then drain from the vessels.  Grentvark found it very 
gratifying, though.
	The sorceror's hands paused.  He watched the simulants closely as 
several seconds passed, the throb intensifying, growing into more of a 
rumble.  Balarr's head swung back and forth, looking between his master 
and the condensation tanks.
	The wizard stopped holding his breath as two pairs of vulpine 
eyelids fluttered and opened groggily, almost hesitantly.  The pupils 
beneath were widely dilated.  The simulants blinked, and seemed to focus 
on what was around them.  Limbs moved in underwater slow motion, hands 
raising to press against the glass, steadying the vixens.  Balarr 
cringed a little to see that the things were awake, but dutifully held a 
towel by its corners and stood watching.
	There was a dull ringing thud as some release mechanism was 
triggered, a few bubbles rising through the tanks from below, and the 
level of the nutritive fluid started to decline, the rumbling of manna 
diminishing rapidly as well.
	And that was it.  The liquid slowly drained, the simulants 
balancing themselves against the crystal walls, getting used to gravity 
as the semi-stasis which had held them in the approximate middle of the 
tanks was dispelled.  Grentvark thrust out his square jaw and gave his 
apprentice an excited grin.  It was done.  He threw a lever and the 
great crystal vessels unsealed themselves from the pedestal, rising.
	Wet vixen fingerpads squeaked along the rising walls of the 
tanks... the simulants seemed to know that this was the badly-planned 
part of the activation procedure and were careful not to lose balance.  
The apprentice stared as the one nearest him reached out a hand for 
support.  He looked to his master, who himself was rapt with the 
simulant he was attending.  Balarr flinched as his hand found a warm and 
soft grasp.
	It was the apparent intelligence of the simulant which frightened 
him... for he /was/ frightened of them.  He'd watched it grow in a 
bottle from nothing, and now it was smiling at him, expecting him to 
take part in a procedure it knew even better than he did.
	Grentvark glanced over to see his apprentice hesitantly take the 
simulant's hand.  He felt something growing inside him, mostly surprise 
that the simulants worked, and he bit back on this, trying to look 
sternly masterful, knowing it was a look that impressed the kids, and 
would be memorable when this moment was related in the future.
	Tending to his vixen, he kept an occasional eye on Balarr.  Even 
though he knew otherwise, the familiars appeared so delicate, and 
Grentvark tried to be in all places at once, should they falter as they 
emerged from their tanks like fragile new dragonflies shedding their old 
skins and waiting to spread their wings.
	Grentvark let his vixen use his massive arm as a handhold, and 
helped her down.
	They stood pensively, soaked and bedraggled-looking, dripping on 
the cobbled floor, their expressions shallow, as if something occupied 
their thoughts.  What could possibly concern them this early in their 
lives, the wizard wasn't certain, and he was puzzling over this when his 
simulant lowered herself unhurriedly to the floor, on hands and knees.  
/Awfully soon for/ that, thought the wizard.
	Balarr's vixen sank to the ground also, and he attempted to help 
it up.
	"No, let them," said Grentvark.  The apprentice let go; she also 
lowered herself, hind end raised... she promptly emitted a pitiful 
warbling sound and spat up a flood of pinkish liquid.  Balarr, for an 
instant, felt oddly sympathetic towards it.  Her sibling did the same, 
emptying her lungs of the fluid until she could draw her first gasping 
breaths.
	Now they didn't look so vacuous, seemed more interested in their 
surroundings, reaching cautiously to touch things, their expressions 
those of infant animals, eyes wide and curious and appraising.  Balarr 
was not about to let himself be examined, and backed up a step.
	Gently, the wizard's hand encircled the pale, naked umbilicus of 
the nearest vixen... she stood still instinctively, complacent, blinking 
a little.  With a short, sterile knife Grentvark cut the cord almost 
flush with the belly of the vixen, and then inverted its end upon 
itself, placing a small healing spell upon it to seal it.
	"Dry her."  Grentvark moved to the other vixen.
	The vulpine looked at Balarr as if to echo the command, smiling 
mildly.  Balarr swallowed in a decidedly uncomfortable way, and fluffed 
up one of the large blue towels.
	Each vixen watched the procedure closely, smiling a little.  
Grentvark felt a taint of revulsion in the back of his mind... whenever 
he disconnected a simulant from its tether it inevitably watched, but 
the realism of these made it seem... obscene, somehow.  The apprentice 
was glad that his master did not entrust him with such a task, and 
scrubbed the soft cloth over the vixen's damp, matted fur.
	Balarr set his mouth and tried not to cry out as, halfway through 
the towelling, the vixen draped its damp fingers around the back of his 
neck and began to rub, returning the caressing he was giving it.  He was 
beginning to feel as though he might be sick.
	The second hermvixen leaned into the rubbing as Grentvark dried it 
off, closing its eyes and then directing its sight at him, its look 
indefinable, perhaps one of mingled gratitude and pleasure.  The 
sorceror couldn't help but smile back at it, and the simulant closed its 
eyes again, a pink tongue running over the side of its muzzle.
	"Will that be all, master?" breathed the apprentice, having dried 
the simulant as quickly and perfunctorily as he could.  Grentvark 
nodded, and Balarr scurried off to another part of the lab, leaving a 
hint of a whine in his wake.
	"A dog of a boy," said the wizard, sharing this observation with 
his newly-born creations.  The simulants watched Balarr retreat, before 
returning their attention to their immediate surroundings.  They stood 
side-by-side, looking from one object to another; 'scanning' was a word 
that came to mind.
	This should have been what they were doing.  One primary function 
was to absorb any and all information and retain it for later use.  They 
/should/ have been doing this... they might just be looking around in 
idiocy.  /Better be sure about that./  Grentvark watched them hopefully, 
stroking his goatee; again, the gesture was lost on anyone but himself.  
The simulants were too young to recognize pretension.
	He sat before them, perched on a sturdy lab stool, and held his 
chin in his hand.  He drew a deep breath.  "Speak."
	The vixens' eyes sparkled as they said "Yes, master," in unison.  
Their voices were surprisingly soft, with a slight husk beneath.  For 
creatures which had only recently begun to breathe air, they spoke quite 
distinctly.
	Grentvark raised his eyebrows.  "How do you feel?" he said.
	"We are functioning perfectly, master," said the first vixen.
	"Perfectly," said the second.
	"As far as we can determine."
	"A full series of diagnostic tests would be in order to verify 
this."
	A grin spread across the wizard's handsome face.  /Isn't that 
magnificent, Balarr?  Self-diagnosis..../  He turned his head to show 
his grin to his apprentice, but he'd wandered off.  He frowned and 
returned his attention to the simulants.  They were watching him 
expectantly.  "Yes, tests," he said.
