Blue Adept

CHAPTER 4 - The Little People

Stile stepped through the curtain into the deep and pleasant forest of Phaze. He recovered his clothing, dressed, then hummed up an ambience of magic. He could signal Neysa with a spell, and she would come for him.

Then it occurred to him that this would consume time that would be better spent otherwise. Why not experiment, and discover whether he could indeed transport himself? He pondered a moment, finding himself quite nervous, then singsonged a spell: “Transport this man to the Blue Castle’s span.” It was not good verse, but that didn’t matter; abruptly he stood in the castle court. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Either he had done an in-expert job, or transporting himself was not good procedure. Certainly he would not try that again in a hurry; it had gotten him here, but at the expense of his feeling of equilibrium and well-being.

Neysa was in the court, nibbling on the magic patch of bluegrass. Every bite she took was immediately restored, so there was no danger of overgrazing, despite the smallness of the patch. She looked up the moment he appeared, her ears swiveling alertly. Then she bounded across to join him.

“Careful! Thou wilt spear me!” he protested, grabbing her about the neck and hanging on to steady himself. She snorted. She had perfect control of her horn, and would never skewer something she didn’t mean to, or miss something she aimed for. She blew a questioning note.

“Nice of thee to inquire,” Stile said, ruffling her sleek black mane with his fingers. He was feeling better already; there was a healing ambience about unicorns. “But it’s nothing. Next time I’ll have thee carry me; thou dost a better job.”

The unicorn made another note of query. “Oh, that,” he replied. “Sheen took care of me and got me to the Game on time. I had to match with a Citizen, a former Tourney winner. He nearly finished me.” She blew a sour note.

“No, he was a top Gamesman,” Stile assured her. “A player of my caliber. It was like doing battle in this frame with another Adept! But I had a couple of lucky breaks, and managed to win in the last moment. Now he’s going to help me find out who, there, is trying to wipe me out.” He tapped his own knee, meaningfully. “And of course once we settle with the Herd Stallion, we’ll set out to discover who killed me here in Phaze. I don’t like having anonymous enemies.” His expression hardened. “Nay, I like that not at all!”

The Lady Blue appeared. She wore a bathing suit, and was as always so lovely it hurt him. It was not that she was of full figure, for actually she was less so than Sheen, but that somehow she was exquisitely integrated, esthetically, in face and form and manner. The term “Lady” described her exactly, and she carried its ambience with her regardless what she wore. “Welcome back, my lord,” she murmured. “Thank thee. Lady.” He had been absent only a day, but the shift of frame was so drastic that it seemed much longer.

“Thy friend Hulk has returned.”

“Excellent,” Stile said. He was somewhat stiff from the bruising football game, but glad to be back here and quite ready to receive the Oracle’s advice.

“Thou’rt weary,” the Lady said. “Let me lay my hands on thee.”

“Not necessary,” Stile demurred. But she stopped him and ran her soft hands across his arms and around his neck, and where they touched, his remaining discomfort faded. She kneaded the tight muscles of his shoulders, and they loosened; she pressed his chest, and his breathing eased; she stroked his hair and the subconscious headache became nonexistent. The Lady Blue was no Adept, but she did possess subtle and potent healing magic, and the contact of her fingers was bliss to him. He did not want to love her, yet, for that would be foolhardy; but only iron discipline kept him from sliding into that emotion at a time like this. Her touch was love.

“I would that my touch could bring the joy to thee that thy touch does to me,” Stile murmured.

She stopped immediately. It was a silent rebuke that he felt keenly. She wanted no closeness with him. Not while she mourned her husband. Perhaps not ever. Stile could not blame her.

They moved on into the castle-proper. The Lady preceded him to the bath, where Hulk soaked in a huge tile tub set flush with the floor, like that of a Proton Hammam. The huge man saw the Lady, nodded, then in an after-thought sought ineffectively to cover himself. “I keep for-getting this is not Proton,” he muttered sheepishly. “Men don’t go naked in mixed company here.”

“Thou’rt clothed in water,” the Lady reassured him. “We be not overly concerned with dress, here. My present suit differs not much from nudity.” She touched the blue material momentarily. “I have myself stood naked before a crowd and thought little of it. The animals wear no clothing in their natural forms, and oft not in their human shapes. Even so, I would not have intruded, but that my lord is here and needs must be informed immediately.” “That’s right!” Hulk agreed. “Do thou step outside a moment. Lady, and I’ll get right out of this.”

“No need,” Stile said. “I am here.” He had been behind Hulk, whose attention had been distracted by the prior entry of the Lady.

“Oh. Okay. I have the Oracle’s answer. But thou dost not have much time. Stile. May I talk to thee privately?”

“If the Lady is amenable,” Stile agreed. “And what is this, unfit for mine ears?” the Lady Blue demanded. “Well I know you two are not about to ex-change male humor. Is there danger?”

Hulk looked guilty. He used his fingers to make a ripple in the bath water. “There may be. Lady.” The Lady looked at Stile, silently daring him to send her away. She called him “lord” and deferred to him in the presence of others, for the sake of appearances, but he had no private power over her.

“The Lady has suffered loss already,” Stile said. “I am no fit replacement, yet if the Oracle indicates danger for me, she is rightfully concerned. She must not again be forced to run the Blue Demesnes without the powers of an Adept.”

“If thou wishest,” Hulk agreed dubiously. “The Oracle says that thou canst only defeat the Herd Stallion by obtaining the Platinum Flute.”

“The Platinum Flute?” Stile repeated, perplexed.

“I never heard of it either,” Hulk said, making further idle ripples with his hand. The ripples traveled to the edges of the tub, then bounced back to cross through the new ripples being generated. Stile wondered passingly whether the curtain that separated the frames of science and magic was in any way a similar phenomenon. “But there was another querist there, a vampire—“

“The likes of us have naught to do with the likes of them!” the Lady Blue protested.

“Or with the unicorns or werewolves?” Stile asked her, smiling wryly.

She was silent, unmollified. Certainly her husband had not had much association with such creatures. The free presence of unicorns and werewolves in the Blue Demesnes dated from Stile’s ascendance. He felt this was an improvement, but the Lady was evidently more conservative. “Actually, he was not a bad sort at all,” Hulk said. “I lost my way, going in, and he flew by in bat-form, saw I was in trouble, and changed to man-form and offered to help. He hadn’t realized I was human; he thought I was a small giant or an ogre, and those pseudomen sort of look out for each other. I think he was rather intrigued by my motorcycle, too; not many contraptions like that in Phaze! I was afraid I was in for the fight of my life, when I realized what kind of creature he was, but he told me they only take the blood of animals, which they normally raise for the purpose and treat well. In war, they suck the blood of enemies, but that’s a special situation. They never bother friends. He laughed and said it wasn’t true that people bitten by vampires become vampires themselves; that’s a foul myth propagated by envious creatures. Maybe that story originated from a misinterpretation of their love-rites, when a male and a female vampire share each other’s blood. The way he told it, it almost sounded good. A fundamental act of giving and accepting. I guess if I loved a vampire lady, I’d let her suck—“ He broke off abruptly, embarrassed. “I didn’t say that well. What I mean is—“ Stile laughed, and even the Lady smiled briefly.

“There is no shame in love, any form,” Stile said. “Uh, sure,” Hulk agreed. “I got to talking with him, and the more I knew him, fhe better I liked him. He drew me a map in the dirt so I could locate the Oracle’s palace with-out getting in trouble. Then he changed back to a bat and flew off. And you know, that route he pointed out for me was a good one; I made it to the Oracle in a couple more hours, when it could’ve been days the way I had been going.”

Hulk made another wave on the water, one that swamped the pattern of wavelets. “I’m finding it harder not to believe in magic. I saw that man change, I saw him fly. He was there when I arrived, and showed me that room where the Oracle was—just a tube sticking out of the wall. I felt sort of silly, but I went ahead and asked ‘How can Stile defeat—‘ I forgot to use thy Phaze title, but it was too late, and it didn’t seem to matter to the Oracle—‘How can Stile defeat the unicorn Herd Stallion in fair combat at the Unolympics?’ And it replied ‘Borrow the Platinum Flute.’ I couldn’t understand that, and asked for a clarification, but the tube was dead.”

“The Oracle has no patience with fools,” the Lady said. “It answers only once, and considers all men fools; no offense to thee, ogre.”

Hulk smiled. It seemed he had been nicknamed after the monster he most resembled, and he did not mind. “So I discovered. But I feared I had failed thee. Stile.”

“I was as baffled when it told me to ‘Know Thyself,’” Stile said. “My friend Kurrelgyre the werewolf was told to ‘Cultivate Blue’ and could not understand that either. We all have trouble with Oracular answers, but they always make sense in the end.”

“Not always desired sense,” the Lady Blue agreed. “When it told me ‘None by One,’ I thought it spouted nonsense. But now I know to my grief what—“ She turned away, but Stile had glimpsed the agony that transfixed her face before she hid it. He had not realized that she had ever been to the Oracle. That answer must have related to the death of her husband.

Hulk filled in the awkward pause. “I talked again with Vodlevile Vampire—that’s his name—and we compared notes. It seemed he had asked the Oracle how to help his son, who was allergic to blood—that’s no joke to a vampire—“

“I should think not!” Stile exclaimed.

Hulk was quite serious. “They don’t live on blood all the time. But they need it to be able to change to their bat-form and fly. The blood facilitates the magic. So his boy couldn’t keep up with the family, if—well, I guess I’d be concerned too, in that situation.”

“Of course,” Stile agreed, sorry that he had even considered any humorous side to this.

“But all the Oracle told him was ‘Finesse Yellow.’ That made him furious, because he said Yellow is an Adept, and vampires don’t deal with Adepts. They live near one, and they’re afraid of her and leave her strictly alone. But if they did have truck with Adepts, they wouldn’t try to cheat them or anyone else, and Yellow was the very worst one anyway. Several of their number have been trapped by her and sold to other Adepts, who spell them into blind loyalty and use them for spying and for terrorizing other captives. Gives the whole tribe a bad name. So he was going home without an answer he could use. I couldn’t help him; I don’t know anything about Adepts. It was too bad.”

“He sounds like a creature of character,” Stile said. “Why should the Oracle suggest to such a creature that he cheat? That’s the same as no answer.”

“Finesse is not the same as cheat,” the Lady pointed out. “It implies some artifice or devious mechanism, not dishonesty.”

“Vodlevile is a very forthright person,” Hulk said. “No tricks in him. Still, he helped me. He told me that most of the metal tools and weapons and musical instruments of Phaze are made by the Little People, the tribes of Dark Elves, and that some worked with bone, and some with wood, and some with silver, or with gold, or with platinum. So probably if thou canst find the right tribe of elves—“

“The Little Folk are not easy to find,” the Lady Blue said. “They dwell mainly in the Purple Mountains, and they dislike normal men and deal with them seldom. Most of all they detest Adepts. When my lord desired an excellent musical instrument, he could not go to them, but had to trade with a hawkman who had a connection across the curtain. He said he would like to be in touch with the Little Folk, but that they wanted naught he had to offer.”

