"Here, philosopher," said Tansy, "have a slug."
She was offering him a small silver flask.
He recognized it. "I never dreamed you'd kept it all these years."
"Uh-huh. Remember when I first offered you a drink from it? You were a trifle shocked, I believe. Though you carried a flask, too."
"I took the drink."
"Uh-huh. So take this one."
It tasted like fire and spice. There were memories with it, memories of those crazy prohibition years, and of Gorham and New England.
"Brandy?"
"Greek style. Give me some."
Before that flood of memories, the darker half of his mind receded, was washed under. He looked at Tansy's sleek hair and moon-shadowed eyes. Of course, she's a witch, he thought lightly. She's Lilith. Ishtar. He'd tell her so.