She nodded. “Agreement. Now seduce me."
“Whose turn is it?” he asked teasingly.
Weft appeared, scowling cutely. “Yours, Daddy. Get it over with."
Gale frowned. “I think I see a little bottom in need of spanking.” But Weft had already disappeared.
“Lovemaking will never be the same,” Havoc said.
“Do you regret adopting them?"
“Never."
“Agreement."
Warp appeared. “You better not regret it!” He vanished before Havoc could formulate a suitable threat.
“We should get Flame's permission too,” Havoc murmured.
A ball of flame appeared. Havoc punched at it, but it flickered out before his fist touched it. The children's reactions were too fast for adults. Gale laughed.
They proceeded to their lovemaking, getting it over with. It was great despite the likely audience.
Next day Havoc lined up with Ini and Red, carrying Weft in a backpack that enabled her to peek over his shoulder, and they moved through the several settings with dispatch, using Gale's notion of the Fool's Mate for the chess, and doing only one floor of the repeating tower before exiting. And there were the four dancing nymphs, on a grassy bank before a lake and distant mountains. Fortunately by this time Weft had gotten bored and fallen asleep.
Havoc looked around. Ini and Red had disappeared. He focused, and they were there, merely washed out by the illusion. “Observation: this setting is crafted to tempt a man, so must be mine to tackle. Remain close."
Agreement, Red's thought came.
He stepped out. “Greeting, maidens."
They ignored him. They continued dancing in their circle. Now he heard the music, a merry tune. A hoofed lad was sitting on the ground, his back against a tree, playing pan-pipes. Was he the one to be addressed?
“Greeting, Pan,” Havoc said.
Pan ignored him also. The melody and dance continued unabated. That was unusual; it was as if Havoc had not entered the scene. Prior settings had reacted to the presence of intruders, seeking to divert them in some manner, or being diversionary in nature, like the endless stairs. So was this like the stairs? Holding him here until he figured it out?
Havoc didn't have the patience. “Nuisance!” he exclaimed, and marched toward the dancing nymphs. They were quite appealing as their flesh jiggled here and there, their hair swung around their heads, and their torsos flexed. Breasts and buttocks bounced with each footfall. They were linked by a chain of flowers they held and moved around to briefly obscure selected features of anatomy, calling them to attention.
He came up to the last one on the flower line, who was just passing him. She looked to be the youngest of the four. “Greeting, maiden,” he repeated, and smacked her on the bare bottom.
The scene shifted. Now she was clothed in a simple white dress, standing by the edge of the lake, dipping her bare toe in the water. That was all; she dipped her toe, drew up her foot, dipped again, watching intently. She took no notice of Havoc.
“Enough,” he said, and touched her dress.
The dress came away in his hand, leaving her naked. She stepped into the water, and waded ankle deep among lily pads. When she reached the edge of the shallow section she turned and waded back, showing her small breasts and moderate patch of pubic hair. It matched the color and texture of the black mass of hair on her head, an esthetic alignment. Her hips shifted intriguingly with each step, but there was nothing sexual about it; she was just a barely nubile girl wading alone.
Havoc knew he was misplaying it, but was annoyed by being ignored. How could he make an impression on this creature?
“Here is your dress,” he said, proffering it. When she paid no attention, he touched her with it. It wrapped around her waist and hung low, the hem touching the water, leaving her nude above. Now her breasts seemed fuller than before, and her hair longer as it cascaded down her back. She stood there, seeing right through him.
“Come sit on the bank,” he said, taking her hand.
The dress dropped into the water and dissolved. She turned and walked to the bank and sat there, one knee lifted. This provided an excellent view of her thigh, which was thicker than it had seemed to be before. Her breasts, also, were larger. This was a mature woman
“Every time I touch you, you get older,” he said. “Where is this leading?” But she did not respond.
It was time for a more serious step. He bent down and kissed her sedate red mouth.
She held the kiss for a moment, then turned her face away. Now her breasts were solid to the verge of pendulousness, and her torso was thicker.
“I can keep this up if you can,” he said. He touched her hand, and touched it again, and again, before she could withdraw it.
Her body became dark and wrinkled, her hair stringy. Her breasts sagged low. Her face was deeply etched with the lines of age, her eyes staring out like hooded lamps.
And Havoc realized that he was changing too. He couldn't see his body, but he felt it, getting younger. It was the illusion of youth, but uncomfortably persuasive.
How could he reverse this, before she died of old age and he became a baby? His touches made them both change. What was the opposite it touching? Nothing happened when he didn't touch her.
“Ini,” he said. “How do I untouch her?"
Her voice seemed to come from the nymph. “Cause her to touch you."
Could that be it? He studied the nymph-crone, who was now shambling aimlessly through the water. He moved to stand before her, a bit to the side, so that as she walked her right hand brushed his projecting elbow.
She became a decade younger, and he a couple of years older. The change was proportional rather than fixed.
Satisfied, he got before her again, and got touched again, with another shift of ages. Several stages returned them to their original states.
But that merely undid his prior mistake; it didn't solve the riddle of this setting. How did he get beyond it?