“So Vodlevile informed me,” Hulk said. “That’s what I meant about danger. It seems that the more precious the metal a tribe works with, the less use that tribe has for men, because men try to steal the artifacts. Especially they hate big men. I’d be dead the moment I set foot in their territory. And the Blue Adept—“ He shook his head. “So my Oracle answer isn’t much use either. But I report it to thee, for what it’s worth, and hope this doesn’t cause mischief.”

Stile was already deep in thought. “The advice of the Oracle is always practical, if obscure. One has to work to understand it, usually. But it surely makes sense—for both me and the vampire. And him I may be able to help, in return for his help to thee.”

“I had hoped thou wouldst see it that way,” Hulk admitted. “It really is thy mission he tried to facilitate.”

“I like this not,” the Lady said. “Thou meanest to go among the Little Folk.”

“Perhaps,” Stile agreed. “That’s the mischief Hulk feared, knowing mine inclination. But first I must tackle the matter nearer at hand. It will take me a moment to devise a suitable spell. Let’s meet in the courtyard in ten minutes.”

“No spell will take thee safely to the fastness of the Little Folk,” she protested. “Like the unicorns, they resist magic. Better thou goest among trolls or goblins; there at least thou wouldst have a fair chance.”

“I had in mind summoning the Yellow Adept.”

“The Yellow Adepti” she cried, horrified. “In these Demesnes?”

“I swore never to return to her Demesnes, so must needs she visit mine. Thus do I finesse the restriction. Come on—we have to give Hulk a chance to get dressed.” Stile led the way out. The Lady was spluttering, but offered no further resistance.

They met in due course in the courtyard. The Lady had evidently communicated the situation to the unicorn, for Neysa was moving her horn about angrily and snorting just beneath the level of meaning.

Stile played his harmonica to bring the magic ambience. Then he intoned: “Yellow Adept, I ask of thee, come to the Blue Demesnes, to me.”

Abruptly the yellow hag was there before them. “Blue, methought we were at quits!” she snapped. “Seekest thou war between Adepts?”

“By no means. Yellow. I only wish to bargain with thee, to mutual advantage, and may not invade thy Demesnes again.”

Her somewhat beady eyes peered about. “There is that, my handsome. Thou’rt a man of thy literal word. But I am not garbed for socializing. Give me leave to freshen up first.” And she felt about her baggy old dress, searching for a potion.

“Allow me, since thou’rt my guest.” Stile played a bar of music, then intoned: “While Yellow visits Castle Blue, grant her youth, image and hue.”

In place of the old crone stood a ravishingly beautiful young woman with an hourglass configuration and long golden-yellow tresses, wearing a marvelously fetching evening gown. Hulk’s jaw fell, and the Lady Blue’s eyes widened. Neysa merely snorted disparagingly; she had seen it before.

Lovely Yellow brought out a vial, shook out a drop, and caught it as it formed into a mirror. “Oh, thou shouldst not, thou darling man! Yes, thou hast recaptured it perfectly, my delicious!”

“Yet she remains a witch,” the Lady Blue said tightly. Neysa snorted agreement.

Yellow shot a glance at them. “Witch, thou sayst? And aren’t we all, regardless of our shapes or magic? What chance does any man have, against a vamp of whatever color?”

“None,” Hulk muttered. Neysa made as if to stab him with her horn, and he hopped out of the way.

“What I wish is this,” Stile said briskly. “There is a vampire man, Vodlevile, whose son is allergic to blood. The Oracle told him to finesse Yellow. He refuses to deal—“

“Aye, I have a potion to cure that malady,” Yellow agreed. “But what does he offer in return?”

“Nothing,” Stile said. “The vampire folk are wary of thee, for what reason I do not pretend to comprehend.”

She waggled a pretty finger at him wamingly, in much the way the Rifleman had in Proton. “Play not the innocent with me, pretty man! I have back orders for bats galore. Though I daresay their fear of female Adepts derives somewhat from propinquity, since they reside near one the canines would term ‘woman.’ “

Hulk stifled a chuckle. Insults were very much a matter of viewpoint, here.

“Vodlevile will not deal with thee,” Stile said evenly. “But I will. If thou wouldst trade favors with me, as one professional to another, this is the favor I crave.”

“What has the bat done lately for thee?”

“He helped my friend Hulk, who was on a mission for me. Never did the bat ask for mine assistance, nor does he know it is coming.”

She shook her head. “The machinations of honor and friendship are a fascination to the likes of me! Thy generosity to animals will cost thee yet. Blue.” She glanced at Neysa, whose ears angled quickly back. “Yet ‘tis a true finesse that does appeal to me. My livelihood is in dealing and wheeling, and I will deal with thee. The bat shall have his potion.”

“I thank thee, witch. And what favor dost thou crave in return?”

She considered prettily. “I could wish that thou wouldst come to see me, as once I thought thou wouldst—“ Her eyes traveled to the Lady Blue, who gazed disdainfully away, and back again to Neysa, whose nostrils were beginning to steam. “Yet thine oath forbids, and if it did not, I think others would say nay, or neigh.”

Now a small jet of fire shot from Neysa’s nostril, and the tip of her horn made a tiny motion suggestive of mayhem. “Even so,” Stile agreed, straight-faced. He despised Yellow’s business of trapping and selling live animals, but he rather respected her personally. A romantic alliance was certainly out of the question, as well she knew; Yellow was only teasing the competition. Such lighthearted malice was no doubt more of a pleasure for the men to note, than to the females against whom it was directed.

“Then methinks I will take it on the cuff,” Yellow decided. “Some day, when I am in some minor way in need and call on thee for aid—“

“Agreed,” Stile said. “Provided only that the service violates no ethic of mine, and I am then alive.”

“There is that. Thou hast a veritable stormcloud of a future.” She pondered again. “Then let me protect mine investment, and give thee a potion.” She fished a tiny bottle out of her bodice and presented it.

Stile accepted it, disregarding Neysa’s fiery snort. “If I may ask—“

“No secret, my scrumptious. This elixir renders the wearer less noxious to the Elven folk.”

“Thou vixeni” Stile exclaimed. “Thou conniving wench! Thou wert aware of my mission all the timel”

“Even so, on all counts,” she said. “Though I prefer the term ‘foxy’ to ‘vixen.’ “ She vanished.

“Some company thou keepest!” Hulk remarked appreciatively. “She is foxy!”

“Or bitchy,” the Lady Blue muttered as she and Neysa walked stiffly away.

Stile smiled. “She’s not a bad sort, considering that she really is a hag and a witch. She really did look like that, a century or so ago when she was young.” He considered briefly. “Hulk, I don’t have much time for the probable magnitude of this mission, so I’ll set off for the Purple Mountains this afternoon, as soon as I do some spot re-search to pinpoint the platinum-working elves.”

“I’ll go with thee!”

“Nay, friend! Thy appearance would only antagonize these folk, and I go not to quarrel but to borrow. I need thee to guard the Lady Blue, as thou hast done so ably before.”

Hulk frowned. “I prefer not to do that. Stile.”

Stile was perplexed. “Thou likest it not here? I would not hold thee—“

“I like it well here. That is the problem.”

“Something tells me I am being opaque about something.”

“Aye.”

“Thou dost not get along with the Lady Blue?”

“The Lady is a wonderful person.”

“Then I don’t see—“

“Thou needest an Oracle?”

Stile shook his head. “I must.”

The big man paced the courtyard. “Thou and I strike others as quite different. The giant and the dwarf. Yet we are similar. The same age, the same culture, similar Game skills, similar honor.” He paused. “Similar taste in women.” Stile began to get the drift. “Thou didst like Sheen at the first sight of her, and thou dost get along great with Neysa—“

“Yes. But for their special natures—“ Hulk shrugged. “The Lady Blue is another matter. It befits me not to guard her any more.”

Now Stile began pacing. “Thou knowest she is not mine.”

“She sure as hell isn’t mine!” Hulk exploded. “She may not be thine now, but she is destined for thee and no other. Thou’rt the Blue Adept, the keeper of these Demesnes, and she is the Lady Blue. She is the finest woman I have known. Were there another like her—“

“There is another like her,” Stile said, remembering Sheen’s comment. “And I owe thee for the manner in which thou hast given up thine only Oracle answer to my need.”

The two men exchanged glances, a remarkable notion dawning. “Another—in Proton,” Hulk said. “Of course. Her alternate self. But that one too should be—“

“Nay. Not mine. I can not love two.”

“With all the qualities I have seen, but versed in Proton culture.” Hulk smiled, liking the notion. “Then thou wouldst not oppose—?”

“That Proton-lady sure as hell is not mine,” Stile said, smiling as he echoed Hulk’s expression. “Go to Proton. It is a different frame. Thou knowest thou canst never bring her here.”

“Yet even for brief visits—it is all I could ask.”

“Cross the curtain, talk to Sheen. Her friends will locate the lady for thee.”

Hulk nodded. He stopped before Stile and put forth his hand. Stile shook it gravely, knowing this was their parting. Hulk would not come to the Blue Demesnes again. Stile felt a certain smouldering resentment that the big man had taken an interest in this particular woman, and a certain relief that there was in this case a solution, and a certain guilt for both the resentment and the relief. Hulk was a good man; he deserved the best, and the best was the Lady Blue. Her Proton alternate surely had similar qualities. So this was a triumph of fortune and common sense—yet it bothered him. He was simply not as generous in his private heart as he was externally. He had some growing to do, yet.

Now he had no guard for the Lady Blue. He could not leave her alone for any length of time; whatever enemy had struck down Stile’s alternate self, the true Blue Adept, would surely strike again now that it was known the Blue Adept had been reconstituted. Stile had been constantly devising and rehearsing spells and strategies to deal with such an attack, and felt reasonably confident he could handle the situation. But suppose the enemy took the Lady Blue hostage and used her against Stile? He could not risk that.

While he pondered, the Lady reappeared. “The ogre prepares to depart. Know ye why?”

“I know,” Stile said.

‘I like this not”

How did she feel about this arrangement? “He is a good man, worthy of the likes of thee, as I am not.” If she grasped his hidden meaning, she gave no sign.

“Worth is not the issue. I have a premonition of doom about him.”

“I confess to being uneasy. I thought it was jealousy or guilt.”

“Those, too,” she agreed, and then he was sure she understood. But she did not elaborate.

He changed the subject. “Now I fear to leave thee here alone—yet must I seek the Flute, lest mine enemy move against me. Neysa will go with me.”

“Is it security thou seekest—or vengeance?”

Stile grimaced, looking at her. “How is it thou knowest me so well?”

“Thou’rt very like my love.”

“Would he not have sought vengeance?”

“For himself, nay. For those he held dear—“ She halted, and he suspected she was remembering her vision of the fiery destruction of the trolls who had wiped out the Blue Adept’s village. Then she met his gaze again. “Without Hulk or Neysa, the Blue Demesnes be not safe for me now. I must go with thee to the Purple Mountains.”

“Lady, it may be dangerous!”

“More dangerous with thee and thy magic than without thee?” she inquired archly. “Have I misjudged thee after all?”

Stile looked askance at her. “I had thought thou dost not crave my company. For the sake of the good work done by the Blue Adept thou callest me lord, but in private we know it is not so. I do not mean to impose my presence on thee more than necessary.”

