“Oh, play, my Lord, play,” she begged.
Obediently Stile found his harmonica and brought it to his mouth. But something stayed him—an ominous though not unpleasant feeling. He concentrated and placed it. “It was not far from here that I first found this instrument, or thought I found it. Here in the open, riding with Neysa. I conjured it without knowing.”
“It is all that remains of my former Lord,” she said. “His music and power have since found lodging in thee. Great was my grief at his loss, yet greater is my joy in thee.”
“Still it bothers me how he died. Surely he could have saved himself, had he tried.”
She stiffened. “I told thee how the demon amulet choked him, so that he could make neither music nor spell.”
“Aye. But was not this harmonica always with him?”
“Always. But he could not play it, either, if—”
“And the golem did not remove it?”
“Nay. It was gone ere the golem came.”
“Then how did it get out here in the fields for me to conjure? Or, if it were not here, how did it get wherever it hid? It remained not at the Blue Demesnes.”
“True,” she agreed thoughtfully. “Long and long I searched for it, but it was not with his body.”
“Which is strange,” Stile said. “He might have conjured it away from him in the instant he knew he would die—but why then did he not use his magic to protect himself? And why did he deny thee the inheritance of his prize possession? Such malice was not his nature, I am sure.” For Stile himself would not have done that. Not without excellent reason.
“He could not have conjured it!” she said, disturbed.
“Then he must have placed it in the field, or hidden it elsewhere, before he died. And that suggests—”
“That he knew he was slated to die!” she exclaimed, shocked. “He deprived himself of his most valued possession. But even without it, no one could have killed him, were he on guard!”
“Unless he intended to permit it,” Stile said.
Her shock turned to horror. “No! Nothing I did, no will of mine should have caused him—”
“Of course not,” Stile agreed quickly. “He would never have done it because of thee.”
“Then what is thine import?”
“That perhaps he knew something, received an omen, that caused him to accept what was coming.”
She considered that for some time, her hand clenching and unclenching in his. “Yet what could possibly justify—what was fated?”
“I wish I knew.” For Stile’s own passage across the curtain had been enabled by that demise of his alternate self. If the Blue Adept had sought to eliminate his brand of magic from the frame, he had acted in vain, for Stile performed it now.
That night they did not make love. They lay and watched the blue moon, and Stile played gently on the mysterious harmonica, and it was enough. Slowly sleep overtook them.
“Be at ease,” a man’s voice came from nearby. “We have met before, Adept.”
Stile controlled his reaction. He still held the harmonica; he could summon his power rapidly. In a moment he placed the half-familiar voice: “Yes, at the Unolympics, Green Adept.” He did not want trouble with another Adept—especially not when the Lady Blue was close enough to be hurt by the fallout. He was as yet unable to see the man; probably Green had employed a spell of invisibility, with related obfuscations. Otherwise he could not have gotten by the alert equines.
“I come in peace. Wilt thou grant truce for a dialogue?”
“Certainly.” Stile was relieved. By custom verging on law, Adepts did not deceive each other in such matters. What in Phaze could this man want with him at this time?
The Adept became visible. He was a pudgy man of middle age, garbed in green. He looked completely inoffensive—but was in fact one of the dozen most powerful people of Phaze. “Thank thee. I will intrude not long.”
A hawk appeared silently behind the Adept. Stile gave no sign. He did not expect treachery, but if it came, there would suddenly be a unicorn’s horn in action. If Clip attacked the Green Adept, he risked getting transformed into a clod of dung, but Stile knew he would take that risk if necessary. “Surely thou hast reason.”
“It is this, Blue: my sources give thee warning. Go not to the West Pole. Great mischief lies there.”
“There is no mischief there,” the Lady Blue protested. “It is a sacred place, under truce, like the palace of the Oracle.”
“Dost thou think no mischief lies with the Oracle?”
Stile chuckled. “Excellent point, Green. But the Lady and I are on our honeymoon, and our excursion to the West Pole has private significance. Canst thou be more explicit?”
