Blue Adept

CHAPTER 1 - Unicorn

A lone unicorn galloped across the field toward the Blue Castle. It was a male, with a glossy dark blue coat and red socks on his hind feet and a handsomely spiraled horn. As he moved he played a melody through that hollow horn, sounding like a mellow saxophone. The notes floated across the field ahead of him.

Stile walked to a parapet and looked down. He was an extremely small but fit man, a former jockey who remained in shape. He was dressed in a blue shirt and blue jeans, though there were those who felt that neither became his station. His station was such, however, that he could ignore it with impunity—to a degree.

“Clip!” he exclaimed, recognizing the visitor. “Hey, Neysa—your brother’s here!” But Neysa already knew it. Her hearing was better than his. She trotted out of the castle and met Clip at the front gate, crossing horns briefly in greeting. Then the two went into their more extended ritual of reunion, prancing out side by side in unison as they played a duet. Neysa’s horn had the sound of a harmonica, and it blended beautifully with the music of the saxophone.

Stile watched and listened, entranced, and not by magic. He had always been fond of horses, and he liked unicorns even better. He was of course biased; Neysa was his best friend in this frame. Still—

The two equines intensified the beat, their hooves striking the turf precisely. Now they went into the syncopation of the five-beat gait, the Unicorn Strut, their music matching it. Stile, unable to resist, brought out his good harmonica and matched the tune, tapping the beat with his heel as well as he could. He had a natural flair for music, and had sharpened his skill recently because it related so intimately to his magic. When he played, intangible magic formed around him. But he refused to let that inhibit him; the magic only became tangible when he invoked it in his special fashion.

When the unicorns finished their dance of delight, they trotted back to the castle. As they approached the gate they shifted to human-form, becoming a handsome young man and an elfishly small but also quite pretty woman. Stile hurried down to meet them in the courtyard. “A greeting. Adept, and a message from the Herd Stallion,” Clip said. He was holding hands with his sister, somewhat to her mute embarrassment; he was more expressive than she. Both wore the garb of archaic Earth as interpreted by nonhuman viewpoint, more or less matching their natural equine colors.

“Thy greeting is welcome. Clip,” Stile said. “And thy message too, be it in peace.”

“It is. Adept. The Stallion is pleased to summon Neysa the Mare this season to be bred.” He paused, then appended his own remark: “At long last.”

“That’s great!” Stile exclaimed. “After three seasons denied, she will finally get her foal!”

Then he saw that Neysa was not reacting with the de-light expected. Stile looked at her with concern. “Dost this not please thee, oath-friend? I thought it was thy fondest ambition to—“ Clip, too, was glancing at her with perplexity. “Sibling, methought I bore great tidings.”

Neysa averted her gaze. She was a well-formed girl an inch or so shorter than Stile—a stature that appealed to him though he knew this was foolish. She was the smallest of mares, barely fourteen hands; any shorter and she would have been classified as a pony: a member of the equine Little Folk. Her human-form merely reflected this, with only the tiny button-hom in her forehead signifying her true nature.

Stile had long since learned to live with the fact that most women and all men were taller than he, and of course Neysa was not human at all. That did not prevent her from being his closest companion in ways both human and equine. Though she could speak, she was not much on verbal communication. Vivacity was not her way, though she had a certain filly humor that manifested subtly on occasion.

Clip and Stile exchanged glances. What did this mean?

“Would a female know?” Clip asked.

Stile nodded. “One would.” He raised his voice only slightly. “Lady.”

In a moment the Lady Blue appeared. She was, as always, garbed in variants of blue: blue corduroy skirt, pale blue blouse, dark blue slippers and star-blue tiara. And, as always, her beauty struck Stile with special force. “Master,” she murmured.

Stile wished she wouldn’t do that. In no way was he her master, and she knew that well. But he was unable to take effective issue with the conventions of this frame—or with the half-subtle reminders she gave him. She considered him to be an imposter in the Blue Demesnes, a necessary evil. She had cause.

