"What is going on here?" Raspu hissed. "Why this sloth, why this mess, why this chaos?"

Instantly excuses burst from every mouth.

"We've not been paid in a month —"

"It's cold outside —"

"My granny died five months ago and I've not been able to think straight since —"

"We've done our best, sir, truly —"

"— but things 'ave been against us, sure for a fact —"

"It's been cold inside, and not fit to work in —"

"Benny beat me up —"

"Frankie knocked me up —"

"No-one's been here to tell us what to do —"

"What shall we do, sir?"

Raspu strode forth and began to snap orders, tug uniforms straight, and jerk braids so painfully that girls cried.

"Clean this up — and yourself — now!

"Why has this been left to rot? Dispose of it. Now!

"Why do you cry, girl? There's work to be done. Now!

"Take this broom, and wield it!

"Have you no pride, cook? No sense of joy in your work? Find some. Now!"

And so Raspu twirled about the kitchen like a mini-tornado, venting anger and orders in equal amounts, pinching and shoving, nipping and poking, sending pages and maids screaming to their tasks, kicking footmen over doorsteps in the pursuit of their vocation, and shoving the cook's face in the pot of cold, starchy porridge on the stove top until she pleaded (somewhat damply) for mercy.

Finally, the kitchen was emptied of the majority of the wantonly lazy staff and those that were left were well on the road to making the room and its utensils sparkle with polish and use.

"So," Raspu said smugly as he stepped outside the door and confronted Gwendylyr. "Have I won the challenge?"

A maid brushed past them, her face terrified, a pile of neatly-folded linen in her arms.

"You have made a good start" Gwendylyr said, "but the challenge lies in being able to keep the staff at work. How will things be in a month, Raspu? In two? Will the house be running efficiently, or will it, its staff, and its butler have slid into irretrievable sloth?"

"A month! I don't have to do this for an entire —"

"I'll give you two," Gwendylyr said. "Have fun."

And she vanished.

Enchantment gripped Raspu and the house into which he'd walked, and the sun and moon whirled overhead.

"Interesting," Qeteb remarked. He and DragonStar now inhabited the same hilltop, although there was more than five paces between their respective positions. "She's not someone I'd care to meet over breakfast."

DragonStar turned his head slightly and looked at Qeteb, but he did not reply.

The two settled down to wait, and to watch.

The sun and moon twirled overhead, moving so fast the shadows fluttered unceasingly across the hilltop.

Raspu found he did not like being a butler. The staff had remained in awe of him for an entire three days, and then subtle changes slowly crept into the daily routine.

The maids who once had wept at the very sight of him, now smirked and moved more insolently when he appeared. They still swept and scrubbed and polished, but their mouths curled in ..secretive smiles as he passed, and their eyelashes dipped in flirtatious fans over the curve of their soft cheeks whenever he paused to shout more orders at them.

Raspu found that his voice noticeably softened whenever they did that, and one day he found himself reaching out to caress the cheek of one particularly fetching lass.

He jerked his hand back, but not before he saw her mouth arrange itself into a seductive pout.

Moist, red, beguiling.

With just the hint of pearly white teeth behind those plump, tempting ...

Raspu jerked away, roared, and vanished down the corridor in stiff-legged (and almost unbearably frustrated) affront.

The maid giggled, and wriggled her hips in anticipation.

In the kitchen the cook pounded and rolled and sweetened and basted to Raspu's satisfaction, but after a week or so he noticed that not all the meat he put out from the now-locked cold room appeared at table. When he accused the cook of stealing, she wept and wailed and wrung her hands and fell down in an epileptic fit.

The Demon repressed a sigh. It was too much effort to continue with the harangue, and only a small bit of meat had gone ...

Raspu turned his back and left her massive mound of flesh to twitch and quiver triumphantly on the rug before the fire.

As soon as the kitchen door slammed behind him, the cook's flesh trembled to stillness. She smiled, and her hand drew out the small joint of meat she'd secreted in the voluminous pocket of her apron, and she began to chew vigorously, setting her flesh to trembling all over again.

But however much the staff managed to annoy him, Raspu found that the household accounts managed to drive him almost insane with exasperation.

Every morning Raspu had to check the shelves and count all the packets and cans and wedges and jars.

Then he had to check them all off in his account book.

Then he had to consult with the cook and the downstairs cleaning maids to see what would be required for that day's cooking and cleaning. Then he had to dole out with solemn precision, from the cans and jars and wedges and packets, the portions of starches and wood oils and fireplace blackeners and flours and sugars and yeasts required.

And then he had to mark all those off in his account book.

Then the upstairs maids needed linens and sheets and pillowcases and dusters, and so Raspu must march to the linen closet and carefully count out the articles required.

And mark it off in his account book.