Blue Adept

CHAPTER 8 - Quest

Stile emerged in Phaze at the familiar spot south of the Blue Demesnes. Suddenly his will coalesced. He opened his bag and brought out the magic Flute and played it hard and long. His power gathered to him as the platinum notes pealed forth. Almost, it seemed, the mountain trembled—but not quite. This instrument was the finest he had played, but he knew he could not keep it. When he found the person who could play it better than he—

But at the moment something else preempted his attention. As he played, the words came to him. In a moment he stopped playing and cried it out savagely: “Of the one who killed mine other self, the one who slew my friend, I, Stile, the Blue Adept, swear to make an end!” The magic oath flung outward, making the ground ripple, the trees tremble, and the welkin waver. Pine needles burst into flame. From the Purple Mountains a rumbling echo came back like the voice of a monster: “end . . . end ... end.” Then lightning flashed across the sky and thunder rolled down. A startled griffin shot up and away to the west. A quick wash of water descended, extinguishing the local flame, leaving wet ashes. His oath had shaken the firmament, but it couldn’t bring his friend back. Stile leaned against a scorched tree and cried.

Neysa and the Lady Blue were waiting for him expectantly at the Demesnes. As soon as they saw him, they knew something was wrong.

“Hulk is dead,” Stile said bluntly. “Mine enemy killed him, in lieu of me. I have sworn vengeance.”

“The sudden storm to the south,” the Lady said. “Thine oath! I thought it no natural occurrence.”

“Mine oath,” Stile agreed. Quickly he filled in the details of the tragedy. “And I know not whether thine other self survives. Lady,” he finished. “I fear I have unwittingly brought demise upon Bluette. I should not have suggested to Hulk that he—“

“Nay,” the Lady said. She exchanged glances with Neysa, and the unicorn blew a small note of assent and left the room.

Stile felt his burden increase. “It is meet that she rebuke me,” he said. “Others have paid the penalty for mine er-rors.”

“She rebuked thee not,” the Lady said. “She knows thou didst seek only to do a favor for thy friend. It was thine enemy at fault.”

“I should have anticipated—“

“So should my Lord have anticipated the threat against him, by the ill hands of the same enemy. So also should I have known to warn him. There is guilt enough to go 2around.” She crossed to him and put her hands on his shoulders, and he felt their healing power. “We were all of us well-meaning and naive. We could not believe that genuine evil stalked us.”

“And thee,” Stile said, not meeting her gaze. “It was thine other self I involved in this. I had no right—“

“To pass her to another man? She surely has will of her own! Thy friend was no bad person; I think she might have warmed to him, had she no other commitment. Certainly she would make her own choice, in her own time.” And the Lady Blue surely knew.

“Thou hast no resentment, that I did not—?”

“Did not court her thyself, and bereave the Blue Demesnes a second time? Even were the danger naught, it matters not. An I decline thy suit for myself, why should I be jealous of what attention thou mightest pay to mine other self? She would like thee well enough, I think.”

“But I did not court her!” Stile protested, in his distraction looking into her lovely face.

“And am I to feel insulted that it is I alone thou seekest, not my likeness in another frame?”

“Thou hast a marvelously balanced perspective.”

“It was a quality thine other self selected for, methinks,” she said with a half rueful smile. “I could not otherwise have maintained the Demesnes in his absence. Surely this, not any wit or beauty, was what caused the Oracle to identify me as his ideal wife.”

“Thou hast those other qualities too,” Stile said. “I beg thee. Lady, let me go now, lest I embarrass us both by—“

She did not let him go. “Thou’rt very like my Lord. Well I know what thou wouldst do with me, were I amenable.”

‘Then well thou knowest that I like not to be toyed with!”

“Thou’rt now the Blue Adept. Thy power is proven. Fain would I have thee remain here, not risking thy life in any quest for vengeance.”

“I have made an oath,” Stile said, somewhat stiffly.