“Lady,” he said, maintaining the formality she required of him. “Our friend Neysa is summoned to be bred by the Herd Stallion, and have her foal at last—yet she seems not pleased. Canst thou fathom this, and wilt thou enlighten us males?”

The Lady Blue went to Neysa and embraced her. No aloofness in this acquaintance! “Friend of mine oath, grant me leave to explain to my lord,” the Lady said to Neysa, and the unicorn-girl nodded.

The Lady faced Stile. “It be a private matter,” she said, and walked sedately from the court.

She hadn’t even asked; she had known intuitively! “I’ll be back,” Stile said, and quickly followed. When they were alone, they dropped the pretenses. “What’s the mystery?” Stile snapped. “She’s my best friend —a better friend than thou. Why won’t she tell me?”

“Thy magic is strong,” the Lady replied. “Thy comprehension weak. Left to thine own devices, thou wilt surely come to grief.”

“Agreed,” Stile said easily, though he was not pleased. “Fortunately I have Hulk and Neysa and thee to look after me. Soon will I eliminate the major threat to my tenure as Adept, and will stand no longer in need of such supervision.”

What irony there was rolled off her without visible effect. The fairness and softness of her appearance concealed the implacable skill with which she fought to pre-serve the works of her late husband. There was nothing soft about her dedication to his memory. “Be that as it may—the mare feels un-free to leave thee at this time. Hulk may depart and I am not committed to thee as Neysa is. Therefore she prefers to postpone breeding until thou’rt secure.”

“But this is senseless!” he protested. “She must not sacrifice her own welfare for mine! I can offer her only hard-ship and danger.”

“Aye,” the Lady agreed.

“Then thou must talk to her. Make her go to the Stallion.”

“Who is as masculinely logical as thee,” the Lady said. “With every bit as much comprehension of her concern. Nay, I shall not betray her thus.”

Stile grimaced. “Didst thou treat thy husband likewise?”

Now she colored. “Aye.”

Stile was immediately sorry. “Lady, I apologize. Well I know thou didst love him alone.”

“Not enough, it seems, to save his life. Perhaps had he had a unicorn to guard him—“ There it was, that needle-sharp acuity.

“I yield the point. There is no guardian like Neysa. What must I do to oblige her?”

“Thou must arrange postponement of the breeding, until she feels free to leave thee.”

Stile nodded. “That should be feasible. I thank thee, Lady, for thine insight.”

“What thou askest for, thou hast,” she said coolly. “Thou art now the Blue Adept, the leading magician of the realm. Only have the human wit not to offend the mare in the presentation of thy decision.”

“And how do I find the wit not to offend thee, bride of my defunct self? Thou knowest his tastes are mine.” She left him, not deigning to answer. Stile shrugged and returned to the courtyard. He wanted the Lady Blue more than anything he could imagine, and she was aware of this. But he had to win her the right way. He had the power to convert her by magic, but he would not use it; she knew this too. She understood him in certain ways better than he understood himself, for she had experienced the love of his other self. She could handle him, and she did so. Clip and Neysa had reverted to unicorn-form and were grazing on the patch of rich bluegrass maintained beside the fountain for that purpose. The two were a beautifully matched set, his blue against her black, his red socks complementing her white ones. Clip was a true unicorn in coloration; Neysa had been excluded from the herd for some years because her color resembled that of a horse. Stile still got angry when he thought about that. Neysa looked up as he approached, black ears perking forward, a stem of grass dangling from her mouth. As with most equines, her chewing stopped when her attention was distracted.

“I regret the necessity,” Stile said briskly. “But I must after all interfere with Neysa’s opportunity. The Blue Adept has, as we know, an anonymous enemy, probably another Adept, who has murdered him once and seeks to do so again. I have no second life to spare. Until I deal with this enemy, I do not feel secure without completely competent protection and guidance. No one can do that as well as the mare. Therefore I must seek a postponement of the Stallion’s imperative until this crisis abates. I realize this works a hardship on Neysa, and is selfish of me—“ Neysa snorted musically, pleased, and not for a moment deceived. She resumed chewing her mouthful. Clip angled his horn at her in askance, but saw that she was satisfied, so kept silent.

