The next morning, Jon-Tom found he had to pull the sheets from his skin. They were
adhered with blood, even if the skin underneath was now whole. His wife was
back to normal, gently snoring, her hair mussed and sprayed across her pillow.
He figured that if her changes were once only, he wouldn't have to deal with
that kind of abuse again soon. On the other hand, there might be more than one
type of anteater, and there was always the aardvark and the pangolin. The
latter one hadn't been near the trouble Sybeele had been in this larger form.
Even some of the felines he had bedded hadn't left him with so much damage. He
wasn't blaming her, but he was damn glad to have his healing ability.

     His fumbling with the sheets woke her up. She turned and gasped. In a blink of an
eye, the sheets fell away, completely bloodless. The blood, it seems, had now
gone to her cheeks. “Oh God! I'm so sorry about last night. I guess I forgot I
was in a different body." She got a dreamy look in her eyes. “Whatever you were
doing last night, I hope to have you repeat it many times over! It drove me
right out of my senses." She crawled to a sitting position and physically turned
him to look at his back. “You know husband, I'm glad you have your former
abilities. You would have died last night from the loss of that much blood. I
should really be a little easier on you!" He would have accepted her apology
except that he had been having a great time too. He was definitely jaded after
all of these years.

     She popped out of bed, still unclothed, and proceeded to throw together a breakfast.
He was watching her, thinking things like “sunny side up", hard rolls, and a few
other indelicate thoughts. He started giggling to himself, but she overheard
and gave him a quirky grin. “Eat! I'd love to hit the bed again, but you filled
the day with this stupid contest of yours. You didn't even set a time. So I
guess it's eat, head over to Priccolo's, and await Huntchy and whoever else is
going to come. I have a feeling that might include a lot of folks. They will be
fascinated watching you try to win against a horse."

    Jon-Tom stood tall, his present interest in his wife standing tall with him. “If I win?
I'll win alright. It's a lopsided contest; only just the two of us know that.
If it serves as nothing else, it'll teach the town not to mess with me. If I
can drink a horse under the floor boards, who knows what else I'm capable of?"
She gave him a wink. “Get dressed Mr. Mayor. I already told you no, so you
might as well not waste time." He shrugged his shoulders. “I'll get dressed
when you do."

     She sighed in exasperation. In a flash, she had on the most formal looking
schoolmarm dress, complete with her hair in a tight bun and glasses. He hated
to tell her she looked just as good in that as she did naked. But he got the hint
and retrieved his old outfit and put it on. He felt almost normal in it. And
sitting in a tavern with an over-imbibing ne'er do well was going to be almost
comforting. He hadn't realized until recently how much he missed Mudge. He completed
his ensemble when he grabbed his duar. His instrument and his memories somehow
made him feel better.

   They exited the house directly into a large crowd. Apparently the whole town knew about
this contest. Graven was at the forefront. “My dearest Lord Mayor. Do you think
this is a wise choice? Many of us believe that this action on your part is
brash and reckless. We hold nothing against any citizen of this city, but
allowing the lower classes to run wild because of your whim seems foolhardy
indeed."

   Jon-Tom listened patiently to the marmoset's speech. “My Lord Deputy; rest assured that
the outcome of this contest has already been decided. Carrying through with it
is a mere formality. You have little reason to trust my judgment, which I grant
you seems presently impaired. By the end of the day, I think I will prove to
the good people of Hobarrow that I am in my right mind. However, if this many
of you wish to see this matter to the end, I believe we may have to move our
contest out-of-doors. Priccolo's place will never fit this many inside."

    It was a little parade that wound its way through the streets. The Lord Mayor and his
lovely wife; the Deputy Mayor, and every guild leader made up the front of the
line. Behind them were several hundred folks of differing size, sex and
species. As they turned the corner to the final stretch to the tavern, an
equally sized group was already gathered. It was made up largely of Huntchy's
backers, though the wizard was already there with the parchment and pen. There
were plenty of hoots and cheers coming up from that group, which rose in volume
as Jon-Tom was espied.