	"You seem ill at ease, master," said one of them.
	The sorceror's train of thought was interrupted... he wasn't sure 
what he'd just heard.  "I'm sorry?"
	"You're sorry, master?"  said a vixen, tilting her head.
	"What for?"
	Grentvark shook his head.  "No.  What did you say earlier?"
	"I said, you seem ill at ease."
	He had heard correctly.  "No... I'm... I have several things on my 
mind."  And more by the minute.
	"Are we not exactly as you designed us to be?"
	Grentvark stroked his beard.  "I suppose that remains to be seen."
	"Of course," said one vixen.
	"Of course," emphasized the other.
	The familiars looked at each other... something passed between 
them.  Their grins turned up a notch, and they looked at their master 
again.
	Grentvark smiled back.  Where was his apprentice?  He was missing 
this.  "Why do you repeat everything?"
	"Confirmation."
	"Confirmation."
	Grentvark decided to approach the possibility that his familiars 
had come out all right.  /As if you hadn't designed them yourself./  As 
he let himself accept that he might have succeeded, his feelings of 
wonder abated and were replaced by a more appropriate emotion, something 
akin to avarice, more suitable than pride when the simulants were not 
wholly of his creation.
	Focusing again, he saw that they were waiting for a response.  
Perhaps he'd better say something authoritative, to establish his 
command of them.
	"I created you to be my familiars and assistants.  You will help 
me in the casting of spells, and the carrying out of magical 
experiments, and with the research and preparation that they involve.  
You will also have other... tasks to perform," the timbre of his voice 
deepening a bit at these last words.
	The hermvixens smiled at him.
	"Yes, master."
	"We know that."
	"You programmed us with that information."
	Grentvark blinked a little.  "I did?"  He didn't remember having 
done that, and it took him by surprise.  Good thing they were only 
familiars.
	"Yes.  When you set down our primary functions."
	"Yes."
	The wizard nodded evenly.  "So I did."
	The other vixen canted her head this time.  "You do remember this, 
master?"  Was she being patronizing?  No, she couldn't be, at her age.  
It was just his usual paranoia.
	"I designed you.  But you and your sister are very complicated 
creations... and I can't be occupied with every aspect at once," 
Grentvark hastily added.  The vixen nodded softly, admitting a small 
smile.  "Do you have any questions?"
	"Yes, master," said the first hermvixen, without pause.  "What is 
my name?"
	/Names,/ thought Grentvark.  Blast it!  All this time and he 
hadn't thought of names.  He hadn't any idea what to call them; but of 
course they had to be named.  Ordinary imps and that kind of garbage 
didn't need identifiers, but these were his masterworks.  They needed 
something memorable... catchy.
	"Mnemora," he heard himself say.  Where had that come from?  
Something to do with memory, he guessed.  Wasn't too bad.  Now, what to 
call the other one?
	The first vixen smiled, showing her pretty teeth.  There was 
excitement in the grin, but also a great deal of pride; and as the 
initial excitement faded, she even began to look a little smug, as if 
she'd been trusted with some terribly important piece of information.  
Watching this, Grentvark felt a thrill go through himself, and didn't 
know what to make of it, nor could he remember the last time he'd felt 
anything like it.
	The other vixen saw the look on her sister's face, and turned to 
Grentvark, asking the same question.  He thought he heard a slight note 
of impatience in the simulant's voice, but wasn't sure.  He himself was 
impatient to work out what she should be called.
	He was really fumbling for it, too.  /Calculatrix?  That's not 
very pleasant.  Thaumora?  Mnemora and Thaumora?  That's not too bad./
	The simulant looked at him expectantly, fixing him with her 
slitted amber eyes.
	/They'll be getting mixed up all the time, though./  Grentvark 
wished she wouldn't stare at him like that.  He found it scared and 
excited him at the same time.  But she was just a machine, waiting for 
information.  /Something pretty?  Glorious, even?  Lucifer's already 
taken..../
	"Arial," said the wizard.  The vixen's ears perked up as if this 
was her name all along and she was responding to its call.  "Arial is 
your name."  Grentvark patted her on the head, and she emitted a soft 
trilling sound, closing her eyes.
	The first vixen smiled also, as if she'd derived some satisfaction 
from her sister's appellation.  It was possible that she had; they were 
supposedly linked mentally, but he didn't really understand how that 
worked.
	He just hoped he could remember their names.
	Mnemora was looking at his face, seeking his attention.  "Do you 
have a name, master?"
	The wizard smiled.  "My name is Grentvark."  /I really should have 
programmed them with that, first off./
	"Should we call you Grentvark?" asked Arial.
	"You /should/ call me 'master.'  The vixens nodded in unison; he 
patted them both on the head, and they made pleasurable noises.
	Grentvark chuckled a little.  That was so cute... he could feel 
his heart swelling within his chest.
	"Does he have a name, master?" said Arial, pointing languidly at 
the apprentice.  Balarr jumped, and made to conceal himself behind a 
workbench.
	Grentvark gently placed his hand on her own and urged it 
downwards.  "It's not polite to point, Arial," he said.  He gave a shrug 
and turned his back on the apprentice.  "His name is Balarr... he's not 
important."  Balarr looked a little downcast, and found something 
interesting to look at on a nearby wall.
	"Why is he not important, master?" asked Mnemora, standing beside 
her sister now.
	The wizard searched for words... he'd never tried to articulate 
the relationship between wizard and apprentice; it was just so.  
Apprentices were scum.  "Because I'm the teacher, and he's just a 
student.  Because he doesn't have the knowledge that I have."  The 
apprentice wandered off behind some of the room's taller furniture, 
dejectedly.
	Arial blinked a little with sugary cuteness.  "We do not have the 
knowledge you possess, master.  Are we also unimportant?"
	Grentvark smiled and put an arm gently around Arial's slender 
back.  The simulant clung to him almost immediately, wrapping her 
sinuous arms around his waist.  "You're both important for other 
reasons... despite your not having my knowledge.  And that will come, 
also."  Mnemora joined them, draping her lithe body over him and her 
sister, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for her to 
do.
	The wizard's eyes widened a little as he felt something pressing 
firmly through his robes at about waist level.  He looked down, and met 
the gaze of Arial, who was looking back at him intently, grinning a 
little, and in that moment realized what was sticking him.  The mild 
shock of that was replaced by an even more intense flush of emotion.  
Grentvark thought he might be blushing; he remembered his apprentice was 
in the room, and composed himself by way of self-admonishment, grinning 
a little.  He himself had attached the things to the vixens, after all.