One problem had been exchanged for another, however. It was not any mare’s prerogative to gainsay the Herd Stallion. Stile would have to do that himself, as the Blue Adept. In the informal but rigorous hierarchy of this world, herd-leaders, pack-leaders, tribe-leaders and Adepts were roughly equivalent, though the ultimate power lay with the Adepts. Stile would deal with the Herd Stallion as an equal.

First he had to settle things at the Blue Demesnes. Stile talked with his human bodyguard from the other frame, Hulk. Hulk was as big as Stile was small: a towering mass of muscle, expert in all manner of physical combat but not, despite the assumption of strangers, stupid. “It is necessary that I leave this castle for a day or so,” Stile told him. “I must negotiate with the unicorn Herd Stallion, and I cannot summon him here.”

“That’s for sure,” Hulk agreed. “He never did have much of a liking for you. Uh, for thee. I’d better go with thee. That unicorn is one tough character.”

“Nay, friend. I am in no danger from the unicorns. It is the Lady Blue I worry about. I wish thee to guard her in mine absence, lest my nameless enemy strike at me through her. Thou hast not magic—at least, thou hast not practiced it; but if no others know I am gone there should be no hostile spells. Against else, thy skills suffice as well as mine.”

Hulk made a gesture of acquiescence. “She is surely worth guarding.”

“Yes. She maintained the Blue Demesnes after her lord, mine alternate self, was murdered. Without her help I could not fill this office of Adept. I have the power of magic, but lack experience. I am reminded daily of this.” Stile smiled wryly, remembering how the Lady Blue had just set him straight about Neysa. “And—“

“And she is an extraordinarily attractive woman,” Hulk finished. “A magnet for mischief.”

“Mine alternate self had excellent taste.”

“That’s one thing I don’t quite understand yet. If only a person whose double in the other frame is dead can cross the curtain that separates one frame from the other, what about me? Do I have an alternate self here who died?” Stile considered. “Thy tenure in the other frame of Pro-ton was for twenty years. Was thy family there before thee?”

“No. I came at age fifteen for my enlistment. My time would have been up in a few more months. My family never set foot on Planet Proton. They live fifteen light years away.”

“So thy existence on this planet stems only from thy tenure as a serf,” Stile concluded. “Thou hast no natural existence in this other frame of Phaze. There is no alternate self to fill thy place in the alternate scheme. So thou art free to cross the curtain.”

“So I was not murdered,” Hulk concluded. “That’s a relief.”

Stile smiled. “Who could murder thee? Thou couldst pulp any normal man with the grip of one hand.”

“Except thee, when we played the Game.”

“The fortunes of chance,” Stile said. “How could I match thee, in fair combat?”

Hulk laughed good-naturedly. ‘Tease me not, little giant. Thy stature is as mine, in martial arts.”

“In mine own weight-class,” Stile qualified. It was good to talk with someone who understood Stile’s home-world and the Game.

They started off within the hour. Stile played his harmonica, accumulating his magic, then sang one of the spells he had worked out: “By the power of magic vested in me, make me blank so none can see.” He was unable to heal himself or cure himself of illness, but he could change his aspect before other people. He held up his hand, then waved it before his face: nothing. He was invisible. Neysa, of course, knew him by smell and sound. She was not spooked. “This way,” he explained, “it will not be obvious that I am departing.”

“A watcher could see that the mare carries a burden,” the Lady pointed out.

“That’s right,” Stile agreed, surprised. He considered a moment, then sang: “By the power of magic vested in me, make me as light as I can be.” He felt the weight of his body dissipate. “Excellent.”