“Why shouldst thou care if mischief comes to a rival Adept?” the Lady demanded. “Thou didst evince no concern, Green, when the life of Blue hung in peril before.”
That was an understatement. No other Adept had lifted a finger or made a spell either to warn or to assist the Blue Adept in his severe crisis that had left two Adepts dead or ruined. This sudden concern was suspicious.
“Needs must I then elaborate,” Green said heavily. “My Demesnes lie athwart thy route. I would let thee pass unscathed, knowing thy mission—but by that acquiescence I commit myself to thy fate. This is not my desire. I want no part of what befalls thee. Go not to the West Pole—but an thou must go, then go not through the Green Demesnes.”
That made sense. The Green Adept had no personal interest in Stile; he merely wanted to make certain he was not implicated in what happened to Stile. If a prophecy decreed doom to all who might facilitate Stile’s approach to the West Pole, this step exonerated the Green Adept.
“Now I seek no trouble with thee,” Stile began. “But the Lady and I planned to follow the curtain to its terminus, and—”
“And we can bypass the Green Demesnes, in the interest of courtesy,” the Lady Blue finished.
Stile shrugged. “The Lady has spoken. Set out warners at thy boundaries, and we shall there detour.”
“I shall,” Green agreed. “Since thou dost humor my preference, I offer one final word: my sources suggest that if thou dost go to the West Pole, thou wilt suffer grievously in the short term, and in the moderate term will incur the enmity of the most powerful forces of the frame. I urge thee once more to give up this quest. There are other suitable places to honeymoon. The Green Demesnes themselves will be opened to thee, shouldst thou care to tarry there instead.”
“I thank thee for thy advice,” Stile said. “Yet it seems the end of Phaze draws nigh, and powerful forces already dispose themselves in readiness. The Foreordained has appeared. What is fated, is fated, and I am ready if not eager to play my part.”
“As thou dost choose.” The Green Adept made a signal with the fingers of his left hand and disappeared.
“I mislike these omens,” the Lady said. “Methought our troubles were over.”
“Loose ends remain, it seems. I had hoped we could let them be for at least this fortnight.”
“Surely we can,” she agreed, opening her arms to him. The hawk flew quietly away. The weapon of the unicorn had not, after all, been needed.
Next day they resumed the ride north. Stile made a small spell to enhance Hinblue’s velocity and let Clip run at full speed. They fairly flew across the rolling terrain. Fire jetted from the unicorn’s nostrils, and his hooves grew hot enough to throw sparks. Unicorns, being magic, did not sweat; they ejected surplus heat at the extremities.
After a time they slowed. Stile brought out his harmonica and played, Clip accompanied him on his saxophone-voiced horn, and the lady sang. The magic closed about them, seeming to thicken the air, but it had no force without Stile’s verbal invocation.
“We can camp the night at the Yellow Demesnes,” Stile said. “The curtain clips a corner of—”
“By no means!” the Lady snapped, and Clip snorted.
Stile remembered. She didn’t like other Adepts, and Yellow liked to tak
e a potion to convert herself from an old crone to a luscious young maid—without otherwise changing her nature. Also, her business was the snaring and selling of animals, including unicorns. Stile had traded magical favors with Yellow in the past and had come to respect her, but he could understand why his wife and steed preferred not to socialize.
“Anything for thee,” he agreed. “However, night approaches and the White Mountains lie beyond.”
“Indulge thyself in a spell, Adept.”
“How soon the honeymoon turns to dull marriage,” he grumbled. Clip made a musical snort of mirth, and the lady smiled.
The ramshackle premises of Yellow appeared. Both animals sniffed the air and veered toward the enclosure. Hastily Stile sang a counterspell: “This will cure the witch’s lure.” That enabled them to ignore the hypnotic vapor that drew animals in to capture and confinement. Before long they had skirted those premises and moved well on toward the termination of the plain to the north.
At dusk they came to the White Mountain range. Here the peaks rose straight out of the plain in defiance of normal geological principles; probably magic had been involved in their formation.