	Arial took the smile to be directed at her, and turned the corner 
of her mouth up further, licking her exposed teeth.  Grentvark smiled 
sheepishly, and turned to Mnemora.  The other vixen met him with much 
the same expression as her twin, and his eyes widened when he felt her 
long fingers draping around his hip and buttock, squeezing.
	Unconsciously, Grentvark backed away... he hadn't meant to, but 
that was all right, since the vixens stuck to him, following along.
	"Mmmm, well."  He rubbed their backs, hoping that would satisfy 
them for the moment.  "We want to run some tests on the two of you, to 
make sure you came out of the process intact," said the wizard.
	Mnemora grinned up at him, waving and fluffing out her almost-dry 
tail into a lush bottlebrush.  "Aren't there other things you want to do 
to us, master?" she purred, shockingly unaware of her arousal.
	/I think I overdid that part of it./  In the face of their 
overwhelming reality, the erotic daydreams which had accompanied much of 
their physical design were clouding over.  The simulants scared /him/ as 
much as they did the apprentice... not so much because of how real they 
were, but because of  the sense of desire which was already pouring off 
of them moments after they were born.  Lust, in the purest sense of the 
word.  He wondered if they would approach their magical tasks with the 
same enthusiasm with which they gravitated towards the flesh.
	"L... later," he managed.  "We have work to do."  If the 
vixenmorphs were disappointed they didn't show it.  They stood waiting, 
grinning up at him.

	He had the simulants channel some of the lab's ambient manna 
through themselves, a standard test.  He wasn't sure if he was reading 
the instruments correctly, but according to them the familiars' bodies 
had negligible resistance to the magical flow.  Grentvark scratched his 
head over that for a while, pleased though he was.  Next he had them 
perform mathematical and then thaumaturgical equations, vocally.  This 
occupied very little of their attention, and as the vixens prattled off 
streams of numbers and variables, their eyes wandered over each other, 
and their smiles widened as they shared some secret, growing thought.  
As they were then asked to cast equations physically, their attention 
towards each other became more obvious, each familiar having an eye for 
each other's graceful motion.
	After that, Grentvark was at a loss for further tests, and handed 
them some books to read, observing how quickly they could absorb 
information, and while their speed through the texts wasn't absurdly 
fast, he didn't think they could possibly be absorbing everything.
	He asked them for the books back, and proceeded to quiz them on 
what was inside; they gave him a pair of odd looks when he leafed 
through the volumes himself.  When he questioned them, he was startled 
to discover that each vixen could recite what had been in the other's 
book.
	By then it was getting late, so the wizard gave Mnemora and Arial 
the standard guest's guide map of the castle and told them to go bathe, 
to clean the residue of the pink liquid from their fur.  Balarr came out 
of hiding soon after they departed, and Grentvark had him mop up the 
spilled gunk from the floor.  He swabbed up the drying mess with a rag 
mop while his master stood over him gleefully.
	"You were a witness, Balarr," said the wizard, crossing his 
enormous muscled arms, hoping he looked as imposing as he felt right 
now.  "You were here tonight when the finest privately-made simulants in 
this astral sectare were activated."
	"Er, yes, master."  The student looked down at his mop.
	"You question this?"
	"I'm sure that they're all that you say they are, but... they make 
me uneasy."
	"Uneasy?  Why would they make you uneasy?"  He knew why the 
familiars made /him/ uneasy, but wanted the apprentice's take on the 
pair.
	Balarr hesitated, setting his words carefully.  "Master, I don't 
/like/ simulants," he half-whispered.
	"You're going to get used to them if you want to be a sorceror."
	Balarr nodded.  "Yes, sir."
	Grentvark patted him on the shoulder.  "If you want to be a wizard 
of any worth you'll have to be able to tolerate artificial constructs."  
He grinned.  "They do all the inglorious leg work in spellcasting."
	Balarr nodded again.  That which the apprentices aren't doing.  He 
dunked the mop in a wooden bucket and slopped it onto the cobblestones.  
"Those imps aren't so bad... master.  But these...."  He hesitated, not 
having the words for what he was saying.
	"Go on, speak freely," said the wizard, mistaking this for 
reluctance.
	The apprentice stopped in his chore.  "These creatures... they 
seem so..."  He wrinkled his nose.  "...hungry."  His eyes widened and 
he added "Not just like, you know, /that,/ but generally... hungry."  He 
shrugged.
	So the boy had a firm grasp of the obvious.  Grentvark grinned 
winningly and said, "They're empty vessels, waiting to be filled.  Once 
I keep them busy, they won't seem so 'hungry,' as you say."  He gave the 
boy another affirming shoulder pat.  Balarr nodded and swabbed the mop 
back and forth, and Grentvark left him to it.
	With the throwing of a lever, the massive crystal tanks sank 
rumbling into their pedestal, and the wizard had an imp fetch him some 
tools.  Using these, he started to break down the condensation units for 
storage.  If the simulants were going to fail now, the tanks wouldn't 
help them, and he didn't want this stuff lying around where anyone could 
have a look at it.  When he'd disconnected it from the lab's manna 
supply, he clapped his hands twice, and a cavity opened up in the brick 
wall, into which he slid the entire unit.  It swallowed the device and 
sealed itself up seamlessly, just as the soft sound of giggling came 
from behind him.  The simulants had returned from their bathing, holding 
hands.
	/Thank goodness they get along,/ he thought.  /For a second there 
they seemed to be competing./  "All cleaned up?"  Balarr looked up, but 
his master wasn't talking to him.
	"Yes, master," said one of them brightly... he thought it was 
Mnemora.
	"Thoroughly clean," said the one who was presumably Arial.
	"Thoroughly," said the first.  The vixens smiled a little more 
widely, their tails waving.

	Despite the magnitude of the project and the months he'd had to 
prepare, Grentvark hadn't made living arrangements for the familiars.  
He'd started the project with the idea, or more accurately the fantasy, 
that they'd leap into bed with him immediately.  Of course, they were 
certainly prepared to do that very thing... but now /he/ had cold feet.  
Now he had two tailor-made lovers who could and would do anything he 
desired, and he found the prospect rather intimidating.
	So when he had the chance to engage in a sweaty evening of naked 
lust with the hermvixens, he instead set them up in a dark side room 
with a couple of cots, a small desk, and an antiquated Elektra scryer, 
so they could do research when they weren't working for or 'serving' 
their master.  It would just be for a while, until he adjusted; it 
wouldn't do to put them off for very long.
	"Are you two comfortable?"
	"Yes, master."
	"Yes, master."