Both Hulk and the Lady looked perplexed. Stile laughed. “I shall answer thy questions in turn. Lady, thou knowest by my voice that I remain standing on the floor; how is it that I do not float to the ceiling? Because my spell is very similar to the last, and since no spell may be used twice in succession, much of its force was abated. I am not as light as I can be; my weight is perhaps a fifth normal. About twenty pounds, or a trifle more. Hulk, how is it that I do not glow like the sun, since that is also a meaning of the term I used, ‘light’? Because my words only vocalize what is in my mind, and my mind provided the definition of my terms. Had I wished to light brightly, despite already being invisible, I could have used the same spell, shifting only my mental intent, and it would have worked that way.”

“Methinks Stile likes magic,” Hulk muttered. “Personally, I do not believe in it.”

“Else mightest thou be Adept too,” Stile said, laughing to show the humor, though he suspected there was some truth in it. Every person could do some magic, but few could do strong magic. Stile’s own magic talent was reflected in the science frame of Proton as considerable ability in other things, such as the Game, and Hulk was almost as capable there. Hulk might be able to learn to be a magician, if he ever cared to try. Perhaps there were many others who could be similarly competent at magic, if they only believed they could and worked to perfect their techniques. But only one person in perhaps a thousand believed, so there were very few Adepts. Of course, the established Adepts ruthlessly eliminated any developing rivals, so it was safer to opt out of that arena entirely. The enmity of an Adept was a terrible thing.

Stile bid his final farewells, mounted Neysa, needing no saddle or bridle, and they joined Clip. The two unicorns trotted briskly out the gate. To an observer it would seem Clip was conducting his sibling to the breeding site, as required. The little bit of weight Neysa carried hardly made a difference.

It was good to travel with his unicorn again. Stile was not sure whether he could transport himself magically from place to place. If that came under the heading of changing his aspect before others, then probably he could; if instead it came under the heading of healing or changing himself, then he probably could not. So far he had deemed it expedient not to experiment; magic gone wrong could be fatal. So he needed transportation, and Neysa was the best he could ask for. She had been his first steed in this magic frame, and his first true friend. His love of horses had translated instantly to unicorns, for these creatures were horses: plus a musical horn that was also a devastating weapon; plus special gaits and acrobatic abilities beyond the imagination of any horse; plus human intelligence; plus the ability to change shape. Yes, the unicorn was the creature Stile had been searching tor all his life without realizing it until he met one.

Neysa, in girl-form, had become his lover, before he had met the Lady Blue and realized that his ultimate destiny had to lie with his own kind. There had been some trouble between Neysa and the Lady Blue at first; but now as oath-friend to the Blue Adept, the unicorn needed no further reassurance. In this magic frame, friendship transcended mere male-female relations, and an oath of friendship was the most binding commitment of all.

It was ironic that now that Neysa could achieve her fondest wish—to have her own foal—that oath of friend-ship interfered. Neysa’s logic was probably correct; Stile did need her to protect him from the pitfalls of this barely familiar world until he could deal with his secret enemy. Unicorns were immune to most magic; only Adept-class spells could pass their threshold. Stile had reason to believe his enemy was an Adept; his own Adept magic, buttressed by the protective ambience of the unicorn, should safe-guard him against even that level. As the Lady Blue had pointed out, the original Blue Adept had not had a unicorn to guard him, and that might have made the difference. He really did need Neysa.