     “Ho! He arrives. And in style too!" The jackdaw was sitting on a ledge with a few other
flyers, screeching down at the incoming crowd. Huntchy was silent, his long
face having nothing to do with his species' facial construction. This human was
way too serious about this whole thing, which gave him a bad feeling. His
friends seemed to think this was some kind of holiday, but despite his attempts
to warn them away, they came in droves. There was the possibility they were
getting themselves into something deeper than they knew. Of course, if he lost,
he would lose most of them anyways, for he only acted stupid. Most of them
hardly remembered when he had been the…" His thoughts were cut short.

     “Well Huntchy, shall we get this started?" It was the Lord Mayor. The horse came
forward. “I suppose so. Have you figured out how we are going to quantify the
results?" Jon-Tom stopped and looked at him. “Excuse me. Where's the bad grammar
and practiced simplicity?" The horse hung his head low. “I believe it has flown
premature to my losing this ill-accepted contest. Must we go through with it?"
His friends derided him for such a response. There were calls of “quitter" and
“bastard" thrown at him. They hurt nearly as much as sticks and stones would
have.

     Jon-Tom raised his hand. “Quiet! This contest is to settle an official matter in an
unofficial and unsanctioned manner. Therefore, the contract that will be drawn
up binds only the participants. If you wish to take Huntchy's side, then you
will have your name included on the document. You will then be as bound to it
as we both will be. However, I would recommend that no one takes my side. I am
on the side of good, and you will accomplish nothing for yourself by including
your name. However, if you wish to share in Huntchy's fate, under the terms I
laid down yesterday, by all means do it. The contract will be sealed by a
spell, irrevocable until its terms have been carried out."

     “And what's them there terms?" called a shifty looking  howler monkey. A few others agreed with his
question. Jon-Tom stepped up on a table. “The matter is simple. I have proposed
a drinking contest with Huntchy. If he wins, he gets the freedom to do as he
pleases without fear of retribution. Anyone who wishes to take his side can do
so, and they will be granted a one month reprieve of the same sort. However,"
he let that clause linger in the air a moment, “if he loses, he gives up
drinking and returns to using his brain for something more than a sponge. And
anyone who backed him must give up a full month in doing good deeds around the
town, at my discretion."

     “Sign me up!" was the general call. Huntchy looked miserable. Whatever this human had
planned, he was too damn sure of himself. In cards, he would call it a bluff.
In real life, it was almost over confidence. But this human was unwavering in
his dedication to this contest. If Huntchy's “friends" wanted to back a sure
thing, they would have been better off doing so with the human. He noticed that
the Lord Mayor was writing rapidly, consulting now and again with the wizard.
When the document was done, it was read aloud by the Deputy Mayor..

  “Be it known, that on this day, as witnessed below, a contest of wills was held between the Lord Mayor of
Hobarrow, Jonathon Thomas Merriweather and the Horse Huntchfeld, known
familiarly as Huntchy. The object of this contest is to determine whose will and
stamina is stronger, to be determined via a drinking contest. Since there
exists a considerable size difference between the competitors, it has been
decided by a third party to reduce the amount of water involved, therefore
keeping the intake of alcohol on more equivalent terms. To this end, there will
be no consumption of beer, ale, stout or other brewed drink, but only distilled
liquors.

  The first participant to pass out or give in loses. The cost of losing is thus; if the Lord Mayor wins, then
Huntchfeld must forgo his bad habits, quit drinking for good, and return to the
academy as a teacher, filling in and participating in other guild matters as
the situations may see fit. If Huntchfeld wins, he is given freedom from all
the rules of Hobarrow.

  Lastly, if anyone should wish to take Huntchfeld's side in this matter, let it be known that they will be
granted the same privileges as he, for the period of one full month, beginning
after the settlement of this contest should he win. Should he lose, they will
serve at the discretion of the Lord Mayor for the same time period.

