Centaur Aisle

“I want to make a deal with you.”

“Ha! You’re going to be consumed anyway. What kind of deal can you offer?”

“This whole boatload is a small morsel for the likes of you. But we might arrange for you to get a real meal, if you let us go in peace.”

“I don’t eat, really,” the dune said. “I preserve. I clean and secure the bones of assorted creatures so that they can be admired millennia hence. My treasures are called fossils.”

So this monster, like so many of its ilk, thought itself a benefactor to Xanth. Was there any creature or thing, no matter how awful, that didn’t rationalize its existence and actions in similar fashion? But Dor wasn’t here to argue with it. “Wouldn’t you rather fossilize a dragon than a sniveling little collection of scraps like us?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Snivelers are common, but so are dragons. Size is not as important for the fossil record as quality and completeness.”

“Well, do you have a water dragon in your record yet?”

“No, most of them fall to my cousin the deepsea muck, just as most birds are harvested by my other cousin, the tarpit. I would dearly like to have a specimen like that.”

“We offer you that water dragon there,” Dor said. “All you need to do is make a channel deep enough for the dragon to pass. Then we’ll lure it in-and then you can close the channel and secure your specimen for fossilization.”

“Say, that would work!” the dune agreed. “It’s a deal.”

“Start your channel, then. We’ll sail down it first, leading the dragon. Make sure you let us go, though.”

“Sure. You go, the dragon stays.”

“I don’t trust this,” Irene muttered.

“Neither do I,” Dor agreed. “But we’re in a bind. Chet, can you apply your calculus?”

“The smallest of stones can be considered calculi,” Chet said. “That is to say, sarid. Now sand has certain properties . . .” He trailed off, then brightened. “You have seagrass seed?” he asked Irene.

“Lots of it. But I don’t see how-“ Then her eyes glowed. “Oh, I do see! Yes, I’ll be ready, Chet!”

The sand began to hump itself into twin mounds, opening a narrow channel of water between them. Chet guided the boat directly down that channel. The dragon, perceiving their seeming escape, honked wrathfully and gnashed its teeth.

“Express hope the dragon doesn’t realize how deep this channel is,” Dor told Grundy. “In dragon talk.”

Grundy smiled grimly. “I know my business!” He emitted dragon noises.

Immediately the dragon explored the end of the channel, plunging its head into it. With a glad honk it writhed on into the inviting passage.

Soon the dragon was close on their wake. Its entire body was now within the separation in the dune. “Now-close it up!” Dor cried to the dune.

The dune did so. Suddenly the channel was narrowing and disappearing as sand heaped into it. Too late the dragon realized its peril; it tried to turn, to retreat, but the way out was blocked. It honked and thrashed, but was in deep trouble in shallow water.

However, the channel ahead of the boat was also filling in. “Hey, let us out!” Dor cried.

“Why should I let perfectly good fossil material go?” the dune asked reasonably. “This way I’ve got both you and the dragon. It’s the haul of the century!”

“But you promised!” Dor said plaintively. “We made a deal!”

“Promises and deals aren’t worth the breath it takes to utter them -and I don’t even breathe.”

“I knew it,” Chet said. “Betrayal.”

“Do your stuff, Irene,” Dor said.

Irene brought out two handfuls of seeds. “Grow!” she yelled, scattering them widely. On either side the grass sprouted rapidly, sending its deep roots into the sand, grabbing, holding.

“Hey!” the dune yelled, much as Dor had, as it tripped over itself where the grass anchored it.

“You reneged on our agreement,” Dor called back. “Now you pay the penalty.” For the sand in this region was no longer able to move; the grass had converted it to ordinary ground.

Enraged, the dune made one final effort. It humped up horrendously in the region beyond the growing grass, then rolled forward with such impetus that it spilled into the channel, filling it.

“It’s swamping the boat!” Dor cried. “Abandon ship!”

“Some gratitude!” the boat complained. “I carry you loyally all over Xanth, risking my keel, and the moment things get rough, you abandon me!”