“And with that understanding, may not the Lady accompany the Lord?”

Stile sighed. He had made due protest against a prospect that in fact delighted him as much as it made him nervous and guilty. “Of course she may.”

The Lady rode a pale blue mare, the offspring of the foal of the Hinny and the Blue Stallion. As she had described, this mare’s color was mainly an echo of the blue harness, but the effect was there. The Blue Stallion had been alive but aging when the Blue Adept was killed; the horse, it was understood, had died of grief.

Stile rode Neysa. He had never ridden another steed since taming her. No horse could match her performance, but it was more than that. Much more.

They crossed the fields south of the Blue Castle and entered the forest adjacent to the Purple Mountain range. Soon they were in the foothills. According to Stile’s references, the geographical tomes collected by his other self, the tribe of the Dark Elves who worked platinum lived on a mountain about fifty miles east of where the convenient curtain-access to Proton was. The animals knew the way, once it had been determined; Neysa had ranged these lands for years and knew the location by description, though she was not conversant with the actual Elven Demesnes. Here the lay of the land was gentle, and the air balmy, with patchwork clouds making the sunshine intermittent. The ride became tedious despite the pleasure of the surroundings. Had Stile been riding alone, he would have slept, trusting Neysa to carry him safely, or have played his harmonica, or simply have talked to the unicorn. But the presence of the Lady Blue in her natural splendor inhibited him.

“It was across this country I rode the Hinny, so long it seems ago,” she remarked.

Stile found no appropriate response. He rode on in silence, wishing that the tragedy of his other self did not lie between them.

“The Hinny,” she repeated musingly. “How I miss that fine animal!”

This was safer ground. “How is she now? Ten years is a fair span in the life of a horse, about thirty of ours, but not interminable.”

“Of course thou knowest not,” the Lady said somberly. “The Hinny was bred by the Blue Stallion, and returned to her wilderness fastness alone. The blue lad went back to his business, about which we inquired not, but which I believe was the meticulous construction of the Blue Castle. I remained with my family and with Snowflake, the white foal we had rescued. Sometimes out in the fields we thought we glimpsed the Hinny, and our hearts yearned toward her, but never came she nigh. Yet I was ill at ease. The revealed identity of my erstwhile companion the blue lad astounded me, and I was shamed. Yet I was intrigued too, and potently flattered by his suit. I remembered the vision I had had while he played his music, the Lady in the blue moon, and the subtle appeal of that notion grew. Later I learned that he had gone to inquire the identity of his ideal wife, and the Oracle had named me. It had for once been not obscure or circuitous or capable of alternate interpretation; it had told him exactly where and when to find me. Hence he had come at the designated moment, extremely fortuitous for me as I hung dangling in the clutch of the troll, and preserved my life when else it would have ended there. He had done all that he had done only to win my favor, though I was his by right from the moment he rescued me. And I only an ignorant peasant-girl!”

“The Oracle knew better,” Stile murmured. “Thy Lord’s legacy lives on in thee, when else it would have perished.” She continued as if she had not heard him. “Ah, what a foolish girl was I in that time. Long and long was it before ever I gave him the third Thee.”

“I beg thy pardon. Lady. I don’t follow—“

She gestured negligently with one hand. “Of course thou art from another culture, so I needs must inform thee. In Phaze, when a person loves another and wishes to have it known without obligation, she omits the statement and repeats only the object. Thee, three times. Then that other may do as he wishes, without reproach.”

“I don’t understand,” Stile said. “Just to say to a person Thee, th— “ Neysa nearly bucked him off as she drowned him out with a blast from her horn.

“Say it not carelessly nor in jest,” the Lady reproached him. “It has the force of an oath.”

Shaken, Stile apologized. “I have much to learn yet of this culture. I thank thee. Lady, for educating me, and thee, Neysa, for preventing me from compromising myself ignorantly.” But it would not have been a lie if he had said it to the Lady; this was a battle all but lost at the outset. Still, it would have put her in an awkward situation.

“When next I saw the Hinny,” the Lady continued blithely, “she was in sad state. Gravid, she had been beset by cowardly predators, jackals, and was nigh unto death. She limped to our gate, remembering me, and I screamed and roused my rather. Never did I see him so angry, for the Hinny had been his admiration since the instant he saw her first. He took his cudgel and beat off all the curs that harried her, while I tried to help her. But all was for naught; she had lost much blood, and expended her last store of vitality reaching us, and the Hinny died at our door.

“Then did I remember the spell the blue lad had left me.

*Blue to me—I summon thee!’ I cried. And he was there. When he saw the Hinny he gave a great cry of agony and fell upon her, taking her head in his arms, and the tears flowed down his face. But she was dead, her open eyes seeing naught, and all his magic availed not.

“The lad brought out his harmonica and played a tune, wondrously sad, and two moons clouded over and the sun faded, and a shimmer formed in the air between us. It made a picture, and it showed the Hinny, as she had been in life, great with foal, grazing near the wood. Then a pack of jackals charged, a foul horde, surly ill-kempt curs of scant individual courage, like to wolves as goblins be to men, seeking to overrun their quarry by sheer mass. She leaped away, but the weight of the foal within her made her ponderous and somehow her front feet stumbled, causing her to fall and roll, and the brutes were on her in a motley pile, ripping at her flesh, tearing at her ears and tail. She struggled to her feet, but they hung on her like despicable leeches, and her precious blood was flowing. Gashed and weakening, she struggled out of that wood, the jackals constantly at her feet, leaping at her, trying to drag her down again, so that she left a trail of blood. So at last she came to me, and I saw myself scream and throw my hands to my head, reacting hysterically instead of helping her, and then my father came with his cudgel, and the magic vision faded.

“My father stood beside me, watching the sorrow of Blue, and indeed we shared it. Then did I comprehend the third of the great qualities about the Blue Adept that were to be the foundation of my love for him. His music, his power—and his abiding love for—“ She hesitated momentarily. “For equines.”

Stile realized she had been about to say “horses” and had reconsidered, from deference to Neysa. “At last the blue lad rose, and it was as if the blood had been drained from him as it had from the Hinny. ‘Because her knees were weak, the jackals caught her,’ he said. “The knees she sacrificed for me.’ And I could not say nay, for I had seen it happen.

“ ‘Yet can I do somewhat,’ he continued, and there was that in him that frightened me, and I began to get a glimmer of the meaning of the sorrow and anger of an Adept. Turn you both about, lest you see what pleases you not.’ And my father, wiser than I, took mine arm and made me turn with him. There was a pause, then sweet, bitter music as the lad played his harmonica. Then the muttering of an incantation, and an explosion of heat and odor. We turned again—and the corpse of the Hinny was gone, blasted by Blue’s magic, and in the swirling smoke the lad stood, holding in his arms a newborn foal, light blue in hue.

“ ‘The Hinny be dead, but her foal lives,’ he said. “This is why she came to thee.’ Then before we could properly react, he addressed my father. “This foal is birthed before her time. Only constant, expert care can save her. I am no healer; she requires more than magic. I beg thee, sir, to take her off my hands, rendering that which only thou canst give, that she may survive and be what she can be.’

“My father stood bemused, not instantly comprehending the request. “The Hinny came to thee,’ the lad continued, ‘knowing thou couldst help her. More than all else, she wanted her foal to live and to be happy and secure. No right have I to ask this favor of thee, knowing it will be years before thou art free of this onus. Yet for the sake of the Hinny’s faith—‘ And he stepped forward, holding forth the foal. And I knew my father was thinking of the Hinny, the finest mare of any species he had ever beheld, and of the Blue Stallion, the finest stud, and seeing in this foal a horse like none in Phaze—worth a fortune no man could measure. And I realized that in the guise of a request, the lad was proffering a gift of what was most dear to my father’s dreams. It was Blue’s way.

“My father took the foal in silence and bore her to our stable, for she needed immediate care. I remained facing the lad. And something heaved within my breast, not love but a kind of gratitude, and I knew that though he looked to be a lad and was in fact a nefarious magician, he was also a worthy man. And he inclined his head to me, and then he walked away toward the forest where the jackals had attacked the Hinny. And in a little while there was a brilliant burst of light there, and that whole forest was aflame, and I heard the jackals screaming as they burned. And I remembered how he had destroyed the trolls, and was appalled at this act of vengeance. Yet did I understand it also, for I too loved the Hinny, and who among us withholds our power when that which is dear to us is ravaged? The power of an Adept is a terrible thing, yet the emotion was the same as mine. No creature aggravates an Adept but at the peril of his kind. Yet when later I rode Starshine out to that region, I found the forest alive and green. Only the charred skeletons of the jackals remained; none other had been hurt. I marveled again at the power of the Adept, as awesome in its discretion as in its ferocity.

“After that my father made no objection to Blue’s suit, for it was as if he had exchanged me for the precious foal, and duly the banns were published and I married the Blue Adept though I did not really love him. And he was ever kind to me, and made for me the fine domicile now called the Blue Demesnes, and encouraged me to develop and practice my healing art on any creatures who stood in need, even trolls and snow demons, and what I was unable to heal he restored by a spell of his own. Some we healed were human, and some of these took positions at the castle, willingly serving as sentries and as menials though no con-tract bound them. But mainly it was the animals who came to us, and no creature ever was turned away, not even those known as monsters, so long as they wreaked no havoc. It was a picturebook marriage.”

She abated her narrative. “I thank thee for telling me how it was,” Stile said carefully.

“I have not told thee the half of how it was,” she said with surprising vehemence. “I loved him not, not enough, and there was a geas upon our union. He knew both these things, yet he treated me ever with consummate respect and kindness. How I wronged him!”

This was a surprise. “Surely thou dost overstate the case! I can not imagine thee—“ But confession was upon her. Neysa made a little shake of her horn, advising him to be silent, and Stile obeyed.

“The geas was inherent in his choice of me to wed. He had asked the Oracle for his ideal wife, but had failed to include in that definition the ideal mother of his children. Thus I learned when I queried the Oracle about the number and nature of my children-to-be. ‘None by One,’ it told me in part, and in time I understood. There was to be no child by my marriage to him; no heir to the Blue Demesnes. In that way I wronged him. And my love—“ She shrugged. “I was indeed a fool. Still I thought of him as a lad, a grown child though I knew him for a man, and a creature of incalculable power. Perhaps it was that power that straitened my heart against him. How could I truly love one who could so readily destroy all who stood against him? What would happen if ever he became wroth with me? And he, aware of this doubt, forced me not, and therefore had I guilt. So it was for years—“ She broke off, overcome by emotion. Stile remained silent. This was an aspect of her history that instilled misgiving, yet he knew it was best that he know it.

“Those wasted years!” she cried. “And now too late!” They had come to rougher territory, as if the land itself responded to the Lady’s anguish of conscience. These were the mere foothills to the Purple Mountains, Stile knew, yet the ridges and gullies became steep and the trees grotesquely gnarled. The turf was thick and springy; the steeds were not partial to the footing. Stile found the landscape beautiful, original, and somehow ominous—like the Lady Blue.

“Can we skirt this region?” Stile asked Neysa. The unicorn blew a note of negation. It seemed that this was the only feasible route. Stile knew better than to challenge this; the unicorn could have winded a dragon or some other natural hazard, and be threading her way safely past. So they picked their path carefully through the rugged serrations of the land, making slow progress toward the major range.