They moved into a canter, then a full gallop as the two unicorns warmed up. Clip and Neysa ran in perfect step, playing their horns. She took the soprano theme on her harmonica, he the alto on his saxophone. It was another lovely duet, in counterpoint, augmented by the strong cadence of their hooves. Stile wished he could join in, but he had to preserve his anonymity, just in case they were being observed. There were baleful things lurking in these peaceful forests and glades; the unicorns’ familiarity with the terrain and reputation as fighters made the landscape become as peaceful as it seemed. But there was no sense setting up the Blue Adept as a lure for trouble. Clip knew the way. The unicorn herd grazed wherever the Herd Stallion decreed, moving from pasture to pasture within broad territorial limits. Other herds grazed other territories; none of them intruded on these local demesnes. Human beings might think of this as the region of the Blue Adept, but animals thought of it as the region of this particular herd. Werewolves and goblins and other creatures also occupied their niches, each species believing it-self to be the dominant force. Stile made it a point to get along as well as he could with all creatures; such detente was much more important here in the frame of Phaze than it was in any nonmagical frame. And he genuinely re-spected those other creatures. The werewolves, for example, had helped him to discover his own place here, and the entire local pack was oath-friends with Neysa. They galloped west across the terrain where Stile had first encountered Neysa; it was a spot of special significance for them both. He reached around her neck to give her an invisible hug, and she responded by twitching ear back and rippling her skin under his hands as though shaking off a fly. Secret communication, inexpressibly precious. To the south was the great Purple Mountain range; to the north the White Mountain range. There was surely a great deal more to Phaze than this broad valley, but Stile had not yet had occasion to see it. Once he had dealt with his enemy and secured his position, he intended to do some wider explorations. Who could guess what wonders might lie beyond these horizons?

They moved west for two hours, covering twenty miles. This frame used the archaic, magic-ridden units of measurement, and Stile was still schooling himself in them. Twenty miles was roughly thirty-two kilometers in his more familiar terms. Stile could have covered a similar distance in similar time himself, for he was among other things a runner of marathons. But for him it would have meant a great effort, depleting his resources for days; for these animals it was merely pleasant light exercise. Unicorns could travel twice this speed, sustained, when they had to, and faster yet for shorter distances.

Now the sun was descending, getting in their eyes. It was time to graze. Unicorns, like horses, were not simple running machines; they had to spend a good deal of their time eating. Stile could have conjured grain for them, but actually they preferred to find their own, being stubbornly in-dependent beasts, and they rested while grazing. Neysa slowed, found a patch of bare rock, and relieved herself in the equine manner at its fringe. This covered any sound Stile might make as he dismounted. Then she wandered on, grazing the rich grass, ignoring him though she knew exactly where he was. She was very good at this sort of thing; no observer would realize that an invisible man was with her, and the rock concealed any footprints he made. Stile had brought his own supplies, of course; the Lady Blue had efficiently seen to that. No sense requiring him to make himself obvious by performing unnecessary magic to fetch food, apart from the general caution against wasting one-shot spells. He would sit on the rock and eat, quietly.

Stile levered himself down, careful not to put strain on his knees. Knees, as he had learned the hard way, did not readily heal. Magic might repair them, but he could not operate on himself and did not as yet trust the task to any other Adept. Suppose the Adept he asked happened to be the one who wanted to kill him? He could get along; his knees only hurt when flexed almost double. He could still walk, run and ride comfortably. His former abilities as an acrobat had suffered, but there was still a great deal he could do without flexing his knees that far.

After grazing, Neysa came to the edge of the rock and stood snoozing. Stile mounted her, as she had intended, and slept on her back. She was warm and safe and smelled pleasantly equine, and there was hardly a place he would have preferred to sleep—unless it were in the arms of the Lady Blue. That, however, was a privilege he had not yet earned, and might never earn. The Lady was true to her real husband. Stile’s double, though he was dead, and in no way did she ever mistake Stile for that other man.

Next morning they were off again. They cantered gently until noon, when they spied the herd. It was grazing on a broad slope leading down to an extensive swamp. Beyond that swamp. Stile remembered, lay the palace of the Oracle, who answered one and only one question for any per-son, in that person’s life. The Oracle had advised Stile to “Know thyself”—and despite the seeming unhelpfulness of it, that had indeed been the key to his future. For that self he had come to know was the Blue Adept.

A lookout unicorn blew a trumpet blast, and the members of the herd lifted their heads, then trotted together to form a large semicircle open toward the two approaching unicorns. Perceiving that formidable array of horns. Stile was glad he was not approaching as an enemy. Neysa had drilled him in the use of his rapier by fencing with her horn, and he had come to appreciate what a deadly weapon it could be. This was another respect in which unicorns were fundamentally different from horses: they were armed—more properly, horned—and were as likely to attack as to flee. No sensible tiger, for example, would attempt to pounce on a unicorn.