“Well do I know the power of thine oaths! Yet there be ways and ways to implement, and here is thy bastion. Let thine enemy come to thee here, where thy magic is strongest; do not put thyself in jeopardy in hostile Demesnes.”

“There is merit in thy view,” Stile said, still overwhelmingly conscious of her nearness, of her hands upon him. He kept his own hands at his sides. “Yet I fear that it is folly to wait for attack. Already mine enemy’s traps have imperiled my life in both frames, and destroyed my friend and perhaps thine other self too. I want no others to suffer in my stead. I prefer to take the initiative, to do boldly what has to be done. Thereafter will I retire to the Blue Demesnes.”

“I fear to lose thee, as I lost him! As has so nearly happened already. What becomes of me, of the Blue Demesnes, if thou goest the way of my Lord?”

That moved him. “Never would I place thee in jeopardy, if I could avoid it. Lady. Yet I dare not take thee with me on my quest for vengeance.”

Her grip on his shoulders tightened. “It is my vengeance too, to have or to renounce. If thou lovest me, heed my plea! Leave me not!”

“I have no right to love thee, now less than ever,” Stile said. “I may only guard thee.”

“Thou’rt the Blue Adept! Thy right is as thou makest it!”

“My right is as my conscience dictates. I seek not the spoils of mine other self’s Demesnes. Fain would I return thy Lord to thee, if I could.”

She shifted her grip and drew him savagely in to her. She kissed him. Stile’s heart seemed to explode with longing, but with an iron will he held himself passive. She shook him. “Respond, Adept. These Demesnes are thy spoils, and I too. Take what is thy right. Leave me not bereft of Lord and of power. I will grant thee whatever thou dost desire. I will give thee a son. No one, I swear, will ever suspect by word or gesture or deed of mine that in truth I love thee not. Only remain to preserve these Demesnes.”

It was that truth that cut him almost as savagely as the murder of his friend. Gently but firmly Stile disengaged from her. “If the occasion comes when I do not suspect, then I may act as thou hast in mind. This scene becomes thee not.”

She slapped him stingingly across the cheek. “How dost thou dare prate to me of scenes, thou who dost seek futile vengeance that will only exterminate thee and bring down what remains of what my Lord created?”

“I apologize for my foolishness,” Stile said stiffly. He hated everything about this situation, while loving her for the sacrifice she was attempting. To preserve the memory and works of her Lord, she would do anything. She had thrown away her pride in that effort. “I am the way I am. I will fulfill mine oath in the best way I know.”

She spread her hands. Surprisingly she smiled. “Go then, with my blessing. I will aid thee in whatever manner I am able.”

This startled Stile. “Why the sudden change. Lady?”

“It is now thy welfare I value, for whatever reason. If I can not preserve thee from thy folly my way, I must help thee do it thy way. Ever was it thus, in these Demesnes.”

Stile nodded. “Thy balanced perspective, again. I thank thee. Lady, for thy support.” He turned to go.

“Thou’rt so very like my Lord,” she repeated as he passed through the doorway. “Nor wiles nor logic nor rages could move him iotas from his set course, when honor was involved.”

Stile paused. “I am glad thou understandest.”

She hurled a blue slipper at him. “I do not understand! My love died of that stubbornness—and so wilt thou!” Stile found Neysa in the courtyard, cropping the perpetual bluegrass patch. “We must move swiftly to surprise the enemy and allow me time to get to my next match in Proton-frame. But I dare not leave the Lady unguarded, especially in her present mood. Without Hulk—“ Neysa tooted reassuringly and led the way outside. Shapes were racing toward the castle. “The werewolves!”

Stile exclaimed.

Soon the pack arrived, panting. The leader metamorphosed to man-form. It was Stile’s friend Kurrelgyre, wild-haired and scarred but trustworthy. “The Pack greets thee, Adept.”

“I have need of thy assistance,” Stile said. “But how didst thou know?”

“Know? We know nothing,” the werewolf said. “We but came to visit our oath-friend the mare.”