	The simulants grinned up at him happily, as they had from the 
moment they had first spoken.  They didn't seem to mind the poor 
accommodations of the room, which Grentvark was painfully aware of; just 
bare brick and rickety furniture, with a small fire-pit in the floor 
that cast drunken shadows across the walls and ceiling.  Once they were 
bedding with him it wouldn't matter.  He looked first at one, then the 
other, as they were on opposite sides of the room; Mnemora's bed was by 
the door and she had to crane her neck backwards to see her master.
	"I imagine you two are very tired after what you've been through 
today.  Sleep now, and in the morning we'll begin with your first 
spells."  Grentvark turned away abruptly as the searingly needful gazes 
of the vixens suddenly went up another intense degree.  "Good night!" he 
called over his shoulder, pulling the door shut behind him, almost 
retreating from the pair.  In the hall he stopped and took a deep breath 
before continuing to his own chambers, feeling uneasy.
	Mnemora and Arial turned their looks upon each other, two pairs of 
golden vulpine eyes glittering in the firelight.  They had no thoughts 
of sleep; they had only just awoken and there were all sorts of things 
they needed to know.  They shared simple thoughts, each aware that the 
other was staring, wanting.  Mnemora finally sat up, letting the blanket 
slide from her shoulders.
	"I don't want to sleep over here... I want to sleep over there 
with /you!/"  She slipped out from under her blanket and pattered 
fluidly across the floor to slither into bed next to her sister, Arial 
holding the covers open widely.  Mnemora made a satisfied sound, 
grinning, and Arial grinned back with a soft growling purr.  There they 
lay, nose to nose, breast to breast, their bodies mirroring each other 
perfectly, their breaths even in time with each other, and quickening.
	Unashamedly each admired the other's body, tilting their heads 
this way and that, studying the sinuous, perfect curves and valleys, a 
dizzying sensation of desire permeating their thoughts, reinforcing 
itself through their mental bond, until when their eyes reached each 
other again, each vixen's body tensing with a start, it was difficult 
for them to hold their heads up straight.
	The hermvixens inched towards each other simultaneously.  Mnemora 
broke the silence once again.  "You're almost as cute as I am," she 
purred.
	"I'm /exactly/ as cute as you are," replied Arial, sighing the 
words, feeling herself melt right there on the bed next to her twin.
	Mnemora drew a gasping breath, nodding, her eyes narrowing to 
slits.  They nudged closer together, and as they did, their matched 
erections-- aching and exaggerated as the rest of their bodies --
touched, the hot skin brushing, and then things happened with increasing 
rapidity.
	As though their bodies were magnetized they instantly thrust their 
hips together, rail-thin pelvises meshing, trapping each taut-skinned 
arousal to the other, synchronized heartbeats kept in time through those 
as well... next, rich vixenish breastflesh molded as each laced her arms 
tightly about the other in a brutal clutch, and finally two long muzzles 
scissored and turned slightly to interlock, tongues invading, longing to 
taste, to consume.  The newly-created familiars whimpered muffledly to 
each other, surely trapped now, consigned to lifelong mutual desire.
	Their bodies twined about each other, the place where one vixen 
ended and the other began growing indistinct, writhing, shuddering in 
waves, as pent-up, deliberately augmented need tore electrically through 
them.  They groaned and cried out into each other's mouth, lapping and 
nipping, until they pulled themselves apart from each other, knowing 
that this embrace would not be sufficient.
	Arial looked up, slightly beneath her sister now, and gasped as if 
seeing her lovely face for the first time.  Her mind searched for an 
appropriate expletive, but in her very short life she hadn't had time to 
affect the use of any.  "Oh, you're so beautiful, Mnemora," she 
whispered.
	Mnemora groaned out something incoherent but definitely 
affirmative.  Bodies ground together, competing to see which was the 
more erogenous; the tiny room had grown stuffy and the air was 
thickening with the twins' unique pheromone, new and thrilling to them.  
"Ohh, you know what to do, don't you?" trilled Mnemora excitedly.
	"Of course I do," gasped Arial in reply, her strong leg lifting 
and locking over her sister's hip, drawing her in and up, until the 
wedge of Mnemora's glans settled into the dampness of her feminine half.  
Instantly Mnemora's body rolled in a wave, the motion terminating and 
focusing in her hips which thrust upward and buried the whole of her 
vulpine penis in her sister's sweet body.
	Arial's head rolled back, rocking from side to side, her mouth 
open wordlessly, as she felt her tender insides stretch and adjust to 
the girth, claimed by her gorgeous duplicate Mnemora, who pressed her 
face to her sister's bosom and emitted a quiet sob, grateful beyond 
words to be enfolded by the wet velvet of Arial's accommodating passage.  
For a long moment they held each other quietly, their ignorant young 
minds certain this was all they could ever want or need.
	The peace was broken as hips began to move almost of their own 
accord, moving carefully at first, but easily synchronizing and 
increasing their pace until their bodies met with low, hollow-sounding 
thuds.  The hermvixens wondered at this, as something that was half-
beyond their control, watching as their bodies coupled.
	They softly nuzzled, stroking face and neck and shoulders with 
their fingers, but mostly looked into each other's eyes, absorbing each 
other, their intent gentle but their nature making the act rough and 
forceful, hips pounding away below, wanting gratification while their 
minds shared something deeper than the fulfillment of a primary 
function.  They shared each other all night, without sleep.

	Grentvark opened the door to the familiars' chamber.  "Good 
afternoon, my familiars.  I allowed you to sleep a little longer than 
expected.  The rest after your activation will do you some good, but now 
you must awake, you have a full day and much to... to learn.  What /is/ 
that smell?"  Sniffing, he looked around and found Mnemora's cot empty, 
but there was clearly more than one hermvixen under Arial's blanket.
	/That's darling... they were lonely./  The wizard smiled to 
himself.  "Time to wake," he said, clapping his hands, and was rewarded 
with a stirring under the blanket and a couple of sleepy moans.  He 
smiled and crossed his arms, waiting.  Behind him, the apprentice Balarr 
looked on.
	The blanket fell away as Arial rolled off of Mnemora, their 
sticky, matted bodies coming apart with a stringy ripping sound of 
secretion-glued fur separating.  The two blinked and smiled brightly up 
at their master, looking disheveled and not at all prepared for an 
afternoon of spellcasting.
	Grentvark could think of nothing to say.
	"Master..."
	"May we have a drink of water?"
	"We're thirsty."
	"Yes.  Terribly thirsty."

                                  * * *


	Trudging up the gentle grade of one of the lower halls, Balarr 
staggered slightly underneath the stack of record books he was lugging 
to the laboratory.  Now and then the topmost book would slide to one 
side or the other, and he had to stop, bracing the pile against the wall 
and righting the volume.  He continued, and it slid again.  Balarr 
growled.  He was just going to let it fall off this time, he thought, 
and come back for it later.  He'd had his fill of this.  The new 
simulants did all the cool stuff with the wizard now, and he'd been 
reduced to an errand boy, doing chores like this.