  Jon-Tom came forward and signed the document. Huntchy put his hoof on the paper. The
parchment glowed for a moment. The wizard motioned to everyone gathered around the tavern.
“Anyone else?" He was swamped with takers. It took an hour before the line was exhausted
of signers. By then the document looked like the wall of a bus-stop john stall.
The wizard made a gesture, and the parchment lit up again. “All who have signed
have been bound. You may start your contest when you like."

  The horse looked to the human. “So, my Lord Mayor, what shall we be drinking?"
Jon-Tom looked to Priccolo. “I don't feel like drawing this out all day, so why
don't you start us with the strongest thing you have in stock." The muskrat
wavered. “The strongest sir? For real?" The human stared him down. “I said as
much, didn't I? It's going to take quite a bit of alcohol to sink either of us,
I assure you, so let's get rolling with the hardest liquor you've got. Perhaps
Lythgoria brandy?" The muskrat scratched his head. “I ain't got nothing that
goes by that name sir. But I do have something I found deep in the cellar when
I bought this place. I'll be glad to be rid of it, if I'm not being too
truthful. Perhaps it will do?"

    Jon-Tom nodded, looking at Huntchy. The horse nodded in agreement. The muskrat shrugged
his shoulders and called to two of his helpers. Together they went inside. They
were gone long enough for the crowd to begin fidgeting. Finally they returned
pushing a cart with a large black barrel strapped to it. Its mere presence
caused several of the guild leaders to blanch and back away. Phourteg,  who was both brave and wise, nearly fainted. Gorcheal
had to adjust his sunglasses to see what the fuss was about. When he was able
to focus, he scrabbled away as fast as he could.

  Jon-Tom knew the cask was old. It was black as pitch, covered with a layer of dust and
mold. The outline of a dragon could be barley discerned on the side. It had
some sort of lettering, but it was obscure and illegible. It wasn't in the
presently used language, but Jon-Tom seemed to read a few letters, D…R…A…A…K.
It must be something quite old and quite potent for everyone to be making such
a fuss. As murmurs passed amongst the crowd, everyone began backing up. Soon it
was Jon-Tom, Sybeele, and Huntchy. The horse looked sick.

    Jon-Tom had no choice but to ask. “OK, what the hell is in the cask?" Huntchy saved
everyone else the trouble. “It is, my suicidal Lord Mayor, a death sentence.
Priccolo here took you to your word, though he should have disposed of this the
moment he discovered it. This is Draaken Nourew. Translated it means Dragon's
Breath. It is not a brand name, but an apt description. It was brewed a hundred
years ago by the distillers Marnit & Kubrit for the wizards' guild to fuel
the old dragon Maarteel, whom they had bound into service for the First Plated
Folk war. However, his ability to make flame had diminished to nearly nothing.
This was made for him to replenish his natural supply. It is four hundred
proof, a trick only accomplished with magic. As far as was known, all supplies
of it were carefully disposed of after the old scaly died. I see that's not been
the case." He looked up at Jon-Tom. “You don't really intend for us to drink
this do you? By all the stories, old Maarteel himself could barely stomach the
stuff!"

     All this fuss made Jon-Tom curious. What kind of brew would make a dragon choke?
Instead of putting him off, it made him more determined. “It sounds like an old
wives' tale to me. However, if you wish to call it off, and concede that I am
the winner, I'll be glad to accept your defeat." That got the horse's dander
up. If the human wanted to die in a spectacular manner, then why shouldn't he
join him? It would save him in the eyes of his cronies. The horse that went
down in flames, literally! “You know human, you've got spunk. If I am to die,
why not with a bang?!" He stressed the last word so strongly several people in
his vicinity jumped.

     Priccolo motioned for them to take their places on either side of a table. He then gingerly
worked a thin blade around the wax seal on the bung of the barrel. Jon-Tom was
surprised, as most barrels needed to be tapped just prior to use. Priccolo
explained. “The stuff that's in here isn't going to go bad. However, if you go
handling the cask too briskly, you're likely to set the whole thing off. It's
why I'll be glad to be rid of it. In the past, these things have been known to
explode. The miners have even used them in years gone by to blow open mountain
sides. Despite this, remember that it's only alcohol."  The horse gave a worried whinny. “Alcohol
concentrate is more like it;" said Huntchy, “concentrated down from four
hundred casks of wine, with just a touch of demonic fire spells added to liven
it up!"