“But Neysa and I are leaving,” Stile protested.

“Then we shall be forced to take advantage of the hospitality of thy Demesnes to await her return. Can a pack do less, for an oath-friend?”

Stile understood. Neysa had somehow summoned the pack, all of whose members had sworn an oath of friend-ship with her, and they would guard the Blue Demesnes during his absence. An Adept enemy could get around such a defense, but not easily; who would voluntarily tackle a full pack of werewolves? The Lady Blue would be as safe as she reasonably could be, for the duration. “Methinks true friends appear when needed most,” Stile said gratefully.

The White Adept was female, so Stile rode Neysa toward the White Demesnes. White did not resemble the woman he had seen in the Hulk holo-tape, but of course she had been in disguise at the Unolympics. So he would go and defy her to show him her true form, establishing at one stroke her guilt or innocence. Armed with the Platinum Flute, he felt he could successfully brace the Adept in her own Demesnes.

Neysa knew the way. Stile slept on her back, refreshing his strength. He knew she would protect him well, and this approach would be less obvious than the use of magic. It was also a salient principle in Phaze: do not waste magic. He would use one of his rehearsed spells to travel away from the White Demesnes, if hard-pressed, instead of expending it unnecessarily now.

It was good to be with Neysa for another reason. Stile was sick at heart, angry about his ludicrous loss of a Game in the Tourney, guilty for Hulk’s brutal demise, and disturbed by the Lady Blue’s attempt to seduce him away from his purpose. He needed to sort out his feelings and get them settled, and he needed the solid support of an understanding person. Neysa was that person. She did not have to say a word or play a note; she settled him by her presence. She had been right about the importance of her assistance to him; he needed her for more than physical Blue Adept 213 reasons. With her he felt secure, emotionally as well as physically.

They traveled northeast, angling toward the great White Mountain range. At dawn they arrived at a narrow pass. Now Neysa threw herself into a slow gallop, forging up into the snows, while Stile hunched within his cloak. Such was the energy she expended that thin fire shot from her nostrils, and her hot hooves melted indentations into the packed snow. Her body heat warmed Stile’s own body, and soon he leaned forward and hugged her about the neck, burying his face in her sweet black mane. She was his best friend in the frame of Phaze, the one he most depended on. It was joy to be afield with her again like this.

At the height of the pass a cruel wind sliced through. Beyond, the terrain opened out into a bleak frozen lake many miles across. The ice was not flat; it pushed up in cracked mounds, where the stresses of expansion had prevailed.

And in the center of that ragged surface rose the icy castle of the White Demesnes, formed of ice bricks partially melted together and refrozen. Flying buttresses of ice braced the walls. It was pretty in its fashion, but rather squat and solid to be truly esthetic artistically. Neysa walked down to the lake’s edge. The ice was a problem for her, as her hot hooves were not suitable for skating. She would have trouble crossing this! “I can conjure skates for thee—“ Stile offered dubiously. She blew a note of negation. Then she shifted into her firefly form.

“But it’s too cold for that form here,” Stile protested. “Thou mayest be fireproof, but not freezeproof. Thou wilt fly only minutes before thy little insect body stalls out.” She flew to his shoulder and lighted there, already cold.

“Oh,” Stile said. “I’m to carry thee. Of course! Then I shall put thee in my jacket where it is warm.” He did so. Neysa made one flash of thanks and settled down in comfort. Then he conjured a good pair of skates for himself. Stile was an excellent skater; he had developed power and artistry for use in the Proton Game.