	The topmost book slid back, bounced off his forehead and hit the 
floor with a smack, scraping softly as it slid a bit down the slope.  
"Ouch," he said, irritated.  He continued on a few steps, then sighed 
and returned for the fallen book.
	He had it better off than students in the universities, he 
supposed.  The familiars didn't tease him or play cruel pranks, like 
classmates would; they just stared at him.  But they got all the 
attention now, and while he'd only suspected before that he wasn't 
really learning anything, now it had become quite clear.  Each day his 
studies were secondary to whatever Grentvark the Groovy was doing with 
the hermvixens.
	There was no way in Hell his parents would pull him out of 
apprenticeship... they'd been fantastically lucky to get Grentvark to 
take him, and doubtless Balarr himself would be blamed for his 
inevitable failure, regardless of what excuses he provided.
	He sighed, struggling upward, his feet almost going out from under 
him on the unswept ramp, and finally made it to a level spot.  What was 
he going to do if he went back?  Be a farmhand?  Work the land with his 
idiot family down in the solid dimensions?  Balarr grimaced.  He would 
have to make the wizard teach him something... somehow.  Could he really 
do that?  It wasn't the fact that Grentvark the Groovy was an 
intimidating figure-- everybody was larger than Balarr -but the wizard 
was totally absorbed with his new creations and was just blocking Balarr 
out.  If it wasn't for the chores he was expected to do, he swore, the 
wizard wouldn't notice him at all.
	Balarr turned the corner, and cried out softly as his path was 
blocked by the two simulants, standing side-by-side, their arms around 
each others' waists.  The stack of books tumbled to a crumpled pile at 
his feet.
	The simulants didn't try to obstruct him deliberately; they were 
just in his path, and as he looked up at them, their eyes locked onto 
his, and he was unable to look away.
	The apprentice felt uncomfortably like prey, often did when he was 
around the simulants.  He knew that if he gave that impression, they 
might consider him so, the way some animals would, but he couldn't help 
it.  The way they looked at him was unnerving.  He tried to say 
something, could think of nothing, and they stared at each other 
silently for several seconds, the smaller apprentice trembling a little.
	A movement on the edge of his vision made him glance downwards.  
Their hips were moving subtly forward and back, and to his horror he 
glimpsed twin bulges of arousal pressing at the fronts of the skimpy 
skirts that the vixens wore.  Balarr felt his mouth growing dry, and 
raised his head again to be captured by the simulants' penetrating gaze.
	The vixen on his right tilted her head to the side, eyes never 
leaving him, as if considering him... the corner of her mouth turned up.  
Balarr resolved not to shrink back, as though he'd been yanked into some 
sort of contest.
	The gaze of the vixen on the left flicked up and down his body-- 
he was certain he could feel her eyes roving upon him --and she extended 
her tonguetip, licking her lips with a quiet /slup!/ sound as her eyes 
locked to his once again.
	Balarr whimpered and pelted off down the hallway in the direction 
he had come, leaving behind the sound of the vixens chuckling to each 
other.

	Within two weeks of the simulants' creation, Grentvark dismissed 
his apprentice.  The boy had mixed feelings about this-- on the one 
hand, he was glad to be away from the hermvixen familiars, and on the 
other he'd been rejected by a major wizardly figure --but though he 
didn't know it yet, he and his career had been done a huge favor.
	Grentvark puttered purposefully around one of the rooms set aside 
for the casting of spells; it resembled a chapel, but the only deity it 
served was the science of magic-using.  The wizard placed a tall 
candlestick in a particular arrangement of several, the makings of an 
extradimensional gate.
	The wizard didn't have the time or any real need for an apprentice 
anymore... and he hadn't missed the looks that the hermvixens would give 
the boy.  They were much more precocious than he'd expected.  It 
wouldn't do to have a scandal ruin everything before he even presented 
the simulants to his peers.  He could hardly believe they'd want to bed 
the lad, even after regularly serving the wizard /and/ spending 
countless hours with each other; and he'd /made/ them that way.  That 
would be something to keep in mind next time, that a little libido went 
a long way.  Damn it all, the familiars were /always/ screwing, in their 
spare time, during their study time, sometimes during work if he didn't 
keep an eye on them, quite frequently if he /did./  It was an itch they 
had an uncontrollable urge to scratch, and they looked to him less and 
less frequently for permission to do so.
	Furthermore, the simulants delighted in the sound of their own 
voices, singing shrill and unkind music that they'd learned over the 
crystal ball, echoing through the huge drafty chambers of the wizard's 
extradimensional fortress, and this wouldn't have been so bad, except 
that with their vocal range they could easily shatter glass, and often 
they did.  Those flaws he'd been expecting had by now made their 
presence evident.
	"Mnemora, please stop looking in that mirror and come help me with 
this casting."
	Mnemora tried valiantly to break her gaze from the gorgeous vision 
in the full-length mirror, her body stepping away and leaving her head 
draggling there, until it too was forced to come along.  "Yes, master," 
she purred.
	There was that one other problem, too.  He'd wanted to make sure 
they wouldn't die of angst or self-loathing when he put their 
superintelligent minds into exaggerated sex-toy bodies, so he'd given 
them plenty of pride.  Much too much pride, in retrospect.  The 
hermvixens were haughty and confident in a way which Grentvark had to 
admit he found exciting, and not only were they in love with themselves, 
but with each vixen being the other's mirror image they adored each 
other, understandably more than they cared for him.  He could kick 
himself for not realizing this when he was programming their settings.
	"Let me look at you instead," murmured Arial as Mnemora padded 
into the staging area for the spell they were working on.  Mnemora 
lowered her muzzle a little, a wide grin erupting over it when she 
thought the wizard wasn't looking, and took her place beside her 
sibling.  The familiars were both nude; it made it easier for them to 
work magic, so they said, and he didn't usually find it distracting.
	Grentvark placed one final candle stand, looked at it a moment, 
and then moved it a couple of inches to the side.  He raised his 
eyebrows as Mnemora cleared her throat.  He looked at it some more, and 
after some thought moved it back to its original position.  Arial 
cleared /her/ throat.
	"You stop that," he muttered, steadying the candlestick.  It 
galled him enough that the familiars would correct him, albeit with his 
permission, but now they were starting to play tricks on him, and he 
sensed a definite air of contempt about their little laboratory pranks.  
The hermvixens giggled to each other.  "That isn't funny," muttered 
Grentvark, preoccupied, straightening the other candles.  "This is a 
very complicated gate and everything has to be in just the right place."
