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down the hall, and into processing in silence. When he walked out the door half an hour later, a free man with an empty wallet in the pocket of his jeans, he looked around for a familiar face.
    There wasn’t one.
    The only person in sight was a wizened old man—no more than five foot six, and that was stretching it—leaning against a bona fide, sixties-era hippie van. He smiled. “Warlord—I have work for you.”
    The words nailed Zee’s feet to the pavement. He knew the shock registered clearly on his face, felt the cracks in his meticulously constructed façade. “Where the hell did you come up with that name?”
    “Are you denying it belongs to you?”
    In dream, only in dream. Where he carried a sword and killed men and beasts with an abandon of violence that sometimes made him afraid to sleep, and sometimes fueled the brawls that landed him in jail.
    “Who are you, and what do you want?”
    “Several things. For starters—I want to commission a painting.”
    No question of it, the façade had crumbled. Zee gaped stupidly, speechless.
    “Oh, come now. I know you are an artist. So—do we have a deal?”
    The hot blood rose to his face; desire tingled in his hands.It had been months since he’d had access to brushes and paints and canvas. He had no idea who this strange little man was or how he knew so many secrets. It didn’t matter. “I haven’t heard any deal yet,” he said, but his throat was dry and tight, and the words were barely more than a whisper. He’d do just about anything for the opportunity to paint.
    “I set you up with an apartment and whatever art supplies you need. You get a stipend for clothes and food. You stay out of fights. And you paint.”
    “What’s the catch?” There had to be one. Life didn’t hand out freebies. Ever.
    “You will paint your dreams for me. I will buy the ones that I want from you.”
    A devil’s bargain. Most of his dreams ought not to see the light of day. But Zee felt himself nodding assent. The old man held out his hand and the deal was sealed with a shake.
    For the course of an entire year, Zee splashed his dreams onto canvas for the old man. In the beginning he maintained some control, choosing what to paint and what to hold back, but he soon lost himself in the work. Sometimes an entire day would vanish in what seemed minutes, and he would emerge from a fog to look at what he had produced with shock and a touch of awe.
    One thing, though, he held back. Night after night he dreamed the same dream; day after day he painted other things. On a dark, cold November morning it broke through his defenses, and he slapped it onto a life-size canvas in brilliant colors.
    The old man came to visit at the end of that day and stood looking at the painting for a long time. “I thought so,” he said at last. “Though I hardly dared to hope. I will buy this one.”
    “No,” Zee said. “Any one but this.”
    “This one. It is the one I was waiting for.” He named a price. Zee blinked, not quite comprehending, and for the first time in that year the old man laughed.
    “I have another bargain,” he said. “It, too, comes with acost. I’m going to buy you a store. A bookstore, maybe. You like books, yes? There will be money in the bank for you and lots of time to learn the business. In your free time you will paint.” He held up his hand to silence questions. “You will, of course, stay out of jail. And if this woman”—he pointed to one of many paintings of a gray-eyed girl with a thick mane of auburn hair—“walks into your store, you will befriend her and give her a book that I will leave with you. Agreed?”
    Zee nodded, not trusting his brain or his voice to produce anything short of gibberish.
    “One more thing.” The old man produced a package, addressed to Miss Vivian Maylor in a spiky black hand. “There may come a time when you will need to give her this.”
    “How will I know?”
    “You will give it to her on the day that you hear of my