The boat had a case, but they couldn’t afford to argue it. Heedless of its objection, they all piled out as the sand piled in. They ran across the remaining section of grass-anchorage while the boat disappeared into the dune. The sand was unable to follow them here; its limit had been reached, and already the blades of grass were creeping up through the new mound, nailing it down. The main body of the dune had to retreat and concentrate on the thrashing dragon that bid fair to escape by coiling out of the vanished channel and writhing back toward the sea.

The party stood at the edge of the bay. “We lost our boat,” Irene said.

“And the flying carpet, and escape hoop, and food.”

“And my bow and arrows,” Chet said mournfully. “All I salvaged was the gourd. We played it too close; those monsters are stronger and smarter than we thought. We learn from experience.”

Dor was silent. He was the nominal leader of this party; the responsibility was his. If he could not manage a single trip south without disaster, how could he hope to handle the situation when he got to Centaur Isle? How could he handle the job of being King, if it came to that?

But they couldn’t remain here long, whether in thought or in despair.

Already the natives of the region were becoming aware of them. Carnivorous grass picked up where the freshly planted sea grass left off, and the former was sending its hungry shoots toward them. Vines trembled, bright droplets of sap-saliva oozing from their surfaces. There was a buzzing of wings; something airborne would soon show up.

But now at last the sunfish dimmed out, and night returned; the day creatures retreated in confusion, and the night creatures stirred.

“If there’s one thing worse than day in the wilderness,” Irene said, shivering, “it’s night. What do we do now?”

Dor wished he had an answer.

“Your plants have saved us once,” Chet told her. “Do you have another plant that could protect us or transport us?”

“Let me see.” In the dark she put her hand in her bag of seeds and felt around. “Mostly food plants, and special effects . . . a beerbarrel tree-how did that get in here? . . . water locust . . . bulrush-“

“Bulrushes!” Chet said. “Aren’t those the kinds that are always in a hurry?”

“They rush everywhere,” she agreed.

“Suppose we wove them into a boat or raft-could we control its motion?”

“Yes, I suppose, if you put a ring in the craft’s nose. But-“

“Let’s do it,” the centaur said. “Anything will be better than waiting here for whatever is creeping up on us.”

“I’ll start the bulrushes growing,” she agreed. “We can weave them before they’re mature. But you’ll have to find a ring before we can finish.”

“Dor and Grundy-please question your contacts and see if you can locate a ring,” the centaur said.

They started in, Dor questioning the nonliving, Grundy the living. Neither could find a ring in the vicinity. The weaving of the growing bulrushes proceeded apace; it seemed Chet and Irene were familiar with the technique and worked well together. But already the rushes were thrashing about, trying to free themselves to travel. The mass of the mat-raft was burgeoning; soon it would be too strong to restrain.

“Bring ring,” Smash said.

“We’re trying to!” Dor snapped, clinging to a corner of the struggling mat. The thing was hideously strong.

“Germ worm,” the ogre said insistently. His huge hairy paw pushed something at Dor. The object seemed to be a loop of fur.

A loop? “A ring!” Dor exclaimed. “Where did you get it?”

“Me grow on toe,” Smash explained. “Which itch.”

“You grew the ring on your toe-and it itched?” Dor was having trouble assimilating this.

“Let me check,” Grundy said. He made a funny sizzle, talking with something, then laughed. “You know what that is? A ring worm!”

“A ringworm!” Dor cried in dismay, dropping the hideous thing.

“If it’s a ring, we need it,” Chet said. “Before this mat gets away.”

Chagrined, Dor felt on the ground and picked up the ringworm.

He passed it gingerly to the centaur. “Here.”

Chet wove it into the nose of the craft, then jerked several long hairs from his beautiful tail and twined them into a string that he passed through the ring. Suddenly the bulrush craft settled down. “The nose is sensitive,” Chet explained. “The ring makes it hurt when jerked, so even this powerful entity can be controlled.”

“Some come!” Smash warned.

Rather than wait to discover what it was that could make an ogre nervous, the others hastened to lead the now-docile bulrush boat to the water. Once it was floating, they boarded carefully and pushed off from the shore. The craft was not watertight, but the individual rushes were buoyant, so the whole business floated.