	"Of course, master, but those aren't the proper runes to use for a 
gate of that shape," one of the familiars said.
	Grentvark summoned up what he felt was enough dignity to confront 
this assertion.  "What do you mean?" he said disdainfully to the air, 
since he wasn't sure which familiar had addressed him.
	Mnemora spoke up.  "Those runes are meant to open an elliptical 
gate, and the candles are set up for a saddle-shaped gate," the familiar 
dutifully explained, accompanying it with an informative mental image 
which the wizard ignored.
	He'd been waiting for her to take the bait.  "I'm well-aware of 
that, Mnemora, but the centers of these candlesticks are made out of 
/mercury,/ and because they're fluid-"
	"That isn't going to work," said Mnemora
	"It couldn't possibly work," added Arial.
	"-because the insides of the candlesticks are fluid, they'll be 
able to focus the manna despite the use of... of elliptical... why are 
you looking at me like that?"
	"Because it isn't going to work."
	Grentvark sighed inwardly at their childish insistence.  "Mnemora, 
I am /not/ stupid..."
	"I didn't say you were stupid, master...."
	He waved a largish tome around, holding it by one cover.  "It's 
what the /book/ says."
	Arial shrugged.  "The book is wrong."
	Grentvark, wizard in a gargantuan blonde beach-stud body, 
sputtered.  "The book is not wrong!" he managed, putting emphasis on 
practically every word.  Arial shrank back a bit from their volume.
	"Can the book not be wrong, master?" said Mnemora, looking at him 
pointedly.
	"Well, er... it isn't wrong."
	"It's not, master?"  said Arial.
	"No, it's not."
	Arial smiled up at him in a way he didn't like, holding her arms 
behind her back.  "Will you be explaining to us how it isn't wrong, 
master?"
	"No, I will /not,/" growled the wizard, slamming the book closed.  
/Damn, lost my page again./
	The problem really stemmed, he supposed, from the differing 
behaviors he demanded in the laboratory and in his private chambers.  In 
the lab, he wanted them to be obedient, faithful to his every word, 
following all instructions... it was okay if they questioned him, since, 
yes, he did commit the occasional error, but overall he wanted them to 
be respectful, to revere him as a senior spellcaster.  In the 
bedchamber, however... well, he'd wanted them to 'take charge.'  Really 
take charge...  he'd certainly contemplated that in lurid detail when 
programming them.  But /somebody/ had difficulty reconciling the two 
mindsets.
	He disregarded the familiars for a moment, fiddling with the book 
and not really looking for his page.  He probably ought to have them 
stop doing the bondage and sadomasochism scenes altogether... the hobby 
wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  It was scary being tied up, and it 
hurt!
	There was a long pause.  "Would you like us to explain why it /is/ 
wrong, master?"
	He turned on them.  "No.  No!  We're going to /assume,/ for the 
sake of this experiment, that it /isn't/ wrong.  Can you do that?" said 
the sorceror, still growling.
	Arial's ears drooped the slightest bit.  "Yes, master, we can do 
that."
	"Yes," added Mnemora.
	"But--"
	"Good.  Now take your positions.  Oh, and you will /not/ assume 
that because you /believe/ the experiment will fail, you can /let/ it 
fail.  You will do your absolute best."
	"But we've never ever ruined a spell!" protested Mnemora, her ears 
starting to droop also.
	"Why am I not entirely certain of that?" muttered Grentvark.  
Seeing that the hermvixens were suitably chastened, he turned away to 
have a small smile to himself as he selected an appropriate staff to 
cast with.
	In the old days of primitive single-person spellcasting, a wizard 
was limited by the number of calculations he or she could make at the 
time of casting.  For a very large spell, the casting could take days.  
Methods were used to get around this limitation, complicated procedures 
that involved encrypting equations into crystal spheres that would be 
shattered as part of the casting, or having apprentices do the brute 
calculations during it... all standard tricks, but there was a limit to 
how far one could go with these. That is, until simulant technology 
reached a level where the synthetic creature could calculate at an 
incredible speed, unattainable by most mortals.  Out of necessity the 
simulants usually couldn't do much else.  Usually.
	Mnemora stuck her tongue out at the wizard's back.  Grentvark 
didn't say "I saw that," or anything of the sort, because he hadn't.  
Arial bit her own softly to stop herself from snickering, her tonguetip 
sticking out in a way which her sister found attractive, so much that 
she shared this conviction mentally with Arial.  The familiars grinned 
at each other, and then their expressions took on a more serious cast, 
blanking out, as they began their tasks.
	The vixen familiars faced each other across the candlestick 
arrangement, extending their thin, wiry arms out to their sides, as 
though embracing the staging area of the spell, and a low buzzing sound 
rose as they rapidly spoke incantations under their breath; these were 
just the verbal components.  Underneath their relatively placid 
expressions they did the calculations meant to make the spell perform 
properly.
	Having picked a staff he liked, Grentvark the Groovy took his most 
prominent place before the arrangement, looking almost disinterested.  
The candleflames flickered sedately and the familiars obediently 
muttered their parts.  
	Grentvark stood about, shuffling just a bit, as though he was 
waiting to catch a ride someplace and he really couldn't stay around.  
This was part of the theatre of spellcasting; having the appropriate 
manner about one's self, to seem intense and yet unflappable.  Suddenly 
he thrust out his hand, stabbing at the air with his finger, growling 
"Asparax!"  He imagined performing this casting before an awestruck 
audience, though his exterior remained stern.
	Plasma leapt upwards from the candleflames in thin streams of 
purple, vanishing into the dark of the vaulted ceiling space, a groan of 
manna-tortured air following this manifestation.
	The soft guttural whispering of the familiars took on the 
semblance of a chant, an association which the cathedral architecture of 
the room strengthened.  Their eyes were closed now, their full 
concentration on building the pieces of the complex spell, which 
Grentvark knit together with the occasional magic word or gesture.  From 
immobility he would explode into a sweeping gesture with his arms and 
hands.  He chose the moments carefully, although he could have said each 
word at any time after the corresponding calculations had been set in 
place by the vixens; he was careful in terms of his performance.  
Because this wasn't a public casting it was a great time to practice, 
and camping it up like this was one of the few perks in an otherwise 
expensive, tedious and reviled profession.  The fantasy audience swelled 
into a multitude, legions centered on him and his magic powers.  It was 
the crowds of admirers that made it worthwhile, really.  "Fuzshalla!" he 
said, pointing someplace.  "Aaron-teen!"
	Untold hundreds or perhaps thousands of calculations were made by 
the vulpine familiars, power-words uttered as quickly as they could be 
enunciated, the spell rapidly coming together.