The curtain blithely traveled up the slope at a steep angle. It would have been difficult to navigate this route by daylight; at night the attempt would be foolhardy. “And there are snow-demons,” the Lady said as an afterthought.
Stile pondered, then conjured a floating ski lift. It contained a heated stall for two equines, complete with a trough filled with fine grain, and a projecting shelf with several mugs of nutri-cocoa similar to what was available from a Proton food machine. Clip could have converted to hawk-form and flown up, but the cold would have hindered him, and this was far more comfortable. Unicorn and horse stepped into the stalls and began feeding, while Stile and the Lady mounted for their repast. Eating and sleeping while mounted was no novelty; it was part of the joy of Phaze.
They rode serenely upward as if drawn by an invisible cable. “Yet I wonder where this magic power comes from?” Stile mused. “I realize that the mineral Phazite is the power source for magic, just as its other-frame self, Protonite, is the basis for that scientific, energy-processing society. But why should certain people, such as the Adepts, channel that power better than others? Why should music and doggerel verse implement it for me, while the Green Adept needs special gestures and the White Adept needs mystic symbols? There is a certain channelization here that can not be coincidental. But if it is natural, what governs it? If it is artificial, who set it up?”
“Thou wert ever questioning the natural order,” the Lady Blue said affectionately. “Asking whence came the Proton objects conjured to this frame, like the harmonica, and whether they were turning up missing from that frame, making us thieves.”
So his other self had speculated similarly! “I wonder if I could conjure a source of information? Maybe a smart demon, like the one Yellow animates with a potion.”
“Conjure not demons, lest they turn on thee,” she warned, and Clip gave an affirmative blast on his horn.
“Yes, I suppose there are no shortcuts,” Stile said. “But one way or another, I hope to find the answer.”
“Mayhap that is why mischief lurks for thee at the West Pole,” the Lady said, not facetiously. “Thou canst not let things rest, any more in this self than in thine other.”
That was quite possible, he thought. It was likely to be the curious child with a screwdriver who poked into a power outlet and got zapped, while the passive child escaped harm. But man was a curious creature, and that insatiable appetite for knowledge had led him to civilization and the stars. Progress had its dangers, yet was necessary—
Something rattled against the side of the gondola stall, startling them. Clip shifted instantly to hawk-form, dropping Stile so suddenly to the floor that he stumbled face-first into the food trough as if piggishly hungry. Hinblue eyed him as he lifted his corn- and barley-covered face, and made a snort that sounded suspiciously like a snicker. “Et tu, Brute,” Stile muttered, wiping off his face while the Lady tittered.
Soon Clip returned from his survey of the exterior situation, metamorphosing to man-form. “Snow-demons,” he said. “Throwing icicles at us.”
Stile made a modification spell, and the chamber drew farther out from the mountainside, beyond reach of icicles. So much for that. “Yet this will complicate our night’s lodging,” Stile commented.
“Nay, I know a snow-chief,” the Lady said. “Once the demons were enemies of my Lord Blue, but we have healed many, and this one will host us graciously enough, methinks.”
“Mayhap,” Stile said dubiously. “But I shall set a warning spell against betrayal.”
“Do thou that,” she agreed. “One can never be quite certain with demons.”
They crested the high peak and followed the curtain to an icebound hollow in a pass on the north side. “Here, belike, can we find my friend,” the Lady said.
Stile placed the warning spell, and another to keep warm—a warner and a warmer, as the Lady put it—and they rode out. There was a cave in the ice, descending into the mountain. They approached this, and the snow demons appeared.
“I seek Freezetooth,” the Lady proclaimed. “Him have I befriended.” And in an amazingly short time, they were in the cold hall of the snow-chief.
Freezetooth was largely made of snow and ice. His skin was translucent, and his hair and beard were massed, tiny icicles. Freezing fog wafted out of his mouth as he spoke. But he was affable enough. Unlike most of his kind, he could talk. It seemed that most demons did not regard the human tongue as important enough to master, but a chief had to handle affairs of state and interrogate prisoners. “Welcome, warm ones,” he said with a trace of delicately suppressed aversion. “What favor do you offer for the privilege of nighting at my glorious palace?”