He moved out. The ice was firm, and the curvatures of its surface did not bother him. He skated smoothly yet swiftly toward the ice castle, not even bothering to use an invisibility spell. He was here for a challenge, not a sneak attack. He had only to discover the true appearance or mode of the White Adept’s magic. If it did not relate to amulets or golems, she was not the one he wanted. A demon amulet had almost killed him when he first crossed the curtain into the frame of Phaze; four goons had been set on his trail by his use of a healing amulet later. Now he was wary of amulets—but at least it gave him the most promising hint about the identity of his enemy. One strange thing—the woman who had sprung the trap in Proton had suggested that the Blue Adept had attacked her, rather than the other way around. Why? Surely his other self had been innocent. He would not have attacked another Adept without reason, especially not a woman. So she had to be wrong. Yet it bothered him, for the woman had not known she was being recorded; she had been speaking from her cold heart, not for an audience. He skated on, drawing near the ice castle. Now it was time to go into his act. He singsonged a spell: “Garb this one in a suit of fun.” His clothing changed, becoming a brightly colored clown-suit that was, not incidentally, a good deal warmer than his prior garb.

The thing was, the average Adept had all he or she needed or wanted, materially. The Adept could conjure food, and use magic to build a castle or other residence to his liking, and could make deals for other necessities. But he was liable to get lonely and bored in his guarded fast-ness. That was why so many Adepts elected to participate as judges and spectators in functions like the Unolympics. It gave them something to do in a public but protected situation. Yellow had obviously thrived on her job as head judge for the Adept pavilion, being all dressed up with her finest youth potion for the occasion. It followed, then, that Adepts could use entertainment at home, too. An Adept’s own magic would not amuse himself, even if he chose to waste it that way. So now Stile looked the part of an entertainer—and should be admitted to the White Demes-nes with no more than the usual suspicion. So he leaped and looped and whirled into occasional spins. He did a cartwheel and took a fancy, deliberate spill.

He was a clown, a joker, a fool. Until he had his chance to brace the White Adept and discover the nature of her magic.

He skated close to the castle. So far so good. No hostile spell had been hurled at him.

There was a moat of ice-free water surrounding the castle: an effective barrier to a skater. Stile drew up. “Ho!” he called. “Grant ye access for a fool?”

A human guard appeared. It seemed there was modest employment for a number of villagers in the various Adept castles. “Why come ye?”

“To entertain—for a fair fee. To glean what information I can.”

“A spy?”

“Naturally.”

The guard lowered his voice. “Fool art thou indeed, if thou wouldst enter these Demesnes. The Adept is ill of humor. Depart, lest thou losest thy gizzard.”

“I thank thee for thy warning,” Stile said. “But I have come far, and must complete my mission. Do thou announce me to the Adept and let me take my chance.”

“On thy insecure head be it. I tried to warn thee.” The guard retreated inside the castle.

In due course he returned to crank down the draw-bridge, which seemed to be formed of a huge slab of ice. Stile skated blithely across and on into the central court-yard, admiring the way the daylight refracted through the ice walls. And the floor abruptly converted to stone. Stile tripped on it and took a genuine tumble; he had not been paying attention to his feet. He adapted his fall to an acrobatic roll in what he hoped was comical fashion, then removed his skates.

Neysa did not reappear. She remained as a firefly, hiding in his hat. Stile knew why; her conversion back to equine-form would attract attention to him. Who but the Blue Adept, as the Platinum Elves had pointed out, rode a unicorn? But she would change in a hurry if it became necessary. He felt much more secure with her along.

There were no special preliminaries. The White Adept walked out, looking much as she had at the Unolympics, but older and fatter. She had evidently used her magic only to improve her image moderately. “What hast thou got, churl?” she demanded irritably. “What dost thou want?”

“I have a rare show of antics and prestidigitation,” Stile said, making his voice comical too. “’Twill lighten thy spirit and make thee laugh. All I ask in return is the smallest of favors.”

“What smallest favor?” She was evidently used to panhandlers.

Stile brought out a silver medal he had conjured in preparation for this moment. “This amulet—it is expended. I want it restored to provide me heat from the cold.”

“Amulets are not my business,” she snapped. “Thou shouldst apply to her who makes them.”

So it was a female Adept who made the amulets! This was a valuable confirmation. “Once an amulet attacked me,” he said. “Now must I take them secondhand.”