They trotted into the open cup of the semicircle. The Herd Stallion stood in the center, a magnificent specimen of equine evolution. His body was pearly gray deepening into black legs, his mane and tail were silver, and his head golden. He stood some eighteen hands tall, and was splendidly muscled. His horn was a glinting, spiral marvel: truly a shaft to be reckoned with. He played a melodic accordion chord on it, and the circle closed in behind the new arrivals.

Stile felt his weight increasing. He saw his arms before him. His spells of lightness and invisibility were abating, though he had not terminated them.

The Stallion snorted. Clip and Neysa hastily spun about and retreated to the rim. Stile sprang to the ground before the Stallion. Stile was now fully solid and visible. The Stallion shifted to man-form. He was huge and muscular, though not to Hulk’s extent. He had a short horn in his forehead. “Welcome to the Herd Demesnes, 0 Blue Adept,” he said. “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of this encounter?”

So the closing of the unicorn circle nullified even the spells of an Adept! Stile’s magic could prevail over a single unicorn, but not over the full herd—except in special cases. Of course his two spells were now a day old and must have weakened with time and use, since no spell was eternal. Still, the effect was worth noting. Stile was not in danger from hostile magic here, because the unicorn ring would also nullify the spells of any enemy Adept. He retained the basic privacy of his mission.

“A greeting, Stallion. I come to negotiate.”

The man-Stallion put three fingers to his mouth and blew another chord that still sounded like an accordion. Two unicorns trotted in, supporting a structure on their horns. They set it down and retreated. It was a table fashioned of old unicorn horns, with attached seats. It was surely far more valuable than ivory, for much of the magic of unicorns was associated with their horns. The Stallion sat, gesturing Stile to do the same.

“What has an Adept to negotiate with a simple animal like me?”

Stile realized this was not going to be easy. The Herd Stallion was not partial to him, since Stile had embarrassed the creature in the course of their first encounter. He would have to explain carefully. “Thou knowest I was murdered not long ago.”

“Thou hast no need to negotiate for recognition of thy status or right to thy Demesnes,” the Stallion said, surprised. “We honor the way that is. Only this herd and Kurrelgyre’s werewolf pack know thou art not the original Adept. We accept thee in lieu, since thy magic is equivalent and thou’rt a being of integrity, as are we. No news of thy condition has escaped the herd.”

Stile smiled. “It is not that. Sire. I have not made a secret of my status. It is that I must secure my position and avenge my murder.”

“Indubitably.”

“I believe it is an enemy Adept I seek. Therefore I must approach the matter cautiously, and trust myself only to my most reliable companion. That, of course, is mine oath-friend Neysa. Therefore—“

“Now I chew on thy gist. A gravid mare would not be fit for such excursion.”

“Exactly. I therefore seek a postponement of her breeding, until my mission is done.”

The Stallion frowned. “She has missed two seasons—“

“Because she was excluded from the herd—because of her color,” Stile said grimly. “Her color has not changed.”

“Ah, but her status has! She has connections she lacked before. The animals of my herd have taken a fancy to her, and the wolves of the pack we oft have fought no longer attack, because of her. In all the herds of all the valleys of Phaze, none save her is steed to an Adept.”

“Steed and friend,” Stile said. “A friendship well earned.”

“Perhaps. In any event, that makes up for her deficiency of—“

“Deficiency?” Stile demanded ominously, reaching for his harmonica. He had intended to keep this civil, but this was a sore point.

The Stallion considered. They were within the unicorn circle, but it had not been proven whether that would stop a newly fashioned spell performed in the heat of the Blue Adept’s ire. No creature insulted an Adept, or anything dear to an Adept, carelessly. The Stallion retreated half a step, figuratively. “Shall we say, her color pleases me now, and what pleases me shall not be cause for comment by any other unicorn.”