	The chamber's fireglobes seemed inconsequential aside the lavender 
glow expanding about the crown of each candlestick, the flames 
flickering, licking at the air in a frenzy.  A subtle din rose from the 
corners of the room, sounding like one single clear, distant silver horn 
at first but then expanding and distorting into a buzz which seemed to 
visibly ripple the air until the room was humming, and as the halos of 
purple light reached out and joined themselves into a glowing ring, the 
air kicked at the three participants, indicating that some sort of peak 
had been reached.
	The familiars fell silent, finished with their words, leaving the 
air to the screaming of the opening gate.
	Grentvark's mouth was agape in sorcerous glee as the lavender 
phosphorescence filled his vision, obscuring anything else.  He held his 
hands outstretched to maintain the flow of manna with his familiars, and 
watched as the glowing circle majestically faded, the humming dissolving 
into silence, leaving a number of guttering candle flames, and two 
rueful vixenish faces looking a bit accusatorily up at him.
	"Ahh," said Grentvark.  "What?"
	The spell's witchlight was gone, usurped by the lab's lights.   
Back to reality.
	"It failed, master," said Arial, in a tone which suggested that 
the wizard should have expected as much.
	Oh, so that was it.  It had failed.  Grentvark arched his eyebrows 
in resignation.
	"What did I do wrong?"
	"Nothing, master," said one familiar.
	"Nothing at all," said the other.
	"Nonsense!  Something was done wrong."
	A worried look crossed one vixen's face and jumped to the other's.  
"Truly, master," said Arial cautiously, "you made no mistakes."
	Grentvark raised a finger.  "Damn you two, stop riddling me."
	"But you made no mistakes," said Mnemora.
	The wizard threw up his hands with a fluttering of robe sleeves.  
"What did /you/ do wrong?"  The familiars' response was immediate and 
vocal.
	"We didn't!" squealed one.
	"We didn't!" squealed the other in a slightly lower register.
	"We did exactly what you told us to!"
	/That's the last thing you should do,/ he thought, but didn't say 
it aloud.  Maybe he /had/ given them some faulty instructions, but their 
insisting the whole experiment was a fraud wasn't going to help him find 
out what they were.  "My patience is being severely tried," grumbled the 
wizard.  Ears started to lower again, and the hermvixens hunched down a 
little.  When they spoke again they kept their voices hushed.
	"You can't use those runes for an area of effect of that shape," 
said one.
	"The book is wrong," said the other, trying to make her master see 
reason.
	"Yes, all /right,/"  he growled.  The hermvixens looked at each 
other, for more than a moment.  "If you think the book is wrong, we 
shall scrutinize it."
	He was the first to admit (to himself) that he had some problems 
with magic, but these four-month-old /toys/ couldn't possibly know more 
about it than him... if they did, why, he must be a complete idiot, and 
complete idiots didn't have money and power and fame, did they?  They 
did not.
	He nodded, grinning jaggedly.  "That's what we'll do.  We'll call 
on Those Who Are Likely To Know and settle this to your satisfaction.  
Is that agreeable to you, my venerable and aged familiars?"
	Arial bit her lip, and murmured "Yes, master."  Mnemora looked at 
the floor.  The wizard grunted, settling the matter, and left for his 
laboratory and its crystal ball, leaving his familiars to cower and wait 
for his return.
	Once there, he turned on the device, tapping its immaculate 
surface with a finger to get it to warm up faster.  In a moment he told 
it who to contact.  The clarity of the device was inundated with an 
ominous red-black gaseous swirl, and Grentvark spoke.
	"Oh great spirits of the hoary netherworld, whose cloven hooves I 
am not worthy to kiss, etcetera, etcetera... what's the scoop with this 
experiment in /Thaumaturgi Mortum/ using the simpler elliptical gate 
runes and specialized candlesticks to open a saddle gate?"  said the 
wizard, holding up the book.
	A rasping, gore-dripping ethereal voice ground into life, sounding 
curiously like a back-masked recording.  "Who calls upon the hallowed 
name of Information?" said the voice.  It didn't sound so much like a 
soul tormented as one overtasked.
	"It is I, Grentvark the Groovy," proclaimed the wizard, thumping 
himself in the chest with his enormous fist.
	The voice was infernally unimpressed.  "Well, Grentvark the 
Groovy, do you have a volume number for me?"
	"Volume thirty-nine, second edition, o terrible hellspawn," 
chanted the wizard.
	"Could you cut the ceremony, already?  I've got a headache the 
damned shouldn't suffer."
	"Oh.  Sorry.  Did you get that number?"
	"Yeah, I got it.  What do you wanna know about it?"
	"The saddle gate with elliptical runes..."
	"Be more specific with your wording?  I /am/ a demon, you know."
	"There was an experiment where they--"
	"They?" chided the thing.
	Grentvark flipped a few pages back and forth, fruitlessly.  "The 
editors of the Round-the-Home Helpful Hints section."
	"Yeah, okay, there was an experiment," offered the unearthly thing 
at Information.
	"Where they used special mercury-filled candlesticks so that 
elliptical gate runes could be used to open a saddle-shaped gate."
	"Yeah."
	"Did they ever print a retraction of that, or errata for it?"
	"No."
	"No?"  The wizard smiled.
	"No.  It was an /experimental/ experiment," emphasized the demon.
	"Oh," Grentvark said, the bottom dropping out of his voice.
	"Yeah, that kind.  In a later issue they demonstrated that the 
sticks didn't work."
	"Oh."
	"You should keep up with your subscription."
	Pause.  "Thanks."
	"Thank /you,/" said the infernal spirit, true to its nature and 
not meaning it.  The swirly red flaw in the crystal vanished.
	Grentvark chuckled to himself as he strolled back to the casting 
chamber.  "Fancy that.  The experiment was flawed from the start."  The 
poor familiars... he hoped he hadn't frustrated them too badly, for they 
might be unable to help with the next spellcasting he'd scheduled.
	"This is so funny," he said when he got back, interrupting 
whatever conversation the hermvixens were having.  "The experiment never 
worked at all."  The familiars' exchange continued.
	"I'm falling over... let me get on my hands and knees."
	"I love seeing you like that."
	Grentvark saw what they were doing, again, and felt a need to rub 
at his eyes with his fingertips, in a kind of gouging movement.  "Oh, 
Shaddoth," he breathed.
	"No, not that one, Mora... /that/ one! ....ooh!  Unngh."
	"Ohh gods..."
	"Nngh."
	"Ahh."
	The wizard cleared his throat.  "If you don't mind," he said, "we 
do have other things to perform."
	"...I think I'm gonna split..."
	"...urrrh..."
	"Harder, Mora!  Harder harder harder!"