“Attacked thee?” She chortled. “Surely served thee right! Very well—if thou dost perform amusingly, I will reward thee appropriately.”

“I thank thee,” Stile said humbly. He was fully aware that she had made no significant commitment. That was not what he needed. Once she showed the form of her magic—

“Get on with it, clown,” White snapped, her mouth set-ting into solidified sourness. “Make me laugh.” Stile went into his act. He had developed a joker-ritual as part of his Proton-Game expertise, and he had considerable manual dexterity. He put on his “stupid midget” pantomime, trying to eat a potato that kept wriggling out of his hands, looking for a comfortable place to sleep, finding none, and getting tangled up in his own limbs, drawing scarves out of his ears, taking spills, and in general making a funny fool of himself. He was good at it, using no real magic, only stage magic, before a person who well knew the difference. Though the White Adept tried to maintain a sour face, slowly it weathered and cracked. She evidently did not like peasants, and had deep satisfaction seeing one so aptly parodied. Also she, like many people, thought there was something excruciatingly funny about mishaps happening to a midget. In the end she was laughing whole-heartedly.

Stile completed his show. White sobered quickly. “I like thee, fool. I believe I shall keep thee here for future entertainments.”

“Honored Adept, I cannot stay,” Stile said quickly, though he had expected something like this. “All I want is mine amulet recharged.”

She frowned. “Very well, fool. Give it here.” She was up to something. Stile passed over the medal, braced for action.

The White Adept laid the medal on the floor. She brought out a long-handled charcoal marker and drew a mystic symbol around it. When the figure was complete, she tapped it five times: tap-tap. Tap-tap, TAP. The medal exploded into a dozen huge shapes. Ice monsters, translucent, with snowy fur and icicle teeth and blank iceball eyeballs. The small fragments of metal seemed to adhere only to their formidable claws: nails that were literal nails.

“Cool this arrogant peasant in the cooler, coolies,” she ordered, pointing at Stile.

The monsters advanced on him. Stile tried to run out of the courtyard, but they leaped out to encircle him. Grinning coldly, they drew their noose tight. There would be no gentle handling here.

Suddenly Neysa flew out and changed to her unicorn-form. She charged forward, spearing a monster on her horn, lifting her head, and hurling the thing away to the side. It crashed into its neighbor, and both went down in a tangle of shattering ice.

“Ho! A unicorn!” White screamed, outraged. “Think ye to ‘scape my power in mine own Demesnes, animal?” She started to draw another symbol on the floor. That meant trouble. Obviously she could conjure anything with the right symbol. Stile launched himself at the White Adept—and was caught in a polar-bear hug by an intervening ice monster and lifted from the floor. Fool! he chided himself. He should have sung a spell. But no—White did not yet know his identity, apparently not con-necting the unicorn directly to him. He preferred to keep it secret if he could. He would try to handle this without magic.

He had better! The monster had a frigid hand over Stile’s mouth, half suffocating him and preventing him from speaking.

Stile tried to get his hand on the Platinum Flute. That would become a suitable weapon! But, jammed up against the freezing demon, he could not reach the Flute. He elbowed the monster. Ouch! That ice was hard! He kicked, but the monster seemed to have no feeling in its body. Stile could not throw the creature, because he had no footing. Meanwhile, that terrible cold was penetrating his flesh.

Neysa was busy routing the other monsters. One monster might be too much for Stile to handle, but one unicorn was too much for the whole horde of them. She bucked, her hind hooves flinging out to shatter two monsters; she plunged forward to impale another on her horn. With every motion she demolished a monster. Stile could have had no better ally.

But Stile was held silent, and the White Adept was completing her new symbol figure. This surely meant mischief. Stile bit the hand over his mouth. This helped; the icy fingers crunched under his teeth. The monster might feel no pain, but it couldn’t gag Stile with no fingers. Stile chewed and chewed, breaking off and spitting out the huge hand piecemeal.