“An excellent statement,” Stile agreed, putting away his instrument. He had discovered that one unicorn seldom objected to praise or defense of another. It would be beneath the Herd Stallion’s dignity to stud an inferior mare. “Her presence at my side pleases me now,” Stile continued. “Who in thy herd can travel the flying league faster than she?”

The Stallion raised his human eyebrow in an elegant gold arch. “Who besides me, thou meanest?”

Now Stile had to back off diplomatically. “Of course. I meant among mares—“

“I concede that for her size—“

“Is aught amiss with her size?” This was another power-ploy, for Neysa was no smaller among unicorns than Stile was among men.

“It is a serviceable size. I am certain she will bear a fine foal.”

They were sparring, getting nowhere. The Stallion still intended to breed Neysa.

“I think thou didst not entirely withstand the oath of friendship,” Stile remarked. “The mare is more attractive to thee than she was before.”

The Stallion shrugged. It had been Stile’s potent spell that caused the other unicorns and the werewolves to swear friendship with Neysa, and the Stallion did not like to admit to being similarly affected. Yet he was proof against such gibes. “Perhaps. But here thy power may yield to mine, even as mine paled before thine in thy Demesnes.” Stile had set the unicorn back, during that prior encounter. Now the Stallion was having his satisfaction. One offended a creature of power at one’s own risk, even if one had the power of an Adept.

“I need Neysa, this season. How may I obtain postponement of the breeding?”

“This is a matter of honor and pride. Thou must contest with me in mine own manner, weapon to weapon. An thou dost best me in fair combat, thou winnest thy plea. An thou dost fail—“ Stile had a notion how savage such an encounter could be.

“If?” he prompted.

The Stallion smiled. “An thou dost fail, I win mine. We contest not for life here, but only for the proper priority of our claims. I claim the right to breed my mares as I see fit and in mine own time; thou claimest the bond of friend-ship to this mare. It ill behooves us two to strive against each other on any except a civil basis.”

“Agreed.” Stile certainly had no need of a life and death combat here! He had hoped a simple request would suffice, but evidently he had been naive. “Shall we proceed to it now?”

The Stallion affected amazement. “By no means. Adept! I would not have it bruited about that I forced my suit against one who was ill-prepared. Protocol requires that a suitable interval elapse. Shall we say a fortnight hence, at the Unolympics?”

“The Unolympics?”

“The annual sportive event of our kind, parallel to the Canolympics of the werewolves, the Vampolympics of the batmen, the Gnomolympics of—“

“Ah, I see. Is Neysa to compete therein?”

The Stallion evidently hadn’t considered that. “She has not before, for reasons we need not discuss. This year I believe she would be welcome.”

“And no apology to be made for any nuance of color or size that any less discriminating creatures might note?”

“None, of course.”

Stile did not like the delay, but also knew he had no serious chance against the Stallion, who looked to weigh a full ton, was in vibrant health, and had quite a number of victory notches on his horn. The creature was in fact pro-viding him time to reconsider, so that Stile could change his mind and yield the issue without suffering humiliation in the field. It was a decent gesture, especially when coupled with the agreement to let Neysa enter the general competition if she wanted to. Stile knew she could perform the typical unicorn maneuvers as well as any in the herd, and this would give her the chance to prove it at last. She had suffered years of shame; now she could publicly vindicate herself.

“A fortnight,” he agreed. The Stallion extended his hand, and Stile took it. His own hand was engulfed by the huge and calloused extremity with hooflike nails. Stile fought off his automatic resentment and feeling of inadequacy. He was not inadequate, and the Stallion was being honorable. It was a fair compromise.

The Stallion shifted back to his natural form. He blew another chord on his horn. The unicorn circle opened. Stile began to feel lighter. His body faded. His spells were re-turning, as the anti-magic power of the unicorns diffused. That also was worth noting: his spells had never ceased operating, they had merely been damped out temporarily. Neysa stepped forward hesitantly. “The Stallion invites thee to participate in the Unolympics in two weeks,” Stile told her as he mounted.