The Lady’s horse balked. She frowned and gently urged it forward, but the mare circled instead to the side—and balked again.

“This is odd,” the Lady commented, forgetting her re-cent emotion. “What is bothering thee, Hinblue?” Then the Lady’s fair tresses lifted of their own accord, though there was no wind.

Neysa made a double musical snort. Magic! Stile brought out his harmonica. “Nay, play not,” the Lady said hastily. She did not want him to show his power in the vicinity of the land of the Little Folk. But her hair danced about and flung itself across her eyes like a separately living thing, and her horse fidgeted with increasing nervousness. Neysa’s horn began to lower to fighting range.

“Just a melody,” Stile told her. “Neysa and I will play a little tune, just to calm thy steed.” And to summon his magic—just in case.

They played an impromptu duet. Neysa’s music was lovely, of course—but Stile’s carried the magic. It coalesced like a forming storm, charging the immediate atmosphere.

And in that charge, dim figures began to appear: small, slender humanoids, with flowing hair and shining white robes. They had been invisible; now they were translucent, the color slowly coming as the music thickened the magic ambience. Stile’s power was revealing them. One of them was hovering near the Lady, playing with her hair. “The Sidhe,” the Lady breathed, pronouncing it “Shee.”

“The Faerie-folk. They were teasing us.”

Stile squeezed Neysa’s sides with his knees questioningly. She perked her ears forward: a signal that there was no immediate danger.

Stile continued playing, and the ethereal figures solidified. “0, Sidhe,” the Lady said. “Why do you interfere with us? We seek no quarrel with your kind.” Then a Faerie-man responded. “We merely played with thee for fun. Lady of the Human Folk, as we do so often with those who are unaware of our nature. Innocent mischief is the joy of our kind.” His voice was winningly soft, with the merry tinkle of a mountain streamlet highlighting it. Stile could appreciate how readily such a voice could be mistaken for completely natural effects—flowing water, blowing breezes, rustling leaves.

“And thou,” a Sidhe maid said to Stile as he played. “What call hast thou, of Elven kind, to ride with a mundane woman?” Her voice was as soft as the distant cooing of forest doves, seductively sweet, and her face and form were similarly winsome.

Stile put aside his harmonica. The Sidhe remained tangible; now that they had been exposed, they had no further need of invisibility. “I am a man,” he said.

“A man—on a unicorn?” she inquired derisively. “Nay, thou art more likely a giant kobold, serving in the house of the human lady. Thou canst not fool her long, sirrah! Come, I will offer thee entertainment fit for thy kind.” And she did a little skip in air that caused her white skirt to sail up, displaying her immortal legs to advantage.

“Thou’rt not my kind,” Stile insisted, intrigued.

“Dost thou jilt me already?” she flashed, and evanescent sparks radiated from her hair. “I will have thy fanny in a hoist, ingrate!” Neysa shifted her horn to bear on the Faerie-lass, who skipped nimbly aside. These magical creatures might not fear the weapons of human beings, but the unicorn’s horn was itself magical, and would take its toll of any creature. Stile lifted his harmonica to his mouth again.

“Yea, play!” the Sidhe lady exclaimed. “I will forgive thee thine indiscretion if thou playest while we dance.” It was a face-saving maneuver on her part, but Stile decided to go along. He did not want to have to use overt magic here. He played, and Neysa accompanied him, and the music was marvelously light and pretty. Stile had been a fair musician before he came to Phaze, but he had improved substantially since.

The Sidhe flocked in and formed their formation in mid-air. They danced, wheeling in pairs, singing and clapping their little hands. The males stood about four and a half feet tall, with calloused hands and curly short beards; the females were closer to four feet, and all were delicate of limb and torso. They whirled and pranced, the girls flinging their skirts out with delightful abandon, the men doing elaborate dance steps. It was beautiful, and looked like an extraordinary amount of fun.

After a time, the Sidhe damsel floated back down to Stile. She perched on Neysa’s hom, somewhat to the unicorn’s annoyance. She was breathing briskly, her full bodice flexing rhythmically. “Give o’er, giant elf; thou’rt forgiven!” she exclaimed. “Now come dance with me, before sunset, while thy steed plays her horn.” And she reached out a hand to him, the tiny fingers beckoning. Stile glanced at the Lady Blue, who nodded affirmatively. Neysa shrugged. Both evidently felt it was better to go along with the Faerie-folk than to oppose them. They were getting along well at the moment; better not to disrupt the mood, for such creatures could be unpleasant when angered, and their tempers were volatile. Stile had seen that in the mercurial reactions of this little lady. Yet he demurred, more diplomatically this time. “Elven lass, I can not dance in air without magic.” And he was not about to reveal his true nature now. Already he under-stood that Adepts were held in as poor regard by the Little Folk as by ordinary human people.

“Then shall I join thee below,” she said, descending lightly to the turf. Then, abruptly shy: “I am Thistlepuff.”

Stile dismounted. “I am Stile.” He stood almost a foot taller than she, and really did feel like a giant now. Was this the way Hulk saw the world?

“The bridge between pastures?” Thistlepuff exclaimed, correctly interpreting his name. Then she did a pirouette, again causing her skirt to rise and expose her fine and slender legs. This was a characteristic gesture with her. In the frame of Proton, where all serfs were naked, no such effect was possible, and Stile found it almost embarrassingly appealing. The brief glimpse seemed better than the constant view, because of the surprise and mystery. Clothing, he realized, was also magic.

Stile had played the Game in Proton for most of his life. Part of the Game was the column of the Arts, and part of the Naked Arts was Dance. He was an athlete and a gymnast, and he had a good memory and sense of pace. Hence Stile could dance as well as any man, and a good deal better than most. He had watched and analyzed the patterns of the Faerie dance, and now understood it well enough. If this sprite thought to make a fool of him for the entertainment of her peers, she would be disappointed. He went into a whirl of his own, matching Thistlepuff’s effort. There was a faint “Oooh” of surprise, and the other Faerie-folk gathered about to watch. Yes, they had thought to have sport with him! The lass stepped blithely into his arms, and he swung her in Sidhe fashion. Her head topped at the level of his shoulder, and she was light as a puff of smoke, but she was also lithe and sweet to hold. She spun out and kicked one leg high in the manner of a ballerina—oh, didn’t she love to show those legs!—while he steadied her by the other hand. Then she spun back into his embrace, making a little leap 1 so that her face met his in a fleeting kiss that struck and dissipated like a breath of cool fog.

They moved into a small promenade, and he tossed her into the air for a graceful flip and caught her neatly at the waist. Light as she was, it was easy to do the motions, and he enjoyed it. He felt more and more like the giant he never had been, and privately he reveled in it. When the demonstration was through, the Sidhe spectators applauded gleefully. “Thou hast danced before!” Thistlepuff exclaimed, her bosom heaving with even more abandon. “Yet thou dost claim to be human!”

“Human beings can dance,” Stile said. “The Lady I serve could do as well.” He hoped that was the case; it occurred to him as he spoke that though he had seen the Lady Blue ride marvelously well, he had never seen her dance. Yet of course she could do it!

Neysa blew a note of caution. But it was too late. Stile, in his inexperience with the Faerie-folk had made another blunder. Thistlepuff was frowning mischievously at the Lady Blue.

“So thou sayest?” the Sidhe inquired, as sharply as the sound of the wood of a tree-limb snapping under too great a burden of snow. “Thou art of the Elven kind, surely; but she is as surely mundane. We shall see how she can dance.” And the Sidhe recentered their ring on the lady. He had gotten her into this; he would have to get her out. Stile crossed to the Lady as she dismounted. He could not even apologize; that would betray the situation to the Faerie-folk. He had to bluff it through—and he hoped that she could and would go along.

The Lady Blue smiled enigmatically and took his proffered hand. Good; at least she accepted him as a partner. It would have been disaster with a mischievous four-and-a-half-foot-tall Sidhe male for a dancing partner! At least Stile would keep his feet mainly on the ground. It would have to be impromptu free-form, for they had had no rehearsal. Stile hoped the Lady had analyzed the dancing patterns as he had. But he let her lead, so that she could show him what she wanted.

Suddenly they were in it. The Lady was taller than he and as heavy—but also as lithe and light on her feet as a woman could be. When he swung her, she was solid, not at all like Thistlepuff, yet she moved precisely. He did not try to toss her in air, but she was so well balanced he could hold her up readily, and whirl her freely. When he moved, she matched him; when he stepped, she stepped; when he leaped, she was with him. In fact, she was the best dancer he had encountered.

It was a fragment of heaven, being with her like this. For the moment he could almost believe she was his. When they danced apart, she was a marvel of motion and symmetry; when they danced together, she was absolute de-light. Now he wished this dance could go on forever, keeping his dream alive.

But then Neysa brought her harmonica melody to a close, and the dance ended. The Sidhe applauded. “Aye, she can dance!” Thistlepuff agreed ruefully. “Mayhap she has some inkling of Faerie blood in her ancestry after all. Thou hast shamed us, and we must make amend. Come to our village this night.”

“We dare not decline their hospitality,” the Lady Blue murmured in his ear. She was glowing with her effort of the dance, and he wished he could embrace her and kiss her. But this was one blunder he knew better than to make.

Now the steep bank of a ridge opened in a door. There was light inside, and warmth. The passage into the hill was broad enough for the steeds, and these were of course welcome. They walked into the Faerie village. Inside it was amazingly large. This was technically a cave, but it seemed more like a clearing in a deep wood at night, the walls invisible in their blackness. A cheery fire blazed in the center. Already a feast was being laid out: a keg of liqueur, many delicious-smelling breadstuffs, fresh vegetables, pots of roasted potatoes and buckets of milk and honey and dew. For the animals there was copious grain and fragrant hay and a sparkling stream. Then Stile remembered something from his childhood readings. “If a human being partakes of Faerie food, is he not doomed to live among them forever? We have business elsewhere—“

Thistlepuff laughed with the sound of rain spattering into a quiet pond. “Thou really art not of our kind, then! How canst thou believe that myth? Thou hast it backwards: if ever one of the Sidhe forsakes his own and consumes mundane food, he is doomed to become mortal. That is the true tragedy.”

Stile looked at Neysa, embarrassed. She blew a positive note—no danger here. Thistlepuff had spoken the truth, or close enough to it to eliminate his concern. So he had blundered again, but not seriously; the Sidhe were amused. Now they ate, and it was an excellent repast. After-wards, pleasantly sated, they availed themselves of the Faerie sanitary facilities, which were concealed in a thick bed of toadstools, then accepted invisible hammocks in lieu of beds. Stile was so comfortable that he fell almost instantly to sleep, and remained in blissful repose until a beam of sunlight struck his face in the morning. Startled, he looked about. He was lying in a bed of fem in a niche in the gully. No cave, no invisible hammock, no Faerie village! The Lady Blue was up before him; she had already fetched fruit from some neighboring tree. Neysa and Hinblue were grazing.

Stile was abashed. “Last night—what I remember—the Sidhe—did I dream—?”