Now the witch’s second symbol animated. A swarm of stinging flies puffed into existence. They flung themselves onto Neysa—who stiffened the moment they stung, thin flame jetting from her nostrils. Then, with an extended note of despair, she fell to the floor. There was no question about the ability of an Adept to handle a unicorn! White’s magic was more cumbersome to implement than Stile’s was, but it was devastating when it got there.

“Dump the animal into the lake—under the ice,” White ordered the two remaining ice monsters. “Dump the peasant-clown there too; he’s too much trouble.”

But Stile could speak now. “Monsters of ice,” he sang breathlessly, “turn into mice!”

He had not gathered his power by playing music, so the potency of his spell was not great. That was the cumbersome quality of his own invocations. When fully prepared, he could do excellent magic—but of course White, when set up with a number of drawn symbols, could surely perform similarly. His spell operated incompletely. The two ice monsters shimmered into rather fat white rats.

“Magic!” White hissed. “Now I know thee! How durst thou intrude on these my Demesnes, Blue?” Stile brought out his harmonica as he walked toward Neysa. He had decided he didn’t need the Flute on this occasion. The deadly stingflies rose up in their humming cloud, orienting on him.

“I intrude to ascertain whether thou art mine enemy,” he said to the witch.

“I was not thine enemy before—but I am now!” she cried. “Sting him, flies!”

Stile played his instrument. The flies felt the coalescing force of his magic and hesitated. Stile willed heat—and as the flies came near, they dried up and dropped to the floor. A few hardier ones persisted until their wings burst into flame.

Stile stopped, looking at the prostrate unicorn. He thought of Hulk and Bluette, knocked out by gas. Which parallels were valid and which were products of his guilt? But this situation he could handle. “Neysa defy the bite of the fly,” he sang.

The unicorn woke and struggled to her feet. Stile could heal others, but not himself.

White was forming a new symbol. Stile faced her and sang: “White take the road, as a frog or a—tortoise.” The witch did a doubletake as the spell passed her by. Stile had not filled in the obvious rhyme. Then she reached for the symbol again.

“Let thy flesh become cold,” Stile sang, and the magic gathered as though to pounce. “And thy body grow . . . oily.”

Again she reacted, fearing the worst; no one feared age like a middle-aged woman! Again she was left unscathed as the spell fizzled. Stile’s intent could only be consummated with a terminal rhyme. Once more she went for her spell. “White form a pyre, and burn like—fir,” Stile sang. This time her white hair seemed to take on a tinge of orange flame.

“Enough!” she cried. “Thou’rt victor. Blue! Thy magic cannot truly transform me, but it could make me very uncomfortable. What dost thou want?”

“Only to see thy magic operate,” Stile said. “And to depart in peace.”

“No one sees the secret of my magic mode and departs in peace!” she protested. “The mode is always an Adept secret. Sooner would I dance naked before a crowd.”

“Thou hast seen my magic mode,” Stile pointed out. “I lived my whole life naked in a crowd, ere I came to Phaze.”

“Well, no one else shows either magic or body!”

“Yet thou knowest the identity of the amulet-maker.”

She considered. “Ah, now it comes clear! Thy vengeance!”

“Indeed,” Stile agreed. “Thou dost not seem to be the one I seek, but it would help if I learned who mine enemy really is.”

“Aye, I know her. There are secrets witches share. But I will not tell thee. It is not thy business.”

“The amulet-maker murdered me!” Stile cried. “And seeks to kill me again. That is not my business?”

“Well, mayhap thou wouldst see it that way. But it is not my business to betray her to thee.”

“Witch, thou runnest fair risk of suffering my wrath,” Stile said, feeling the righteous heat rise. The force of his oath urged him onward. “Yet can I turn thee into—“

“Nay, the power of one Adept is ineffective against another Adept on guard. Yet neither is it my business to betray thee to her. Depart now, and I shall not tell her thou hast narrowed thy choices to two.” To two. Two remaining female Adepts. White had given him some information, by way of placation. That helped considerably. The only problem was that he knew of only one other female Adept.