Glorious palace? Stile glanced about the drear, ice-shrouded cave. It was literally freezing here—otherwise the snow-demons would melt. Even protected by his spell, Stile felt cold.
“I have done thy people many favors in past years,” the Lady reminded Freezetooth indignantly, small sparks flashing from her eyes. That was a trick of hers Stile always admired, but several snow-demons drew hastily back in alarm.
“Aye, and in appreciation, we consume thee not,” the chief agreed. “What hast thou done for us lately, thou and thy cohorts?”
“This cohort is the Blue Adept,” she said, indicating Stile.
There was a ripple through the cave, as of ice cracking under stress. Freezetooth squinted, his snowy brow crusting up in reflection. “I do recall something about a white foal—”
Stile placed the allusion. His alternate self, the former Blue Adept, had helped the Lady Blue rescue her white foal from the snow-demons, who did not now realize that the identity of the Blue Adept had changed. It hardly mattered, really.
“That foal would have died with thy people, being no snow-mare, though she looked it. But there was an avalanche—”
“An accident,” Freezetooth said quickly.
“An accident,” Stile agreed, though they both knew better. The demons had tried to kill the Blue Adept—and had received a harsh lesson. Surely they did not want another. But there was no need to antagonize them. “What favor didst thou crave?”
Now there was a canny glint in the demon’s frozen eye. “Come converse privately, Adept, male to male.”
In a private chamber the demon confessed his desire: he loved a lovely, flowing, brilliantly hued fire-spirit. His “flame” was literally a flame.
The problem was immediately apparent. Freezetooth could not approach his love without melting. If she cooled to his temperature, her fire would extinguish and she would perish. Forbidden fruit, indeed!
Fortunately the remedy was within the means of Adept magic. Stile generated a spell to render Freezetooth invulnerable to heat. The flames would feel as deliciously cold as they were in fact hot.
The demon chief departed hastily to rendezvous with his
love. Stile and his party were treated well by the remaining demons, who were no longer chilled by the wintry glare of their lord. The finest snowbanks were provided for sleeping on, in the most frigid and windy of the chambers. Without Stile’s warmth-spell, it would have been disaster. As it was, they started to melt down into the snow, and Stile had to modify his spell to prevent that. Once everything had been adjusted, the facilities were quite comfortable.
In the morning Freezetooth was back, and his icicles positively scintillated. No need to ask how his evening had worked out! He insisted that his close friend the Adept stay for a proper feast that evening.
It occurred to Stile that this hospitality could be useful. “Do thou remain here while I perform a necessary chore in Proton,” he told the Lady. “I must attend the final Round of the Tourney, but should be back by noon.”
“I know, my love. Is it selfish of me to hope that thou dost lose that Game and find thyself confined to Phaze?”
He kissed her. “Yes, it is selfish. Sheen depends on me.”
“Ah, yes—I forget the Lady Sheen. Methinks I shall consider her options whilst thou art gone.”
Stile wasn’t certain what that would lead to. The Lady Blue could cross the curtain, but Sheen could not function in Phaze. “Until noon,” Stile said, then spelled himself to his usual curtain crossing.
CHAPTER 4
Poem
Stile’s opponent for the finals was a serf woman two years younger than he: Rue, a twenty-year-tenure veteran of the Game. Like himself, she had not qualified at the top of her age ladder; but also like himself, she was the best of her decade. She was one of the half-dozen serf players Stile was not eager to meet in the Tourney. He thought he could beat her, but he wasn’t sure.
Rue had luck as well as skill, for she had lost no Rounds. That meant that a single victory for her would bring her the prize, while one for Stile would merely bring him even. To beat Rue twice in succession—that would be difficult.
They played the grid. Stile got the letters. Rue was good at all manner of tool and machine games, being in superb health; he was well skilled in these areas, too, and could take her in most tool games, but would be at a disadvantage in machine-assisted games. She would expect him to go for TOOL or ANIMAL, so instead he went for A. NAKED. If she went for 4. ARTS, as he expected, this would foul her up.