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mottled, dark-brown integument, over which rippled flashes of red, yellow, white, and black. The Countess had become an octopus.
     
                  Thorolf sat paralyzed. When he gathered his bare legs beneath him to spring up, the octopus whipped tentacles around his neck and hoisted its bag of a body into his lap. It pressed its beak against his bare chest, but it did not bi te him: it merely touched his skin lightly here and there. Thorolf realized that it was trying to kiss him.
     
                  To be seduced by a drunken octopus was, he thought, not a fate that befalls many. If he survived this night, he would have a tale he could dine ou t on for years; but just now he would gladly forgo the experience.
     
                  "Yvette!" he cried. The octopus continued to snug gle, as if she expected him to continue the project on which they had embarked. But not only did Thorolf have no idea of how to do this, his lust had also col lapsed like a tent blown down in a gale.
     
                  He shouted, still without effect. Then he realized that, as a sea creature, the octopus lacked the organs for hearing and speech. How, he frantically wondered, could he communicate?
     
                  At last the octopus slithered off his lap. With serpen tine tentacular writhings, it heaved itself across the room to the dressing table, while changes of color, white to tan to brown to black, rippled over its shiny skin. Find ing locomotion out of water hard, i t clambered labori ously up on the dressing chair and stared at its reflection in the mirror. The image was that of an octopus, prov ing that this change was no mere glamor or illusion.
     
                  Then the octopus slid off the chair with a plop and humped and wriggled to the washstand. There it picked up the pitcher and, its tentacles quivering with strain, tipped the vessel over itself, so that water splashed over its body and trickled to the floo r . It dropped the empty pitcher, swiveled about to face Thorolf, and waved its tentacles, pointing a couple of them at the pitcher. It seemed to be trying to say something; but with neither lungs nor an agreed-upon sign language, it failed.
     
                  Next, it slith ered to the writing desk and, groping about on the desktop, located the inkwell. It dipped the tip of a tentacle into the ink and wrote on the wall in large, crude letters: WATER.
     
                  Of course, Thorolf thought, such a marine creature could not long survive in air. But how to succor it? He could not stand pouring pitcher after pitcher over it. The water would leak through the floor and bring Vasco on the run. And whence would come such a supply of water?
     
                  The octopus seemed to divine his thought. Again it di pped the tentacle and wrote: TUB.
     
                  Light broke upon Thorolf. He nodded, hastily pulled on his shirt and trews, and went below to find Vasco. To the innkeeper he said:
     
                  "My lady demands a bath. Will your people haul up a tub and several bucketfuls of wate r?"
     
                  "Sergeant!" said Vasco. "Why can she not bathe in the perfectly good tub at the end of the hall, as ye did aforetime?"
     
                  "She's high-born and fussy," said Thorolf. "She in sists on utter privacy."
     
                  " 'Twill cost extra," the taverner warned. "And 'tw ill take an hour to heat the water."
     
                  "The water need not be heated."
     
                  "A rugged wench," Vasco muttered.
     
    -
     
                  Back in the room, Thorolf signaled that he had suc ceeded. He opened the door of the wardrobe and mo tioned Yvette to ente r. She was barely concealed therein when a knock announced the arrival of the squirrel-toothed potboy and the maid, lugging a large