He shrugged. Then he went to intercept her again, and her touch made him older and her younger. Several repetitions had him feeling like an aged man, while she was a breastless young girl. This wasn't getting anywhere either.
He touched her until they were where they belonged, then considered. “Any other ideas?” he asked Ini.
“We have established that her touch is the opposite of your touch,” Ini replied, again seeming to speak from the mouth of the nymph. “We need to find what is the opposite of touching itself."
Ignoring Red's thought came.
“Ignoring,” he agreed. “I will try."
He stood near the nymph as she waded. “I have been paying you much attention,” he announced. “I shall now ignore you.” He turned away from her, crossing his arms.
“You must not,” she protested.
So now she talked! That was progress.
Continue ignoring her.
That was his thought. “Negation,” he said, staring fixedly away from the nymph. “You are not worth my attention."
She came to stand before him, her breasts heaving, her face beseeching. “I will give you anything."
What now, Red? he thought.
Refuse her. That will indicate she can't distract you via sex.
That made sense to him. Besides, sex would be awkward with his little chaperone along; Weft would wake and protest the moment he got into anything like that. He also remained aware that the nymph did not exist; his vision nulling still showed emptiness there. He would feel rather foolish having sex on that basis, even if he could feel every nuance.
He turned away from the nymph again. “You ignored me when I was interested; now I am ignoring you."
“I misunderstood,” she said, circling to stand before him again. “Please—I have so much to offer.” She stroked her own slender body.
“You age when I touch you, and youthen when you touch me. I have no interest in relations with either an old crone or a young girl.” He turned away again.
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“We can take turns touching each other,” she said, circling again. “I beg you! I can be so good for you."
The irony was that he was feeling tempted despite his knowledge. But he maintained his stance. “Forget it."
“Abject entreaty!” she pleaded, tears flowing from her lovely eyes. “I must serve you."
He hated tears. “Negation,” he said with an effort.
Weft woke. “Go away, illusion!” she said. “You can't have Daddy."
And the scene reverted to that of the four dancing maidens. They had escaped the nymph.
But not the larger setting. The nymph had evidently been a mere diversion, not an exit. Which one of the others would open the way to the next setting?
“Don't be stupid, Daddy,” Weft said. “It's none of them."
She had fathomed that? How did she know? “Question?"
“Used Voila's talent."
“You looked into the future?"
“Briefly,” she agreed. “The nymphs’ paths are all circles."
Amazement! Red thought. We could have done that, if we had thought of it.
“And we didn't,” Havoc said, taken aback.
“Well, you're grownups,” Weft said smugly.
“Guilty,” Havoc agreed, reaching over his shoulder to pat her little hand. “So what other aspect is there to address?"
“Pan, dum-dum."
“Pan,” he agreed.
“Question,” Ini asked. “How does Weft use precog, receive thoughts, and speak ungarbled? She should be able to null only one, unless she can change modes much faster than we can."
“Don't,” Weft said. “Red sends in clear, and you speak in clear and so do I. Precog—” She broke off, confused.
“Maybe that is garbled, and she didn't realize,” Havoc said. “In which case one of the other nymphs may be the one.” He eyed the most voluptuous of the maidens.
“Yuck!” Weft exclaimed.
Doubt, Red's thought came. I tried it just now, and see the same circles she did. I think the illusion is not interfering with precog.
“Conjecture,” Ini said. “The ifrits did not know precog, so did not program it into the illusion fields. We may have a special advantage."
But best to verify. Try a circle, Havoc, and ascertain its authenticity.
“Agreement,” he said.
“Disgust,” Weft said.
If you interfere, Weft, I will emulate a nymph for Havoc to feel. My breasts and buttocks are real.
“Horror!” Weft sank down in her harness, tuning out. She knew when she was overmatched.
Havoc advanced on the sexy nymph, focusing on the near future. He saw the circle, with no path leading beyond. If that was accurate, he would find no way to get beyond the nymph.
The nymphs ignored him, as before, until he slapped the bottom of the shapeliest one. Then the others faded and she turned to him. “Why Havoc, I feared you'd never come to me,” she said, delighted.
“I am trying to find a way past you to the next setting,” he said. “Will you show me the way?"
“Of course I will oblige you,” she said, putting her arms around him. “You are such a great man."
“Observation,” Ini said. “She did not address your question."
“Noted,” he said.
“Yes, it does get boring perpetually dancing,” the nymph said, answering his spoken word. “But now you are here, and we'll have such a great time together.” She drew him into her and kissed him.
Havoc felt a wave of jealous revulsion. That was Weft, who it seemed was not completely tuned out. She tolerated his romantic interactions with Gale because she had to, but fiercely resented any other women. It was a phase she was supposed to grow out of in time; Havoc wasn't sure how long it would last.
So would making out with this nymph lead to the next setting? He stroked her back and bottom, squeezing the mounds of flesh. It was amazing how realistic the illusion of touch was. But how far did it go? He ran his fingers into the crevice of her bottom and found the lips of her vulva. She did not object. He ran a finger into her hot moist vagina. She made a low moan of pleasure, and squeezed on his digit as she clung to him. She was fully formed and eager for any part of him she could get.