    Priccolo's assistants handed over two unusual goblets. They were as old looking as the
barrel. The muskrat answered their questioning stares. “These were with the
barrel. The barrel itself is strengthened with magic. As far as I can tell,
these are made of dragon scale, fashioned by some long dead sorcerer. It is
said to be the only thing the liquor won't eat through. They've been sitting in
my tavern for the past ten years, gathering dust. I guess it's time to see if
the legend is true!" Huntchy looked down at the one set before him. He was
hardly amused, despite his present predicament.

     “I can't drink out of this! I haven't hands to hold this tiny thing." The resident
wizard came forward. “Perhaps I can help. If this is all true, then I think I
have a spell that will help." He waved his paws over the goblet. It immediately
grew until a horse could fit his nose inside. Huntchy was impressed, but it
only meant that he would be dying faster. Jon-Tom read his mind.

     “I'll pour some into my goblet, and then pour it into yours. That way, we are
drinking identical amounts. I want this to be a fair contest." Sybeele had been
quiet during this whole thing. She leaned in to her husband. “I think you're
being stupid. This stuff will kill him. It would kill you; I should say it
might even kill you despite your healing ability. This liquid was fuel for a
dragon! Have you any idea how hot a dragon's fire is? I learned about it in
school." He whispered back. “Remind me to tell you about the time I was a dragon. I used my flame to
incinerate one of my children. It was the best thing that could ever have
happened to him." Her eyes went wide.

     He took from Priccolo a tap, shaped in the form of a fire drake. It was apparently made
just for this use. He pushed it in, and with an effort, the cart was lowered so
that the contents of the cask could flow. He turned the spigot, but nothing
happened. Well, not at first. Then, almost like it was alive, the stuff curled
out like an animated vapor. The tap grew hot. The liquid seemed confused as to
what it should do, finally allowing gravity to pull it into the chalice. It
flowed in, and then back up the sides, nearly coming over the edge. Jon-Tom
burned his fingers closing the tap. He poured the contents into Huntchy's cup.
It rolled around inside it like it was a living being.

   Jon-Tom poured another glass, watching with rapt fascination as the stuff reacted like
it had its own consciousness. He pulled his glass away a bit too soon, allowing
a drop to hit the table. Smoke rose from the wood as it burned through it to
the ground below. There was no explosion. Perhaps it had lost some of its
potency over the years. However, it sputtered its way deeper into the ground
with no sign of slowing. Huntchy lost his nerve.

    “No way am I drinking that! I may be a lot of things, but I'm not crazy. I thought I
would tough it out until you gave in, but it seems to me that this town has gotten
a lunatic for its leader. I may be a lot of things, including a dismal failure,
but I have a sound enough head on my shoulders to look death in the face and
run away. I thought maybe it was a good day to die, but this stuff is not a
good way to die. I'd prefer to do so in my sleep, on my own terms. When I
agreed to this contest, I thought that it was something we could actually do.
This stuff might as well be labeled as poison!"

    Jon-Tom nodded knowingly. “You realize that in giving up, you have committed yourself
to my demands? And in doing so, everyone who signed the document is hereafter
constrained by its words? Can you live with yourself under those terms?"
Huntchy lowered his head. “I think it will be far better to try living my life
over in a better fashion than to die a fast and painful death. I hope that you
didn't plan this little caper knowing full well that Priccolo had this stuff on
hand. I would be most irritated!"

    Priccolo came forward. “No one knew I had that down there except me. Do you think anyone
would have allowed it to stay had they known? I left it were it was, in a dark
deep corner, far away from any possible discovery. I only brought it out now
because I promised to provide the strongest alcohol I had. This certainly is
it. There has never been anything close to it ever since." The horse was
satisfied with the explanation. He looked to the Lord Mayor. Jon-Tom smiled,
held up his now glowing goblet and poured its contents across his lips and down
his throat. Several cries and screams came from the crowd.