She was so surprised she almost shifted into girl-form, which would have been awkward for him at the moment. She blew a querying note, hardly daring to believe the news. But the Stallion made a chord of affirmation. “And I will go there too, to meet the Stallion on the field of honor,” Stile added, as though this were an after-thought.

This time she did change shape. Stile found himself riding the girl-form piggy-back, his legs around her tiny waist. Hastily he dismounted. “Nay—“ she said. “Neigh indeed! If I weren’t invisible and featherlight, thou wouldst have been borne to the ground by my weight in most indelicate fashion. Get back to thy proper form, mare!” Hastily she complied. He remounted, and she galloped away from the herd. It seemed that none of the unicorns had noticed anything—until one mocking saxophone peal of music sounded. Clip had been unable to hold back his mirth any longer.

Neysa fired back an angry concatenation of notes, then galloped harder. They fairly flew across the slope. Soon they were well away. “Just for that, thou shouldst make him participate in the Unolympics too,” Stile suggested, and she snorted affirmatively.

But now his own problem came to the fore. “Maybe I can ask the Oracle how to handle the Stallion,” Stile mused aloud. But that was no good; he had used up his single Oracular query before, in the process of discovering his Phaze identity.

“One other thing bothers me,” Stile remarked after a bit, as they galloped across the lovely plain. “Why is the Herd Stallion being so polite about it? He could easily have insisted that I fight him today, and he surely would have won. He has no special brief for me, yet he treated me with extraordinary fairness.”

Neysa veered to approach an island copse of oat trees. Safely inside the tangle of growth, she made a shrug that hinted he should dismount. When he did, she shifted to girl-form again. “It is thy spell,” she said. “All the herd is oath-friend to me, and if he took me unfairly, humiliating thee, they would turn against him.”

Stile struck his head with the heel of his unseen hand. “Of course! Even a king must consider how far his subjects can be pushed.” So his magic had indeed affected the Stallion, albeit circuitously, by affecting those the Stallion had to deal with.

Neysa stood, not yet shifting back, looking at him expectantly though of course her eyes could not focus on him. Stile took her in his arms. “I believe these are more words than thou has spoken to me in thy life before,” he said, and kissed her.

He turned her loose, but still she waited. He knew why, yet could not act. They had been lovers, and she remained, in girl-form, the nicest and prettiest girl he knew, and he was not turned off by the knowledge that she was in fact a unicorn. But their relationship had changed when he met the Lady Blue. He found himself not constitutionally geared to have more than one lover at a time in a given frame. The irony was that he did not have the Lady Blue as lover or anything else, though he wanted everything else. If companionship, loyalty, and yes, sex sufficed, Neysa was his resource.

And there it was. His aspirations had made a dimensional expansion. He was not certain that he could ever have all of what he wanted, yet he had to proceed as if it were possible. And he had to explain this to Neysa without hurting her feelings.

“What we had before was good,” he said. “But now I must look forward to a female of mine own kind, just as thou must look forward to the breeding and foal that only a male of thine own kind can give thee. Our friendship endures, for it is greater than this; it has merely changed its nature. Had we any continuing sexual claim on each other, it would complicate my friendship to thy foal, when it comes, or thine to my baby, if ever it comes.”

Neysa looked startled. It was almost as if her human ears perked forward. She had not thought of this aspect. To her, friendship had been merely a complete trusting and giving, uncomplicated by interacting relationships of others. Stile hoped she was able to understand and accept the new reality.

Then she leaned forward to kiss him again, locating him with uncanny accuracy—or was his spell weakening?—and as their lips touched, she shifted back to equine form. Stile found himself kissing the unicorn. He threw his arms about her neck and yanked at her lustrous black mane, laughing.

Then he mounted, hugged her again, and rode on. It was all right.