The air in the tent was heavy with incense. Fragrant tendrils of blue and grey wound their way amongst table legs and trunks, tickled the nose and stung the eye. Uflyn swung the censer once more, before letting it come to rest on his altar, where it continued to belch puffs of perfumed smoke.

Moistening one finger with his tongue he made a show of turning to the correct page in his grimoire. The ingredients for his spell had already been assembled and many of them were now blended in his cauldron. The words of power had also been committed to memory, so this little display of theatrics was purely for the benefit of his client.

"I must ask you once more, Sire," Uflyn added an extra edge of doom to his voice. "Are you sure of your request?"

Sir Roger l'Affame was looking distinctly bored by Uflyn's showmanship. He rose from his chair, adjusting his belt to better accommodate his considerable girth. Uflyn responded to his client's display of overfed masculinity by cowering behind his altar.

"Can we just get on with it?" Sir Roger huffed, waving a hand through the smoke. "I have a duel to fight and a bride to claim. I asked you to make me impervious to my enemy's sword. Do your job and be on your way, before we all suffocate."

"Very well, Sire." Uflyn bowed low and, having reassured himself he'd done all he could to obtain the usual disclaimers, began his incantation.

He could hardly blame Sir Roger for wanting a bit of extra luck on his side that morning. The man was the wrong side of fifty, and thanks to his fondness for five course meals, had not seen his own genitals for the better part of twenty five years. Yet the idiot had still decided to challenge Drystan, Le Gentil to a duel. Drystan was a noble so minor he didn't even have a title, or a castle, but he did have good looks and a body which, Uflyn had been assured, was to die for. He also had a fearsome reputation as a swordsman, so the challenge from Sir Rodge the Podge - as Uflyn's client was known at court - came as a surprise to everyone. None more so than the fair Morgana, eligible maiden of legendary beauty, heiress to not one but two castles, and Drystan's number one fan. She was also, unfortunately, the sole object of Sir Roger's sweaty desire.

Uflyn completed his chant, and with one final flourish, scattered the last of his spell's ingredients into his cauldron. An enthusiastic fizzing and popping ensued.

"Breathe deep, Sire," Uflyn instructed. "And your wish shall be granted to you."

Sir Roger looked sceptical, but did as instructed, hauling great plumes of smoke in to his lungs.

"How long will it take to work?" He coughed.

"Not long, Sire." Uflyn clamped the lid on his cauldron. "Any second now in fact."

Sir Roger looked like he was about to argue, but instead his attention was drawn to his own hand. The pale, meaty flesh had started to take on a distinctly bronzed hue.

"What have you done to me magician?" The fat old fart croaked. He tried to take a step towards Uflyn but seemed rooted to the spot. His boots, which moments before had been a highly polished black leather were now as bronze as his hand.

"You asked to be made impervious to your enemy's sword, Sire." Uflyn watched, fascinated as the warm, bronze colour gradually spread along Sir Roger's trembling limbs. "Unfortunately you neglected to say how."

Sir Roger opened his mouth to vent some further spleen. The problem was his spleen wasn't there anymore. The burnished glow of well polished metal had already made its way over his expansive gut and was making a beeline for his chest. Complete terror at his predicament stretched his flabby features in to a soundless scream.

"Careful, Roger dearest, or you'll get stuck like that."

Uflyn turned to see they had company. Morgana, fair maiden and possessor of an obscene fortune, had slipped into Sir Roger's tent.

"Daddy said you were an absolute darling," she cooed, sashaying over to Uflyn to give his hair a quick ruffle. "However did you do it?"

Sir Roger's look of horror shifted to one of simmering anger. The old bore had finally realised, too late, that the object of his affections had well and truly shafted him.

"I did nothing, Milady," Uflyn responded with a bow. "Sir Roger was hoisted by his own petard."

Morgana giggled and skipped over to the now frozen figure of Sir Roger l'Affame. There wasn't an inch of pasty flesh left. Playfully she flicked a well manicured fingernail at his bronze nose. It clanged like a great bell.

"Drystan is such a master with his weapon," she said, eyes glinting with lascivious glee. "But I couldn't risk anything scarring those gorgeous cheekbones."

She turned back to Uflyn and, slipping her purse from its loop on her girdle, tossed it on to his altar. It made a reassuring thump as it landed.

"We'll be leaving for our honeymoon straight after the wedding of course. Drystan has his heart set on Bordeaux."

Uflyn whistled his approval.

"What do you want me to do with Sir Roger, Milady?" He asked.

"Oh, I've never been one for bulky decoration, have you?" Morgana curled a golden lock around one finger. "I think castle number two will suffice. There's an alcove in the third best guest room that's just perfect."

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Written for the Weekend Write-In, January 15th 2019

Prompt: cheat