Something growled in the dark on the shore-a deep, low, throbbing, powerful, and ugly sound. Then, frustrated, it moved away, the ground shuddering. A blast of odor passed them, dank and choking. No one inquired what it might be.

Now Chet gave the bulrushes some play. The raft surged forward, churning up a faintly phosphorescent wake. Wind rushed past their faces.

“Can you see where we’re going?” Irene asked, her voice thin.

“No,” Chet said. “But the bulrushes travel best in open water. They won’t run aground or crash into any monsters.”

“You trust them more than I do,” she said. “And I grew them.”

“Elementary calculation of vegetable nature,” the centaur said.

“May I lean against your side?” she asked. “I didn’t sleep today, and your coat is so soft-“

“Go ahead,” Chet said graciously. He was lying down again, as the woven fabric of the raft could not support his weight afoot. The rushes had swelled in the water, and Dor had succeeded in bailing it out; they were no longer sitting in sea water. Dor had not slept either, but he didn’t feel like leaning against Chet’s furry side.

The stars moved by. Dor lay on his back and determined the direction of travel of the raft by the stars’ apparent travel. It wasn’t even; the bulrushes were maneuvering to find the course along which they could rush most freely. They did seem to know where they were going, and that sufficed for now.

Gradually the constellations appeared, patterns in the sky, formations of stars that shifted from randomness to the suggestion of significance. There seemed to be pictures shaping, representations of creatures and objects and notions. Some resembled faces; he thought he saw King Trent peering down at him, giving him a straight, intelligent look.

Where are you now? Dor asked wordlessly.

The face frowned. I am being held captive in a medieval Mundane castle, it said. I have no magic power here. You must bring me magic.

But I can’t do that! Dor protested. Magic isn’t something a person can carry, especially not into Mundania!

You must use the aisle to rescue me.

What aisle? Dor asked, excited.

The centaur aisle, Trent answered.

Then a wait of ocean spray struck Dor’s face, and he woke. The stellar face was gone; it had been a dream.

Yet the message remained with him. Center Isle? His spelling disability made him uncertain, now, of the meaning. How could he use an island to seek King Trent? The center of what? If it was centaur, did that mean Chet had something essential to do with it? If it was an aisle, an aisle between what and what? If this were really a message, a prophecy, how could he apply it? If it were merely a random dream or vision, a construct of his overtired and meandering mind, he should ignore it. But such things were seldom random in Xanth.

Troubled, Dor drifted to sleep again. What he had experienced could not have been a nightmare, for it hadn’t scared him, and of course the mares could not run across the water. Maybe it would return and clarify itself.

But the dream did not repeat, and he could not evoke it by looking at the stars. Clouds had sifted across the night sky.

Dor woke again as dawn came. The sun had somehow gotten around to the east, where the land was, and dried off so that it could shine again. Dor wondered what perilous route it employed. Maybe it had a tunnel to roll along. If it ever figured out a way to get down without taking a dunking in the ocean, it would really have it made!

Maybe he should suggest that to it sometime. After all, some mornings the sun was up several hours before drying out enough to shine with full brilliance; obviously some nights were worse than others.

But he would not make the suggestion right now; he didn’t want the sun heading off to explore new routes, leaving Xanth dark for days at a time. Dor needed the fight to see his way to Centaur Isle. Jewel’s midnight sunstone was not enough.

Centaur Isle-was that where he was supposed to find King Trent?

No, the centaurs wouldn’t imprison the King, and anyway, Trent was in Mundania. But maybe something at Centaur Isle related. If only he could figure out how!

Dor sat up. “Where are we now, Chet?” he inquired.

There was no answer. The centaur had fallen asleep, too, Irene in repose against his side. Smash and Grundy snored at the rear of the raft.

Everyone had slept! No one was guiding the craft or watching the course! The bulrushes had rushed wherever they wanted to go, which could be anywhere!

The raft was in the middle of the ocean. Bare sea lay on all sides.