The Lady Blue presented him with a pomegranate. “Of dancing with the Faerie-folk? Sharing their food? Consuming too much of their nefarious dew so that thou didst sleep like a rock forever in their invisible hammock? It must have been a dream, for I remember it not.” There was a musical, mirthful snort from Neysa.

“Even so,” Stile agreed, concentrating on the fruit. Was his face as red as its juice? The Sidhe had had some sport with him after all. But how glad he was to note that the Lady’s heavy mood had lifted.

“Yet dost thou dance divinely in thy dreams.” The Lady was for a moment pensive, then reverted briskly to business. “If thou dost not get thy lazy bones aloft, never shall we locate the Platinum Elves in time for thee to go divert thyself at thy next otherframe game with thy mechanical paramour.”

Barbed wit, there! The Proton Tourney was no fun diversion, but a matter of life or nonlife on that planet. Stile rose with alacrity. “One more day, one more night—that’s all the time I have until I have to report for Round Two of the Tourney.”

Soon they were on their way again. It had been a good night; human and equine beings had extra vigor. Neysa and Hinblue stepped out briskly, hurdling the ridges and gullies and hummocks. Neysa, conscious of the equine limitations of the natural horse, did not push the pace too fast, but miles were traversed swiftly. The Lady Blue, of course, rode expertly. Stile might be the best rider in Phaze, but she was the second best.

After an hour Stile became aware of something fleeting. “Hold,” he murmured. Neysa, feeling his bodily reaction, was already turning around.

“Is aught amiss?” the Lady Blue inquired, elevating an eyebrow prettily.

“The curtain,” Stile said. “We just passed it. I need to note where it is, as a matter of future reference. There may be good places to cross it to Proton, if only I can locate them.”

“There are times when I wish I could cross that curtain,” she said wistfully. “But hardly can I even perceive it.”

“Ah—here it is,” Stile said. “Proceeding northeast/ southwest, angling up from the Purple Mountains. Of course it may curve about, in between reference points, but—“

The Lady waved a hand. “Cross it, my lord, and see where it leads. Only forget not to return, lest I abscond with thy steed.”

Stile laughed, then spelled himself through. The other side was hot and bleak. The ubiquitous cloud of pollution was thinner here, but the haze still shrouded a distant force-field dome. This was not a good place to cross; he needed a section within a dome, or very close to one. Ah, well—it had been worth checking. He released his held breath and willed himself back into Phaze as he stepped back across the faint scintillation.

It was a great relief to see the lush greenery form around him. What a mess the Citizens had made of the surface of their planet, in the name of progress! “I’m satisfied. Let’s go”

“Yet if I could cross, it would mean there would be no one for Hulk,” the Lady concluded.

By midmorning they had reached the fringe of the Platinum Demesnes; Elven warner-markers so informed them. Now Stile uncorked the Yellow Adept’s gift-potion and applied it liberally to his face and hands. He offered some to the Lady, but she demurred; she did not care to smell like an elf. Since she was obviously no threat to anyone, Stile trusted it would be all right.

The Platinum Demesnes were in the Purple Mountains proper. The access-pass was marked by a neat wooden sign: PT78. Stile smiled, recognizing the scientific symbol and atomic number of platinum; surely some crossover from the frame of Proton, here. Evidently these Little People had a sense of unity or of humor.

They rode up the narrow trail. The mountain slopes rose up steeply on either side, becoming almost vertical. It would be very easy for someone to roll boulders down; the stones would flatten anyone misfortunate enough to be in their way. Except an ogre or an Adept. Stile kept his hand on his harmonica and his mind on a boulder-repulsion spell he had devised. He did not want to use magic here, but he wanted even less to suffer death by stoning. Then they encountered a hanging bridge. It crossed a deep, dark chasm too wide for Neysa to leap, but the bridge was too narrow and fragile to support equine weight. Neysa could change form and cross, but that would not help Hinblue. Stile considered casting a spell to transport the horse across, but vetoed it himself; the Platinum Elves could be watching. So—they would have to cross the hard way, by navigating the chasm manually. Perhaps this was a deliberate hurdle to test the nature of intruders, separating the natural from the supernatural—or, more likely, the Elven folk did not want mounted visitors charging into their Demesnes.

There was a precarious path down into the chasm, and another rising on the far side. Probably the two connected, below. Stile and the Lady started down, riding, because the steeds did not trust the people’s ability to navigate such a pass safely alone. But Stile kept his hand on the harmonica.

touch of that musical instrument reminded him—he was coming here for a flute. Yet how could a musical instrument avail him? What he really needed was a weapon. Well, he should soon be finding out! Fortunately the path did not descend far. It reached a broad ledge that cut into the chasm, reducing it to a width that could be conveniently hurdled by the steeds. The path continued on down into the chasm, but they did not follow it. They jumped across the ugly crack and started up the other side. Stile was aware of a hot draft that came up erratically from the depths, smelling of sulfur. He did not like it.

They emerged at the top of that chasm, and continued on up the path. Now they were higher in the mountain range, nearing the top—and they rounded the crest, and the landscape leveled, and lo! it was only a larger foothill. Ahead the real mountains loomed, sloping up into the clouds. They were tall enough to maintain snow, but it was purple snow.

On this brief level spot was a mound, overgrown by turf and vines. The path led right to it; in fact there was a stone entranceway. “Methinks we have arrived,” Stile murmured, dismounting.

“Methinks thou shalt not swiftly depart,” a voice said behind him. Stile turned to find a small man in the path behind. He stood about four inches shorter than Stile, but was broader in proportion. His skin was an almost translucent blue, and his clothing was steel-gray. “Thou must be of the Elven Folk,” Stile said. “I come to beg a favor of the workers of platinum.”

“We do work platinum,” the elf agreed. “But we do no favors for outsiders. Thou art now our prisoner, and thy human companion.” He gestured with his shining sword. “Now proceed into the mound, the two of you. Thine animals will join our herds outside.”

Neysa turned on the arrogant elf, but Stile laid a cautioning hand on her back. “We came to petition; we must yield to them,” he murmured. “If they treat us ill, thou canst then act as thou seest fit. An thou dost find me fettered, free me to play my music.”

Neysa made an almost imperceptible nod with her horn. Once Stile had access to his music, he could bring his powers of magic into play, and would then be able to handle himself. So the risk was less than it seemed. He and the Lady suffered themselves to be herded into the mound. Inside it was gloomy, with only wan light filtering in through refractive vents. Several other armed elves were there, garbed like the first. Their leader stepped up and appraised Stile and the Lady as if they were newly purchased animals. He sniffed as he approached Stile. “This one be Elven,” he pronounced. “But the woman is human. Him we shall spare to labor at our forges; her we shall use as tribute to the beast.”

“Is this the way thy kind welcomes those who come peaceably to deal with thee?” Stile asked. There was no way he would permit the Lady Blue to be abused.

“Silence, captive!” the elf cried, striking at Stile’s face with a backhand swing of his arm.

The blow, of course, never landed. Stile ducked away from it and caught the elf’s arm in a punishing submission hold. “I can not imagine the elders of thy kind being thus inhospitable,” he said mildly. “I suggest that thou dost summon them now.”

“No need,” a new voice said. It was a frail, long-bearded old elf, whose face and hands were black and wrinkled. “Guards, begone! I will deal with this matter myself.” Stile let go his captive, and the young elves faded into the crevices and crannies of the chamber. The oldster faced Stile.

“I am Pyreforge, chief of the tribe of Platinum Mound Folk of the Dark Elves. I apologize for the inhospitability shown thee by our impetuous young. It is thy size they resent, for they take thee to be a giant of our kind.”

“A giant!” Stile exclaimed, amused. “I’m four feet eleven inches tall!”

“And I am four feet five inches tall,” Pyreforge said. “It is the odor of thy potion that deceives us, as well as thy size. To what do we owe this visit by the Lady and Blue Adept?”

Stile smiled ruefully. “I had thought not to be so obvious.”

“Thou art not. I was delayed researching my references for thy description. I pored all through the Elven species in vain. It was the unicorn that at last betrayed thee, though we thought Blue recently deceased.”

“Neysa would never—“

The old elf held up a withered hand. “I queried the ‘corn not. But no man save one rides the unicorn, or travels with the fairest of human ladies. That be the imposter Blue Adept—who I think will not be considered imposter long.”

Stile relaxed. “Oh. Of course. Those must be comprehensive references thou hast.”

“Indeed. Yet they are oft tantalizingly incomplete. Be it true that thou didst come recently on the scene in the guise of thy murdered self, and when the unicorns and were-wolves challenged thee performed two acts of magic, the first of which was inconsequential and the second enchantment like none known before, that established thee as the most powerful magician of the frame despite being a novice?”

“It may be true,” Stile agreed, taken aback. He had rather underestimated his magical strength on that occasion! Probably it had been the strength of his feeling that had done it, rather than any special aptness at magic. Then, perceiving that the Elder was genuinely curious, he amplified: “I am of Proton-frame, come to take up the mantle of my Phaze-self and set to right the wrong of his murder. When the unicorn Herd Stallion challenged me to show my magic, I made a spell to wall him in. When my unicorn steed yielded her ambition on my behalf, I made an oath of friendship to her. It had a broader compass than I expected.”

The Elder nodded. “Ah. And the ‘corns and ‘wolves have not warred since. Thou art indeed Adept.” “Yet not omnipotent. Now must I need meet the Herd Stallion again, at the Unolympics, and I am not his match without magic. The Oracle sent me to borrow the Platinum Flute.”

“Ah, now it comes clear. That would of course avail thee.” Yet the elf seemed cold.

“That I am glad to hear,” Stile said. “I have heard it said that music has charm to soothe the savage breast, but whether it soothe the breast of a beast—“

The Elder frowned. “Yet it is forbidden for us to yield this instrument, however briefly, to a human person, and doubly forbidden to lend it to an Adept. Knowest thou not its power?”

Stile shook his head. “I know only what the Oracle advised.”

“No need for mystery. The wielder of the Flute is immune from the negation of magic. There are other qualities about it, but that is the primary one.” Stile thought about that. For an ordinary person, the Flute would provide little advantage. But for a magic creature, such as a werewolf, it would protect his ability to shape-change, and that could on occasion be a matter of life and death. For an Adept—

With the Flute in his possession. Stile could draw on his full powers of magic, even within the magic-negating circle of unicorns. The Herd Stallion would not be able to stand against him. The Oracle had spoken truly; this was the instrument he needed.

But at the same time, he could understand why the Mound Folk did not want him to have it. The existence of various magic-nullifiers prevented the Adepts from being overwhelmingly powerful. If an Adept obtained possession of the Platinum Flute, there would be no effective limit to his will.

“I appreciate thy concern,” Stile said. “In fact, I agree with it. The likes of me should not possess the likes of this.”

The Lady Blue’s head turned toward him questioningly.

‘Thou dost not abuse thy power.”

“How could the Mound Folk be assured of that?” Stile asked her. “There is corruption in power. And if the Flute were taken from me by another Adept, what then would be the limit?”