But still she did not exist; when he nulled the vision she vanished, though her cleft still clasped his hand and her warm breath still tickled his ear. And the path of the near future continued its circle, not leading to any far future.
There was no future here, only the present. For surely if the illusion field handled precognition too, it would have shown him a path that led somewhere he wanted to go, or else garbled all the paths. It would not have let him see that this was a dead end, alive as it felt at the moment.
Satisfied, he decided to withdraw from the nymph and return to the main setting.
“First get your finger out of the pie,” Weft said severely.
He laughed and obliged. She was an effective chaperone, all right.
“I am done with you,” he said to the nymph. “I am ignoring you."
“But you can't!” she protested desperately. “Feel my flesh!” She took his hand and put it against a breast. “Everything is yours."
“Negation. I am gone.” And soon he was, again feeling somewhat guilty for his treatment of the illusion.
The four nymphs were back, dancing to the music. It was as though his sessions with two of them had never happened; they were oblivious.
He turned to Pan, who was playing, never pausing even for a breath. That was a mistake. As with the automatic responses of the nymphs, a spot error of programming. It was almost impossible to think of everything, especially when you didn't know what kind of creature you would be diverting centuries in the future. Havoc remained highly impressed with the caliber of the illusion fields.
He approached Pan. “Greeting."
Pan ignored him. The music continued unabated. It seemed the scene was locked in until he touched one of its players. But why would he want to touch a goat-footed man? His actions needed to make sense in terms of the setting, or he would lose the progress he had made.
I thought the path would lead through him, Red thought. But all I see is another circle beyond him.
“Confirmation,” Havoc murmured.
“Daddy, there's a path,” Weft said. “From right here. But I don't see how to get to it."
“Idea:” Ini said. “Music."
And there it was. Havoc brought out his dragon scale. He strummed it, then played the same tune Pan was playing, accompanying him.
The illusion fuzzed but did not dissipate. He was on the right track, but not there yet.
He tried a different tune, clashing dissonantly with Pan. The setting wavered, the dancing nymphs losing coherence as they tried to match both melodies. They couldn't; they stumbled and halted. And the scene changed, along with the sound.
Pan remained, still playing his pipes, but now both he and they were different. His button nubs had grown into monster horns that curled around before his face. He applied his mouth to the hollow tip of one horn and blew, and the sound was a horrendous loud ooom-pah! that blew steam from his pointed ears. His eyes were giant flexing orbs that pulsed with changing colors and density. His belly was a gross face that stared intensely at Havoc, its eyes glinting. Below it divided into two legs that descended not into feet but merged into a nether creature, an imperfect mirror image, that in turn divided and merged, repeating until it faded from sight.
Look at the nymphs.
Havoc turned to look. They were as bad, with faces on their knees and bottoms for faces. They were dancing, or trying to; now their efforts looked more like struggles to escape some horrible fate. One of them turned her head around so that the other side of her posterior came into view; it was a visage consisting mostly of an orifice with great yellow teeth. The teeth clashed together, striking sparks, and the creature lunged toward him.
Havoc acted on spot inspiration. He focused not on nulling the illusion,
but on enhancing it and joining it. His own face expanded, his mouth growing, his teeth lengthening into virtual tusks. He leaped to meet the clashing face, spreading his jaws so wide that he took in the whole opposing figure and bit its head off.
And he was in another setting. There were trees growing, but their trunks were not ordinary; they were closer to animal and human limbs, their ankles in the ground, their tops sprouting foliage. Some were animal and human faces, their necks in the ground, their hair sprouting leaves. Some were full human torsos, the males with broken off branches projecting like stiff phalluses, the females with knotholes for genitals and swelling wooden breasts. Every trunk was different; none were ordinary.
He wandered through the forest, nulling just enough to be sure it wasn't there and that Ini and Red were following. It seemed endless; this was an inactive setting he had to find his way out of. But he suspected that mere walking wouldn't do it.
“Precog, Daddy,” Weft said.
He tried it. His near future paths diverged immediately, leading in every possible direction. He traced them farther, and saw that they became a tangle of crossings and mergings. No help there.
“Mask them, Daddy."
“Question?"
“Voila showed me. Filter out the bad ones so you can see the good ones. Good for middle future paths. Like this.” But her mental demonstration was garbled.
“Show Red,” he said.
In a moment the thought came from Red, showing the new technique. It was a deliberate fuzzing of precognition so that only unique paths were clear, the rest merging into background. He tried it, practicing, and soon there were just a few paths, and then one. It wound through the forest and disappeared.
“Appreciation.” He followed that path.
It led to a very large, exceedingly gnarled trunk whose permutations seemed to include many figures. But there was something else about it. Obviously this was where he could step through to the next setting, but the difference was aside from that.
Then it fell into place. “You're real!” he said. “A real live tree.” He focused and verified that it was the only real tree in this setting; all the others were illusion. He had caught on because this trunk was twisted but natural, while the others were unnatural. Also—because he was the Glamor of Trees, and related to them. He had sensed its nature by his Glamor affinity.