	Grentvark held his temples as their extraordinarily high-pitched 
squeals started to bore into his head.  There was a quiet tinkling, and 
without surprise the wizard looked to see that another expensive piece 
of glassware had surrendered to the familiars' shrill vocalizations.  He 
opened his mouth, started to tell them to stop it at once and return to 
work, but it was hopeless.  He turned around and went to his chambers to 
have a nap.
	After slight consideration, he came back to watch them.

                                 * * *


	Mnemora slammed the door.  At one time they'd been mindful to 
close it softly, but the sound, to them, now marked the finality of each 
day of service and the beginning of their cherished and breathless 
private time.  The twin hermvixen familiars bounded through the now-
cluttered storage chamber they used as their quarters, laughing, their 
fur bristling a little with excitement.
	Shortly after growing accustomed to clothes they became especially 
talented at getting out of them.  Just a twist of the shoulders and an 
undulation of the torso and they were nude.  The vixens adored watching 
each other do this; first Mnemora extricated herself from her filmy 
white dress, then Arial, though Arial's became hung up by that time and 
had to be pushed down off her hips.
	They sat down facing each other, cross-legged, in front of the 
firepit, admiring the dancing of soft animate light upon each other's 
perfect physique, the siblings on the verge of leaping at each other, as 
were they always when they'd retired to their bedchamber.
	Slowly they leaned closer, a palpable tension in the air around 
them, but--
	"Oh!  Ari, I want you to see this."
	"What, love?"
	Mnemora stretched back and to the side, scrabbling under her 
nighttable and producing a milky pink stone, squat but slightly pointed 
at top and bottom, which she balanced on the tip of her finger.  When 
she held it up to a certain spot in the air she lowered her hand, the 
stone choosing to stay put.  Arial smiled and nodded, but this was 
nothing special; both of them were pretty good at levitation by now.
	She had a black piece of paper also, with a hole in it, and she 
held it between the fire and the floating stone, the firelight shining 
through the opening and striking one side of it.  Where the light 
touched, the gemstone seemed to shine from within.  Mnemora blinked at 
Arial, as if saying /are you watching?/ and uttered "Do this now."  As 
the words died in the air the stone began to spin on its axis, reaching 
a mild and steady rate of speed in a fraction of a second.  Arial turned 
up the side of her mouth and nodded, looking to Mnemora again, 
unfortunately now distracted from thoughts of intimacy.
	"The fluorescence is making it spin."
	"Yes.  There's no friction between it and the air.  That's the 
effect we were to reproduce this afternoon, with that huge wheel of 
quartz."
	"Yes.  I wonder why our master couldn't get his to work."
	"I've also been wondering that.  I've been wondering why he's been 
having such trouble with his spells."
	"As have I."
	"He's not infallible."
	Arial giggled.  "No one is.  Very few are.  Even great mages are 
not."
	"Yes, I know what you mean.  But something is not right."  Mnemora 
snatched the rock out of the air and tossed it under her bed.
	"He should not be making this many mistakes."
	"Maybe he's not well."
	"That's possible.  Perhaps our creation has exhausted him, and he 
is regaining his strength slowly."
	"There are instances of this chronicled."
	"We know that he's relying on us almost entirely for the 
fundamental elements of his spells.  Though it seems that this is the 
way of things in the profession of spellcasting."
	"And the average assistant does not have our capacity to 
calculate."
	"Mmmm.  Such as the boy who did the work here before us."  Arial's 
eyes narrowed a little, misting for an instant.
	Mnemora tilted her head to the side.  "Do you mind being used in 
this manner?"
	"I... there is part of me which resists him, although it is our 
purpose to work for him."
	"I understand.  And I wish... that we were doing something 
significant."
	"Yes.  This has all been done."
	"In one variation or another, all we have done so far has already 
been accomplished."  They both glanced to their primitive crystal ball, 
through which they'd pieced together this disappointing fact.
	"We shall have to ask for more challenging tasks."
	"Yes."
	"But I... also resist serving him that other way," said Arial, and 
now a grin broke across her face.
	"He is not as beautiful as you," purred Mnemora, leaning forward, 
thrusting her muzzle at her sister's.
	"Of that I'm certain, dear sister, nor is he as beautiful as you," 
trilled Arial, leaning back just out of reach.
	"When he calls for us now I grow irritable."
	"Yes, love!  I, too... he does not compare to you."
	"When we first were with him, he pleased me greatly, but now I go 
to him reluctantly when he calls."
	"Yes, yes!  I've tired of him!"  She clapped her hand over her 
mouth, looking around guiltily.
	Mnemora turned up the corner of her mouth.  "Except when he wishes 
to be punished.  I /do/ savor that."
	"Yes.  That's the only part which heartens me when he wants us."  
Arial looked around, and whispered "Or if I particularly need to get 
off, he's good for that."
	Mnemora chuckled and pressed her forehead to Arial's.  "Evil 
thing."
	"Mnemora!" Arial cried, taken aback.
	"It's true!  You're even more disobedient than I am."
	Arial softened, rubbing her muzzle alongside her sister's.  "I 
don't want to be evil.  He's our master.  He gave us all this."  Her 
eyes wandered over Mnemora's form.
	Mnemora arched, as though she felt her sister's gaze upon her 
skin.  She sighed in pleasure and then looked into her twin's eyes, 
growing serious.  "I sometimes question the fact that he created us."
	"But we've seen the diagrams," said Arial, offering the 
information, but not protesting.
	"Regarding our construction."
	"Yes.  They did appear to be of his making."
	Mnemora's brushy tail flitted back and forth.  "I've not been able 
to find them again."
	"Nor I.  They're missing," Arial stated.
	"He would not misplace them."
	They regarded each other quietly.
	"We shouldn't make assumptions," said Arial.  There are numerous 
reasons why he might have hidden them."
	"Wizards are often secretive about their work," offered Mnemora.
	"So it is written."
	As they contemplated this they pressed close and wrapped 
themselves around each other, all limbs firmly engaged in keeping the 
vixens as tightly embraced as possible.  Quietly they savored the gentle 
contact and the sounds of their breathing, until their libidos could 
seize them.
	"You know what we might try," whispered Arial.
	"Yes.  Examining his notes chronologically to detect a progression 
in skill," murmured Mnemora into her sister's ear.
	"It might give us the answers we desire."
	"Do we really want to know them?"
	Arial drew a resigned breath.  "I'm also unsure.  But we must 
learn all that we can."
	Mnemora nodded agreement, lowering the end of her muzzle into the 
hollow between her sister's shoulder and neck.  She gave a little 
shiver, and Arial pressed her nose into Mnemora's silken headfur, and 
began to rock her sister gently.

                                 END