Well, he would check that one. He mounted Neysa. He played a bar of music, then sang: “Man and steed, to Brown proceed.”

They shot sidewise, accelerating to horrendous velocity, passing right through the ice walls without touching them and zooming southeast. Plains, hills and forests shot by in blurs. Then they slowed and came to an abrupt halt. They were before the great brown wooden door of a brownstone castle from whose highest turret a brown pennant flew. Obviously the Brown Demesnes. Stile looked around. A muddy river flowed behind the castle, but none of its water was diverted into a moat. On its banks stood a sere, brown forest. It might be summer in the main part of Phaze, but it was winter at the White Demesnes and fall here at the Brown Demesnes. Neysa snorted, not liking it. Stile could appreciate why; the grass, too, was brown.

“Well, do we sneak in this time, or boldly challenge?” Stile asked the unicorn. She blew a note of negation, ending in a positive trill. “I agree,” he said, “I’m tired of sneaking. We’ll settle this openly this time.” He wondered whether it was true that one Adept could not directly enchant another Adept who was on guard. That notion seemed to be giving him confidence, certainly. He faced the door and bawled in as stentorian a voice as he could muster: “Brown, come forth and face Blue!” The huge door cranked open. A giant stood in the door-way. He was as massive as the trunk of an oak, and as gnarly. He carried a wooden club that was longer than Stile’s whole body. “Go ‘way, clownl” he roared. Clown. Oops—he was still garbed in that fool’s suit! Well, let it be; he didn’t want to mess with a nullification spell right now.

Stile was used to dealing with men larger than himself; all men were larger than himself. But this one was extreme. He was just about ten feet tall. If he swung that club, he could likely knock Stile off Neysa before Stile could get close enough to do anything physical.

Unless he used the Platinum Flute as a lance or pike ... But first he had to try the positive approach. “I want to meet the Brown Adept.”

The giant considered. His intelligence seemed inversely proportional to his mass. “Oh,” he said. “Then come in.” Just like that! Neysa trotted forward, following the giant. Soon they were in a large brownwood paneled hall. A man was there, garbed in a brown robe. He was brown of hair, eyes and skin. “What want ye with me?” he inquired, frowning.

“Nothing,” Stile said. “I want the Adept herself.”

“Speak to me,” the man said. “I am Brown.”

“Brown is a woman,” Stile said. “Must I force the issue with magic?”

“Thou darest use thy magic in my Demesnes?” the brown man demanded.

Stile brought out his harmonica and played a few bars.

“I dare,” he said.

“Guard! Remove this man!”

Giants appeared, converging on Stile and Neysa. “I want these creatures swept,” Stile sang quickly. “And bring the Brown Adept.”

It was as if a giant invisible broom swept the giants out of the hall. Simultaneously an eddy carried in a disheveled, angry child. “Thou mean man!” she cried. “Thou didst not have to do that!” Stile was taken aback.

“Thou’rt the Brown Adept?” But obviously she was; his spell had brought her.

“If I were grown and had my full power, thou wouldst never be able to bully me!” she exclaimed tearfully. “I never did anything to thee, clown!”

Appearances could be deceptive, but Stile was inclined to agree. Why would a child murder an Adept who meant her no harm? Unless this was another costume, concealing the true form of the Adept. “I am here to ascertain that,” Stile said. “Show me thy true form.”

“This is my true form! Until I grow up. Now wilt thou go away, since thou art not a very funny clown?”

“Show me thy true form of magic,” Stile said.

“Art thou blind? Thou didst just make a jumble of all my golems!”

Golems! “Thou makest the wooden men!”

She was settling down. “What else? I use the brownwood growing outside. But most of these were made by my pred —the prior Brown Adept. He trained me to do it just before he died.” A tear touched her eye. “He was a good man. It is lonely here without him.”