“It is good that thou dost understand,” the Elder said. “The Oracle oft does give unuseful advice, accurate though it be. We Elves have great pride in our artifacts, and trade them freely for things of equal value. But the Flute is special; it required many years labor by our finest artisans, and is our most precious and potent device. It has no equal value. No other tribe has its match; not the goldsmiths or the silversmiths or the ironsmiths or the woodsmiths or bonesmiths. We alone work the lord of metals; we alone control the platinum mine and have the craftsmen and the magic to shape it into usable form. Thou art not asking for a trifle. Adept.”

“Yes,” Stile agreed. “Yet is the Oracle wont to provide advice that can in no wise be implemented?”

“Never. I termed it unuseful, in the sense that surely there is some simpler way to achieve thy mission with the Herd Stallion than this. Misinterpretations may abate the worth of an Oracle’s message, but always the essence is there and true. There must be some pattern to this. There-fore must we deal with thee, can we but find the way. Thou knowest that even for the briefest loan we must extract a price.”

“I am prepared to offer fair exchange, though I know not what that might be.”

“There is little we need from thy kind.”

“I do have resources, shouldst thou choose to tolerate the practice of magic in thy Demesnes. Is there anything that requires the talent of an Adept?”

Pyreforge considered gravely. “There be only two things. The lesser is not a task any man can perform, and the greater is unknown even to us. We know only that it must be performed by the finest mortal musician of Phaze.”

“I do not claim to be the finest musician, but I am skilled,” Stile said.

The wizened elf raised a shriveled eyebrow. “Skilled enough to play the Flute?”

“I am conversant with the flute as an instrument. I should be able to play the Platinum Flute unless there be a geas against it.”

The Elder considered again. He was obviously ill at ease. “It is written that he who plays the Flute well enough to make our mountain tremble will be the foreordained savior of Phaze. Dost thou think thou art that one?”

Stile spread his hands. “I doubt it. I was not even aware that Phaze was in jeopardy.”

“The Oracle surely knows, however. If the Time of Decision draws nigh . . .” Pyreforge shook his head dolefully. “I think we must try thee on the Flute, though it grieves me with spreading misgiving.” He glanced at a crevice, where a guard lurked. “How be the light outside?” The guard hurried outside. In a moment he returned.

“Overcast, shrouded by fog. It will not lift this hour.”

“Then may we gather outside. Summon the tribe this instant.”

The guard disappeared again. “This be no casual matter, Adept. The Flute extends its force regardless, protecting the magic of the holder. An thou shouldst betray us, we must die to a man to recover it, killing thee if we can. I think thou canst be trusted, and on that needs must I gamble; my life be forfeit an I be in error.” Stile did not like this either, but he was not sure how to alleviate the elf’s concern.

“Let thy warriors fix their threats on me,” the Lady Blue said. “My Lord will not betray thee.” Pyreforge shook his head. “This be not our way. Lady, despite the ignorance of our commoners. And it would not avail against the typical Adept, who values nothing more than his power.”

“Well I know the justice of thy concern. Yet would I stake my life upon my Lord’s integrity.”

The Elder smiled. “No need. Lady. Already have I staked mine. No lesser hostage preserves the peace in these Demesnes, when an Adept manifests here. I do this only for that the Oracle has cast its impact on us, and my books suggest the ponderosity of the situation. Fate draws the string on every creature, inquiring not what any person’s preference might be.” He returned his attention to Stile. “The Flute’s full power is available only to the one who can master it completely, the one for whom it is destined. We made it, but can not use it; only the Foreordained can exploit it ultimately. When he comes, the end of the present order will be near. This is why we can not give up the Flute to any lesser person.”

“I seek only to borrow it,” Stile reminded him. But this did not look promising. If he were not the Foreordained, they would not let him borrow the Flute; if he were, there was a great deal more riding on this than his encounter with the Herd Stallion!

They walked outside. The cloud-cover had intensified, shrouding all the mountain above their level, leaving only a low-ceilinged layer of visibility, like a huge room. The elves of the tribe had gathered on the knoll, completely surrounding the mound—young and old, women and children too. Most were slender and handsome, and among them the women were phenomenally lovely, but a few were darkened and wrinkled like the Elder. Stile was the cynosure of all their eyes; he saw them measuring him, discomfited by his large stature; he did indeed feel like a giant, and no longer experienced any exhilaration in the sensation. All his life he had privately longed for more height; now he understood that such a thing would not be an unmixed blessing, and perhaps no blessing at all. Hulk had tried to tell him. The problem was not height; it was in being different, in whatever manner.

“We can not bear the direct light of the sun, being Dark Elves,” the Elder said. “Should a sunbeam strike us, we turn instantly to stone. That is why the fog is so important, and why we reside in these oft-shrouded mountains, and seldom go abroad from our mounds by day. Yet like all our kind we like to dance, and at night when it is safe and the moons be bright we come out. I was in my youth careless, and a ray pierced a thin cloud and transfixed me ere I could seek cover; I turned not to stone but became as I am now. It was the wan sun, not mine age, that scorched me.”

“I might heal thee of that,” Stile said. “If thou wishes! A spell of healing—“

“What I might wish is of no account. I must needs live with the consequence of my folly—as must we all.” Now an elf brought, with an air of ceremony, a somber wooden case. “Borrow the Flute for the hour only,” the Elder told Stile. “Ascertain for thyself and for us thy relation to it. The truth be greater than the will of any of us; it must be known.”

Stile took the precious case. Inside, in cushioned splendor, lay the several pieces of gleaming metal tubing. Platinum, yes—a fortune in precious metal, exclusive of its worth as a music instrument, which had to be considerable, and its value as a magic talisman. He lifted out the pieces carefully and assembled it, conscious of its perfect heft and workmanship. The King of Flutes, surely! Meanwhile the Mound Folk watched in sullen silence, and the Elder talked, unable to contain his pride in the instrument. “Our mine be not pure platinum; there is an admixture of gold and indium. That provides character and hardness. We make many tools and weapons and utensils, though few of these are imbued with magic. There is also a trace of Phazite in the Flute, too.”

“Phazite?” Stile inquired, curious. “I am not familiar with that metal.”

“Not metal, precisely, but mineral. Thou mayst know of it as Protonite.”

“Protonite!” Stile exclaimed. “The energy-mineral? I thought that existed only in Proton-frame.”

“It exists here too, but in another aspect, as do all things. Wert thou not aware that Phazite be the fundamental repository of magic here? In Proton-frame it yields physical energy in abundance; in Phaze-frame it yields magic. Every act of magic exhausts some of that power—but the stores of it are so great and full Adepts so few that it will endure yet for millennia.”

“But in Proton they are mining it, exporting it at a horrendous rate!”

“They are foolish, there. They will exhaust in decades what would otherwise have served them a hundred times as long. It should be conserved for this world.” So Phaze was likely to endure a good deal longer than Proton, Stile realized. That made Phaze an even better place to be. But why, then, was there this premonition of the Foreordained, and of the end of Phaze? Stile could appreciate why Pyreforge was disturbed; there were indeed hints of something seriously amiss.

What would happen when Proton ran out of Protonite? Would Citizens start crossing the curtain to raid the sup-plies of Phazite? If so, terrible trouble was ahead, for Citizens would let nothing inhibit them from gratification of their desires. Only the abolition of the curtain would pre-vent them from ravishing Phaze as they had ravished Proton. Yet how could a natural yet intangible artifact like the curtain be removed?

Now the Flute was assembled and complete. It was the most beautiful instrument Stile had ever seen. He lifted it slowly to his mouth. “May I?” he asked. “Do the best thou canst with it,” the elf said tightly. “Never have we heard its sound; we can not play it. Only a mortal can do that.”

Stile applied his lips, set his fingers, and blew experimentally.

A pure, liquid, ineffably sweet note poured out. It sounded across the landscape, transfixing all the spectators. Elder and elves alike stood raptly, and Neysa perked her ears forward; the Lady Blue seemed transcendentally fair, as if a sanguine breeze caressed her. There was a special flute-quality to the note, of course—but more than that, for this was no ordinary flute. The note was ecstatic in its force and clarity and color—the quintessence of sound. Then Stile moved into an impromptu melody. The instrument responded like a living extension of himself, seeming to possess nerves of its own. It was impossible to miskey such a flute; it was too perfect. And it came to him, in a minor revelation, that this must be the way it was to be a unicorn, with a living, musical horn. No wonder those creatures played so readily and well!

Now the Mound Folk danced. Their sullenness vanished, compelled away by the music, and their feet became light. They formed their ranks on the ground, not in the air, and kept their motions on a single plane, but they were abandoned in their sheer joy of motion. The elves scintillated as they turned, and their damsels glowed. They spun into convoluted patterns that nevertheless possessed the beauty of organization. They flung out and in; they kicked their feet in unison; the elves swung the maids and the maids swung the elves; they threaded their way through each other in a tapestry of ever-increasing intricacy. There were no tosses or acrobatic swings, merely synchronized patterns that coalesced into an artistic whole. Over and through it all passed the grandeur of the music of the Flute, fashioning from disparate elements an almost divine unity. It was not Stile’s skill so much as the talent bequeathed by the 1 perfect instrument; he could not shame it by delivering less than his ultimate.

Stile saw that the fog was lifting and thinning, as if dissipated by the music. The clouds roiled and struggled to free themselves of their confinement. He brought the recital to a close, and the dancing came to a neat halt as if it had been planned exactly this way. Again the Mound Folk stood still, but now they were smiling. Even the guards who had greeted Stile so inhospitably had relaxed their resentment.

“That was the loveliest music I ever did hear,” the Elder said. “It made our finest dance. Thou hast rare talent. Yet did the mountain not shake.”

“It did not shake,” Stile agreed, relieved.

“Thou art not the Foreordained.”

“Never did I claim to be.”

“Still, thou canst play marvelously well. If the Oracle decrees that the Flute be loaned to thee, it may be that we are constrained to oblige.”

“This I would appreciate,” Stile said, taking apart the instrument and returning it carefully to its case. “If thou dost trust me with it.”

But now the circled Mound Folk frowned and muttered. The roil of the clouds had stilled when the music stopped, but the disturbance seemed to have passed into the elves. “Nay, my people will not so lightly tolerate that. Perhaps if we borrowed thy service in exchange—“ The muttering subsided.

“I am willing to do what service I may,” Stile said. “But I can not remain here long. I have commitments elsewhere. I will need the Flute for a number of days, until the Unolympic.”

The muttering began again. “Desist this noise!” the Elder cried at the elves, annoyed. “We shall fashion a fair bargain or not part with the Flute.” He accepted the Flute-case from Stile; in this judgment, at least, he had not been mistaken. Stile had neither abused the Flute nor sought to retain it without permission. “Now get under cover before the cloud breaks!” There was little danger of that now, but the Mound Folk hurried away. Stile and the Lady returned inside the nearest mound with the Elder, while Neysa and Hinblue returned to their grazing.

“It could be said,” Pyreforge said after reflection, “that thou dost borrow the Flute only to bring it to the one for whom it is intended. The Foreordained.”

“But I do not know the Foreordained!”

“Then shalt thou quest for him.”

Stile understood the nature of the offer. Such a quest could take as long as he needed for the Flute. Yet it would have to be a true mission. “How could I know him?”

“He would play the Flute better than thee.”

“There may be many who can do that.”

