"Huxtable will do," Throckmorton said, "and he's always available!"

Huxtable, it turned out, was a very cheerful, dark-skinned fellow, just about exactly the same proportions as Throckmorton - i.e., built like a brick shithouse - only about half as tall. He had a very jovial disposition which was somewhat offset by the fact that he cursed a blue streak.

And he had fangs.

Long ones.

Huxtable hopped on Throckmorton's huge oak table - I happened to notice a tiny brass plate which read "Pty. of Albion University Library, Inc., Remove at Your Own Risk!" - and pulled out a measuring tape, the kind a tailor would use only this one was covered in runes.

"Heh, heh, oh, yessir, this is gonna be a lot of fun, yes indeed you motherfucking sonofabitch."

Huxtable tended to chortle no matter what he was saying.

He took my measurements - ALL of them, including that one - calling them off to Throckmorton in some runish language, punctuated regularly with Anglo-Saxon monosyllables. From Throckmorton's expression I gathered the monosyllable were for my benefit.

Whatever, it DID help me keep my mind off of Huxtable's endowment, which was prodigious, easily 15 inches and bigger around than my wrist - quite a tool for a being no more than three feet tall!

Eventually, Huxtable paused.

"There's something..."

He pulled my face down to his, peering deeply into my eyes. I saw more in those eyes than I'd seen in any George Lucas trilogy - demons and monsters and armies and oceans and lots and lots of sex.

When he was done - how long did it take? An hour? Two? From Throckmorton's expression, no more than five seconds - I was hard as a rock.

Huxtable laughed. Long and loud and hard.

"What is it?" Throckmorton demanded.

"Oh, nothing," Huxtable replied. "Absofuckinglutely nothing."

"Is there anything wrong with this candidate? I demand to know if there is a problem," Throckmorton thundered.

(Literally, of course, he was a wizard after all. The little lightning bolts made for a nice show and the rumbles made the windows rattle...)

Huxtable winced.

"Whadda fuck is your problem, man? I done told you, there's NO problem. This man'll do just fine, godfuckshitdammit."

Throckmorton subsided and breathed a sigh of relief.

"OK, buddy boy," Huxtable continued. "Take off those goofy clothes. They ain't gonna fit."

I glanced at Throckmorton, who nodded, and I stripped.

Then it began. •