“No.”“Then you can’t have a lass do that. Any other special requests?”“I’d like to piss my tallow into her,” I said.“Would you let ... lad piss his gravy into you if you were a lass?”“I would if that wouldn’t put a roast in my oven.”“Then that’s not a problem,” he said. “And what do you want this lass of yours to look like? Compare her to you on this mirror.” He conjured up a mirror, floating over the pentacle. I saw myself: a lad of eighteen, only three years into wizard school, still tall. I knew Alison would never consent to me wearing big-girl panties likethese. For a moment I considered ripping down my thick fluffy swaddlingand pulling on some grown-up knickers. But what else could I wear? Inhaste I tore open all the drawers. The second drawer contained my polka-dot training bra and some ribbed tights, plus a half-dozen pairs offrilly anklet socks. In the next I found my pretty pastel t-shirts, andsome feminine tops with ruffled short sleeves. The bottom drawer held acouple of. More

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