“I think not. But thou wouldst send him to us, as we can not fare forth to seek him, and we would know by the tenor of the mountain his identity. If he played well, but was not the Foreordained, we at least would have the Flute back.”

“This seems less than certain. I think, at least for the acquiescence of thy people, I need to earn this borrowing. Thou didst mention two tasks, the lesser of which no man might perform. Yet I am Adept.”

“Canst thou wield a broadsword?”

“I can,” Stile replied, surprised.

“This task bears the threat of ugly death to any but the most skilled and persistent swordsman.”

“I have faced such threats before. I would feel more secure from them with the Flute in my hands and a broad-sword ready.”

“Assuredly. Then listen. Adept. There is beneath our Mound Demesnes and below our platinum mine, deep in a cave hewn from out of the Phazite bedrock, one of the Worms of the fundament, ancient and strong and savage and fiery.”

“A dragon!” Stile exclaimed.

“Even so. But not one of the ordinary reptiles of the southern marches beyond these mountains. This monster has slowly tunneled through the mountain range during all the time we have mined here. Now we have come within awareness of each other. The Worm be centuries old, and its teeth are worn and its heat diminished so that it can no longer consume rock as readily as in bygone centuries, yet it is beyond our means to thwart. It requires from us tribute—“

“Human sacrifice!” Stile exclaimed, remembering the threat the elves had made concerning the Lady Blue.

“Even so. We like this not, yet if we fail to deliver on schedule, the Worm will exert itself and undermine our foundations and melt our platinum ore and we shall be finished as smiths. We are smithy elves, highly specialized; it took us a long time to work up to platinum and become proficient with it. We can not go back to mere gold, even if other tribes had not already filled in that specialty. We must maintain our present level, or become as nothing. My people would sooner go out in sunlight.”

“So thou dost need that dragon eliminated,” Stile concluded.

“For that I believe my people would abate their disquietous murmurings about the loan of the Flute.”

“Even so,” Stile said warily. “This is a large dragon?”

“Enormous.”

“Breathes fire?”

“Twenty-foot jets from each nostril.”

“Armored?”

“Stainless steel overlapping scales. Five-inch claws. Six-inch teeth. Lightning bolts from eyes.”

“Temperament?”

“Aggressive.”

“Resistive to magic?”

“Extremely. The Worm beds in Phazite, so has developed a considerable immunity.”

“I wonder what it was like in its prime?” Stile mused.

“No matter. In its prime it needed not the tribute of our kind.”

“But if the Platinum Flute were employed—“

“The magic of the Flute be stronger than the anti-magic of the Worm.”

“Then it is possible that an Adept carrying the Flute could dispatch the creature.”

“Possible. But hardly probable. The Worm cannot be abolished by magic alone.”

“Well, I’d be willing to make the attempt.”

“Nayl” the Lady Blue cried. “Few dragons hast thou encountered; thou knowest not their nature. Accept not this perilous mission!”

“I would not borrow a thing of value without giving service in return,” Stile said. “But if I could borrow the Flute to brace the Worm, thereafter I would feel justified in borrowing it for one task of mine own. There might be other uses I could make of it besides matching a unicorn stallion, until I locate the one for whom the Flute be intended.”

“Thou meanest to brace the Worm?” the Elder asked.

“At least to make the attempt. If I fail to dispatch it, I will return the Flute immediately to thee, if I remain able to do so.”

“Nay!” the Lady cried again. “This is too high a price to risk, for the mere postponement of the breeding of one mare. She is mine oath-friend, yet—“

“For that trifle thou dost this?” the Elder demanded, abruptly suspicious. “Thou dost risk thy life against the Worm, and thy pride against the Stallion, for ... ?”

“She is a very special mare, also mine oath-friend,” Stile said stiffly, not wanting to admit that things had pyramided somewhat.

“I fear my people will not support this,” the Elder said. “They will fear thou wouldst borrow the Flute merely to abscond with it, facing no Worm. Who would stop thee, armed with it?”

Both Stile and the Lady reacted with anger. “My Lord Blue does not cheat!” she flared. “I thought we had already made proof of this. Again will I stand hostage to that.”

“Nay,” Stile said, touched by her loyalty, though he knew it was the honor of the Blue Demesnes she was protecting rather than himself. “Thou’rt no hostage.”

The Elder’s canny gaze passed from one to another. “Yet perhaps this would do, this time. Let the Lady be my guest, here, for a few hours; do we care if others assume she be security for this loan of the Flute? Methinks no man would leave his love to be sacrificed to a dragon. If the Worm be slain, thy mettle is proved, and the loan is good.”

“The Lady is not my—“ Stile started, then reconsidered.

It was a matter he preferred not to discuss here. Also, he would be operating on an extremely tenuous footing if he denied his love for her. He would not permit her to be fed to the dragon, whatever her feeling for him.

“Others be not aware of that,” the Elder said, delicately skirting the issue. “Few know that the Lord of the Blue Demesnes has changed. Let her remain with me, and none of my people will hold thy motive in suspicion. She will not be ill-treated.” He glanced at the Lady. “Dost thou perchance play chess?”

“Perchance,” she agreed, smiling.

Stile realized that the Elder had proffered a viable compromise. It was a way to suppress the objections of the Mound Folk, without really threatening the Lady. Certainly Stile was not about to take her with him to meet the dragon!

“Do thou keep the harmonica during mine absence,” Stile said to the Lady, handing her the instrument. “This time I must use the Flute.”

“I like this not,” she said grimly. But she took the harmonica. If Stile did not return, she would at least retain this memento of her husband.

Pyreforge, meanwhile, was setting up the chessmen. Stile carried the Flute with him into the depth of the crevice. Now he knew the origin of the hot wind and demonic odor from this crevasse. The Worm lurked below! He had never fought a real dragon before, as the Lady had mentioned, and was not entirely sanguine about this one. The closest approach to a dragon he had made was the one in the Black Demesnes, actually formed from a line, and when balked it had unraveled literally into its component string. The Worm surely would not do that! Adept-quality magic should prevail—but still, if anything went wrong—

Well, he should have the advantage of surprise. The Worm would assume Stile was another item of tribute, a victim to be consumed. He should be able to get quite close before the monster realized what it was up against. That would give him time to survey the situation. Pyreforge had assured him that the Flute would facilitate his magic, yet he had also said that magic alone would not suffice; that suggested that the Flute was not quite as powerful a charm as the Mound Folk wished to believe.

Now they were well below the ledge they had hurdled before. Neysa picked her way carefully as the path nar-rowed, and Stile kept the Flute assembled and handy. For him it should serve double duty—both to protect his ability to do magic, and to summon the magic itself, since he needed music for his spells. He would have been in trouble if he had needed to play two different instruments simul-taneously for those purposes! He was rehearsing those spells in his mind now—one to abate fire, another to shield him from biting, another to make him invisible. But mainly he needed one to eradicate the Worm, one way or another. Could the creature be banished to Hell? Here in this magic frame, there really was a Hell. He had accidentally sent Neysa there once; that had led to a lot of trouble. Which meant that that option was out, now; Neysa would not go for it. He was extremely wary of antagonizing his unicorn friend; unicorns were devastatingly stubborn once they made an issue of something.

Not Hell, then. How about a size change? Convert the giant Worm into a midget worm, harmless. Maybe in three more centuries it would grow back into a giant, but by then it should be far away—if some hungry bird hadn’t snapped it up in the interim. What would be a suitable spell? Monstrous Worm, be small as a germ. Hardly great art, he lamented as usual, but for the purpose of magic it only needed to rhyme and have appropriate meter. What kind of magic would be wrought by superior verse? Some day he would have to experiment with genuine poetry, instead of doggerel, and see what happened. Now the path leveled out. A large, round tunnel took off to the side—the bore of the Worm. A hot drift of air came from it. The Worm could not be far distant.

Stile hesitated. He leaned down to whisper into Neysa’s left ear, which rotated obligingly to receive his words. “If we march blithely into the Worm’s lair, methinks we’ll be slightly cooked,” he said. “Yet if we do not, the monster may become suspicious. I would like to lure it out to a location convenient for me, so that at least I can survey it before emerging to engage it—yet how can I bring it to me without engaging it?”

Neysa blew a short, positive note. Realizing that she had a notion, Stile dismounted.

She shimmered into girl-form, a petite, lovely, naked, semi-elven lass. “Tribute,” she murmured, making a gesture of innocence and helplessness.

Stile was delighted and appalled. “Thou’rt the perfect lure,” he said. “Thou fittest the part precisely. But I dare not risk thy getting caught by the monster.” She shimmered again and became a firefly. The insect circled him once, then converted back to girl-form. “That’s so,” Stile agreed. “I keep forgetting thy third form. Thou canst escape, if thou art not burned.”

“Fireproof,” she said.

“Thy firefly form is fireproof? Wonderful!” Neysa was a treasure of ever-new facets.

Stile reflected for a moment, then plotted their course. “I prefer to have some space to battle the Worm, even though I expect to banish it with a spell. One must always be prepared for the unexpected. So do thou lure it out to the crevice, then get thee swiftly to safety. If I destroy it not, and suffer death, do thou fly up to Elder Pyreforge and the Lady and tell them I have failed. I will hurl the Flute out to the crevice if I can, that it be not lost.” This sounded bold and brave, but Stile felt somewhat weak in the knees; he had not had much experience in this sort of thing. He really did not expect to be in serious danger of demise, otherwise he would have been terrified. He was just covering the extreme eventuality.

Neysa nodded, then walked to the center of the tunnel. Stile sang a spell to make himself invisible. This was external magic only; he remained just as solid as always, despite the change in appearance. He was getting accustomed to the limits of his power. When he lifted himself by magic he was changing his locale, not his body. He could not heal his own injured knees. He could not duplicate Neysa’s shape-changing or genuine insect-flying ability, though he could create the illusion of change in himself, and could fly artificially by magic means. There were some fine distinctions, but overall he was perhaps more vulnerable than Neysa, though he was also more powerful. When she saw he was unseeable, Neysa went into her act. “Oh!” she cried. “I’m so afraid! The horrible dragon is going to eat me!” She was really working at it, since she didn’t like to talk. Stile felt a warm glow of appreciation. Once Neysa had given him her loyalty, she had been the truest of companions.

Soon there was a rumbling deep in the tunnel. A hotter, ranker wash of air passed, as if some enormous engine had started up. Stile’s imperfect confidence suffered attrition. There were after all so many things that might go wrong ... Neysa continued lamenting. The rumble increased. The Worm must be afraid that the prey would flee if not quickly nabbed—a reasonable assumption. That was one important thing Stile wanted to know about it—how alert it was, and how fast it moved. A big, ponderous creature would be easier to handle than—

All too soon the Worm arrived. It was indeed a dragon. It had a long narrow head with a conical snout, narrowing in ringlike stages. The derivation of this monster from a literal worm was evident. Of course there were many kinds of worms; Stile tended to think of earthworms because many Citizens employed them in their elegant gardens. But he knew there were other types, some of them vicious. This dragon was a vicious worm grown monstrous. Neysa screamed realistically and skipped nimbly to the mouth of the passage. The Worm exhaled a puff of smog and slid forward. Its legs were puny compared to its bulk, not really used for its forward motion—but it did indeed have horrendous claws, and seemed to be fully adequate to the task of gutting a human being efficiently. Its metallic scales did not gleam; they were drab and dirty, more like the mud-caked treads of a caterpillar tractor. Stile did not doubt they were invulnerable to ordinary attack. Theoretically the point of a sword could be slid up under a layer of scales to penetrate the flesh beneath—but that could lead to a shallow slanting wound, only aggravating the monster. And what would the Worm be doing while the swordsman was making his insertion? Sitting still? Not likely! All of this. Stile realized abruptly, was academic. He did not have a sword. He had forgotten to conjure one. He had only the Platinum Flute and his magic—which magic it was time to use.