“Knowest thou not a wooden golem usurped the Blue Demesnes?” Stile demanded.

Her cute brown eyes flashed. “That’s a lie! Golems do only as told. I ought to know. They have no life of their own.”

Like the robots of Proton. Only some robots, like Sheen, and her sophisticated friends, did have consciousness and self-will. “Thou hast sent no golem in my likeness to destroy me?”

Now she faltered, bobbing her brown curls about. “I—I did not. But I have not been Adept long. My predi-pred—“

“Predecessor,” Stile filled in helpfully.

“That’s the word! Thanks. Predecessor. He might have. I don’t know. But he was a good man. He never attacked other Adepts. He just filled orders for them. Golems make the very most dependable soldiers and servants and things, and they never need feeding or sleeping or—“

“So another Adept could have ordered a golem in my likeness?” Stile persisted, piecing it together.

“Sure. He made golems in any likeness, in exchange for other magic he needed. Like a larderful of food, or a get-well amulet—“ Stile pounced on that. “Who traded him an amulet?”

“Why the Red Adept, of course. She makes all the amulets.”

Something was wrong. “I met the Red Adept at the Unolympics. Red was a tall, handsome man.”

“Oh—she was in costume, then. They do that. Just as I tried to do with a golem when thou earnest. Sometimes strangers are bad to children, so Brown warned me not to reveal myself to intruders. I didn’t know thou wert apprised I was a girl.”

It burst upon Stile with dismaying force. The costume! Not merely different clothing or appearance, but different sex too! Child’s play to produce the image of the opposite sex. In fact, Red could have done it without magic. Remove the mustache, lengthen the hair, put on a dress, and the Red he had seen was a woman. Remove the dress so that she was naked, and cover the hair with a skullcap, and it was the woman who had killed Hulk in the mine. How could he have overlooked that?

“Brown, I apologize,” Stile said. “A golem invaded my Demesnes, and I thought thee guilty. I see I was mistaken. I proffer amends.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” she said, smiling girlishly. “I haven’t had company in a long time. But thou mightest put back my giants.”

Stile made a quick spell to restore the golems he had swept away. “Is there aught else I can do for thee before I go?” he inquired.

“Nothing much. I like thy unicorn, but I know they don’t mess with other Adepts or anybody. Only other thing I’m trying to do is grow a nice flower-garden, but they all come up brown and dry. I don’t want thy magic for that; I want to do it myself.”

Neysa blew a note. Stile dismounted, and she shimmered into girl-form. “Unicorn manure grows magic plants,” Neysa said.

“Gee—pretty ones?” Brown asked, her eyes lighting. “Like a Jack-in-the-pulpit who preaches a real sermon, and tiger-lilies who purr?”

Neysa had already changed back to her natural shape.

She blew an affirmative note.

“Send one of thy golems with a cart and fork,” Stile said. “A giant, who can haul a lot. Thou knowest where the herds roam?”

Brown nodded. “I go there all the time, to look at the pretty ‘corns,” she said wistfully. “But I dare not get close to them.”

All girls liked equines. Stile remembered. He looked at Neysa, who nodded. “If thou likest, Neysa will carry thee there this time, and tell her friends to give manure to thy golem.”

“A ride on a unicorn?” Brown clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, yes, yes!”

“Ride, then,” Stile said, glad to make this small amend for his unkind intrusion here. “I will meet thee there.” The child mounted the unicorn somewhat diffidently, and they started off at the smoothest of gaits. Stile knew Neysa would not let Brown fall, and that her unicorn herd would acquiesce to the golem’s acquisition of several loads of excellent manure, for such things were not denied to oath-friends. Neysa had helped bail him out of mischief, again, by making Brown glad for his visit. This had turned out to be the wrong Adept, but the excursion had been worthwhile. Now at last he knew the identity of his enemy. He would not have time to brace the Red Adept after rejoining Neysa at the herd; he had to get back across the curtain for the next Round of the Tourney. But on his return to Phaze. . . .