Stile’s strategy had been to bring the monster out to the front, then cast his spell from the rear. Now a problem manifested; the Worm had no rear. Its giant cylindrical torso extended back into the gloom. The shape of a worm, naturally—long. He should have known.

Well, he should be able to enchant it anyway. Stile played the Flute, and the perfect notes poured out again, emerging like quicksilver to fill the tunnel with beauty. The magic gathered swiftly, unusually intense. Of course; they were down near the Phazite lode, so the power was near at hand.

The dragon reacted instantly. No senile mentality here! It had been about to lunge at the supposedly helpless damsel—Neysa was playing it uncomfortably close—but recognized the summoning of magic here. The tiny armored eyes oriented on Stile—and did not see him, since he was invisible. Nevertheless the front orifice opened, its diameter cranking wider in several stages until it was a good yard across. From it a blast of hot fog bellied out. In this instant it occurred to Stile that the Worm had not tried to use heat on Neysa. Maybe it preferred its meals raw.

Time for self-defense. “From head to feet, immune to heat!” Stile sang.

But as the fog struck him, Stile discovered it was a false alarm. The stuff was hot but not burning. It was like being “p” in a polluted sauna.

The dragon heaved again. This time its breath was hotter and smelled worse. The creature was old; it took it time to get up full steam. The third blast was burning, and the fourth contained pure fire. From hair-dryer to flame-thrower, in easy stages!

Now for the attack. “O mighty Worm, complete thy term,” Stile chanted, willing instant death on it. Then something strange happened. There was a coruscation in the air midway between them, as of a beam of light striking a refractive barrier. The Worm did not die. Stile tried again. “O Worm of fire—weaken, expire!”

Again that dissipation enroute, and lack of effect. His spells were potent, but were not reaching the dragon! Now the creature’s tiny eyes flashed. Stile had not realized that worms had eyes, but this one certainly did. He remembered the weapon he had been warned about. “Light —blight!” he cried, and the lightning fizzled out before reaching him. His backup spells were saving his hide. The Worm paused, evidently taking stock. Stile did the same. His magic worked—but the Worm was shielded against it. The Worm had magic—that Stile could block. So the Flute enabled Stile to perform his magic here, but not to use it directly against the enemy. Like two armored knights, they were so well protected against attack that neither could hurt the other magically. The Elder elf had been right.

So much for his rehearsed spells. This conflict was about to get physical. And the Worm was a good deal more physical than Stile.

Still, he would have to make a try. For one thing, he was now trapped inside the tunnel; the bulk of the Worm was between him and the exit. In fact the bulk of the Worm surrounded him. The monster was slowly constricting, hemming him in. Neysa was on the far side of the dragon, unable to help.

Stile had no weapon, other than the Flute. Now he knew that the Flute, while effective, was not enough. Not against the magic Worm. What he needed at the moment was a good sword. What was that spell he had prepared, to summon such a weapon?

The Worm’s tube-mouth opened wider—and now a ring of teeth showed, six-inch teeth sure enough, pointing in-ward. No doubt useful for tunneling through rock—but surely adequate also to grind up one small man. Why couldn’t he think of that spell!

The head nudged closer. Stile held the Flute before him in a futile gesture of defense while he tried to cudgel his memory into yielding up the forgotten spell—damn this failure under pressure!—and discovered he held a sword. A shining platinum blade, long and sharp, two-edged. But light and balanced. Exactly the kind of sword he was well versed in.

“Well, now!” Stile exclaimed, confidence surging. The elves had not informed him of this aspect of the Flute! It was a shape-changer.

Stile stepped briskly forward and stabbed at the Worm’s side. He expected the point to bounce off the tough scales, but it penetrated. Aha! The enchantment of the Platinum Sword was proof against the Worm’s resistance. Maybe it was a different kind of spell, that when buttressed by forceful physical action—

The Worm screamed like a siren and whipped its head about. Stile jerked the sword out and retreated. A geyser or dark red blood shot out of the hole, sailing in an arc through the air to splash on the stone several feet away. A rank charnel smell rose from the fluid.

The dragon’s nose nudged up to the wound. A slimy tongue slid out, intercepting the flow of blood. Did worms have tongues? This one did! Was it about to drink its own blood? A single slurp—and the flow abated. The nose drew away. The blood remained staunched.

Maybe it was the saliva: some magical curative property.

This monster could heal itself.

The dragon’s head was orienting on Stile again. This was one tough worm! It might not be able to see him, but it could hear him and smell him, and in the poor light that was just about as good. Stile had foolishly delayed when he should have been edging around to rejoin Neysa, during the Worm’s distraction. Still, maybe he could—

Stile strode for the Worm’s side. Immediately the snout snapped toward him. Stile dodged back and sprinted past the head to reach the mouth of the tunnel. Neysa was awaiting him in equine form. She too could place him readily by smell and sound. Next time he fought an animal, he would prepare spells of inaudibility and unsmellability! He leaped to mount her.

“At least we know it can be injured by this sword,” he said. “Maybe if we charge in, slash, and charge out before it reacts, then wound it in a second place, and a third—“ He stopped. He no longer had a sword. He supported a long platinum lance. The magic Flute had shown another facet!

Stile braced the lance in his arms and Neysa charged the Worm as its head swung about. The point of the lance struck the neck just behind the head; Stile did not have his aim perfect yet. A lance was not the easiest thing to use! He really needed some sort of supportive harness. The shaft rammed in forcefully—and Stile was shoved off his mount.

Of course, he realized as he picked himself up. The instrument was enchanted so that it could not be jarred out of his grasp—but the shock of impact had had its natural effect on his body. He should have anticipated that. The Worm screamed again. That puncture hurt! As Stile hauled the lance out, a larger gout of blood spurted—but this time the Worm could not get its mouth on the spot, because the wound was too close to the head. Stile perceived his avenue of victory. He lifted the lance —and it was what he needed, a hefty double-bitted battle-axe. As the Worm’s head twisted vainly to the side, trying to reach the wound, the neck was exposed on the other side to Stile’s attack.

He chopped down at that neck, two hands on his axe. This time he cut a deep gash. The head whipped back, catching Stile in a sideswipe and hurling him against the wall.

He saw a flash of light as his head struck, then slid down the curve of the wall. His head was spinning. He retained the Flute—but hardly had the wit to use it. He had not been knocked out, but had been badly shaken up by the blow.

Now the head was orienting on him. The circular array of teeth widened to take him in, and the breath steamed up the vicinity so that Stile could hardly see. He scrambled away on hands and knees. He wasn’t sure he could make it to his feet, or stay on them if he did. He had been in a boxing match once in the Game and been tagged by a solid blow so that his knees went rubbery; he felt similar now. Only there would be no time between rounds to recover! The snout followed him—then paused, grinding out a puff of smoke.

Neysa had rammed her horn into the other side of the Worm’s neck, beside the first hole. She lacked the enchantment of the Flute, but a unicorn’s horn was itself magical, and a weapon no creature could ignore.

The Worm reacted automatically, turning on this annoyance. It was not terrifically smart. Stile scrambled to his feet. He swung the Platinum machete ferociously—machete? It had changed again!—chopping with all his strength at the Worm’s body. More blood gouted out, spilling over Stile’s two hands and spattering his front. He hated the burning, greasy feel of it, but kept hacking.

The dragon whipped its head back, but Stile lashed at the snout with his cleaver, just missing an eye. The head recoiled—and Stile returned to work on the neck. This was like chopping through a tree, except that it became a good deal softer and messier as he got past the vertebrae and into the fatty tissues. Now blood was flooding out so voluminously that Stile was wading in it, and every lift of his implement splattered it further. Blood ran down the shaft as he elevated it, and along his arms to the shoulders; it sprayed across his face. But his grip remained firm, thanks to the Flute’s enchantment. As long as he willed his grip to be good, it was. He was wallowing in gore—but still the Worm lived and thrashed, not yielding.

Finally the body was severed entirely. The neck and head fell on one side; the body writhed on the other. The job had been done. Stile had slain the dragon. His thought of victory was premature. Still the thing didn’t die. Instead the cut ends frothed and solidified like sponge, and the bleeding abated. The head section crawled slowly by itself, while the body section cast about blindly, looking for its opponent.

This was a worm. It was possible to cut a worm in half—and both halves would form new worms. Stile had not really accomplished anything yet.

Well, yes—he had made some progress. The head no longer had the leverage to strike at him, and the body lacked sensory apparatus. In time these situations would be remedied—but right now he had a definite advantage. He had to go ahead and destroy the entire Worm right now, while he could.

This was what Pyreforge had meant about the need for a good swordsman with staying power. What a job! Stile moved down the body, picking his spot, and resumed hacking with his machete-axe. Again the blood gouted; again the torso twisted in agony, trying futilely to fight or escape. The severed end came around, thinking it was a head; it smeared him with half-clotted blood, sicken-ingly, but could not bite him. Stile pressed on, feeling more like a butcher than a hero. In fantasy lore, the champion skewered the ferocious dragon one time and the beast collapsed cleanly. Here there was nothing neat or convenient or particularly noble about it; he was wallowing in foul-smelling gore, hacking apart a helpless mound of blubber. Hero? He wanted to vomit!

By the time he completed the second cut, his arms were tiring. But still each segment of the Worm remained alive. If he quit here, they would become three new, smaller dragons. He had to abolish the entire mess, somehow. Then he had a dull inspiration. The dragon had countered his magic with its own magic. But now it lacked organization. Maybe magic would finish it, at this stage. It was certainly worth a try.

He brought the Flute to his mouth. It was festooned with gore. Stile’s gorge rose, and he decided to try his spell without playing on the instrument. “O monster fair,” he intoned with irony. “Convert to air.”

The segment before him shivered, resisting. Whether this was because of residual anti-magic in the dragon, or be-cause Stile had not summoned sufficient magic, he was not sure. Then it melted and evaporated into a truly noisome cloud. The spell was working!

Stile devised spells to abolish the two remaining segments, then another to clean the gore from himself, Neysa, and the tunnel. He had done the job, and earned the right to borrow the Flute. Yet he was not especially pleased with himself. Wasn’t there some better way to settle differences than hacking apart ancient magical creatures? How would he feel if he were old, having some fresh young midget chop him down to size?

Yet if he had not performed, the Lady Blue’s situation could have become quite difficult. And it could still become so, if Stile did not locate and deal with the murderer of the Blue Adept before that murderer caught up with Stile him-self.

Meanwhile, he wondered whether the Lady was winning her chess game with Pyreforge.