It was sheer luck that no sea monster had spied them and gobbled them down while they slept. In fact, there was one now!

But as the monster forged hungrily toward the craft, Dor saw that the velocity of the rushes was such that the serpent could not overtake the craft. They were safe because of their speed. Since they were, heading south, they should be near Centaur Isle now.

No, that did not necessarily follow. Dor had done better in Cherie’s logic classes than in spelling. He always looked for alternatives to the obvious. The craft could have been doing loops all night, or traveling north, and then turned south coincidentally as dawn came. They could be anywhere at all.

“Where are we?” Dor asked the nearest water.

“Longitude 83, Latitude 26, or vise versa,” the water said. “I always confuse parallels with meridians.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything!” Dor snapped.

“It tells me, though,” Chet said, waking. “We are well out to sea, but also well on the way to our destination. We should be there tonight.”

“But suppose a monster catches us way out here in the sea?” Irene asked, also waking. “I’d rather be near land.”

Chet shrugged. “We can veer in to land. Meanwhile, why don’t you grow us some food and fresh-water plants so we can eat and drink?”

“And a parasol plant, to shield us from the sun,” she said. “And a privacy hedge, for you-know.”

She got on it. Soon they were drinking scented water from a pitcher plant and eating bunlike masses from puffball plants. The new hedge closed off the rear of the craft, where the expended pitchers were used for another purpose. Several parasols shaded them nicely. It was all becoming quite comfortable.

The bulrush craft, responsive to Chet’s tug on the string tied to the ring in its nose, veered toward the east, where the distant land was supposed to be.

Smash the Ogre sniffed the air and peered about. Then he pointed.

“Me see the form of a mean ol’ storm,” be announced.

Oh, no! Dor spied the roiling clouds coming up over the southern horizon. Smash’s keen ogre senses had detected it first, but in moments it was all too readily apparent to them all.

“We’re in trouble,” Grundy said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“What can you do?” Irene asked witheringly. “Are you going to wave your tiny little dumb hand and conjure us all instantly to safety?”

Grundy ignored her. He spoke to the ocean in whatever language its creatures used. In a moment he said: “I think I have it. The fish are taking word to an eclectic eel.”

“A what?” Irene demanded. “Do you mean one of those shocking creatures?”

“An eclectic eel, dummy. It chooses things from all over. It does nothing original; it puts it all together in bits and pieces that others have made.”

“How can something like that possibly help us?”

“Better ask it why it will help us.”

“All right, woodenhead. Why?”

“Because I promised it half your seeds.”

“Half my seeds!” she exploded. “You can’t do that!”

“If I don’t, the storm will send us all to the depths.”

“He’s right, Irene,” Chet said. “We’re over a barrel, figuratively speaking.”

“I’ll put the confounded golem in a barrel and glue the cork in!” she cried. “A barrel of white-hot sneeze-pepper! He has no right to promise my property.”

“Okay,” Grundy said. “Tell the eel no. Give it a shock.”

A narrow snout poked out of the roughening water. A cold gust of wind ruffled Irene’s hair and flattened her clothing against her body, making her look extraordinarily pretty. The sky darkened.

“It says, figuratively speaking, your figure isn’t bad,” Grundy reported with a smirk.

This incongruous compliment put her off her pace. It was hard to tell off someone who made a remark like that. “Oh, all right,” she said, sulking. “Half the seeds. But I choose which half.”

“Well, toss them in, stupid,” Grundy said, clinging to the side of the craft as it pitched in the swells.

“But they’ll sprout!”

“That’s the idea. Make them all grow. Use your magic. The eclectic eel demands payment in advance.”

Irene looked rebellious, but the first drop of rain struck her on the nose and she decided to carry through. “This will come out of your string hide, golem,” she muttered. She tossed the seeds into the heaving water one by one, invoking each in turn. “Grow, like a golem’s ego. Grow, like Grundy’s swelled head. Grow, like the vengeance I owe the twerp . . .”

Strange things developed in the water. Pink-leaved turnips sprouted, fuming in place, and tan tomatoes, and yellow cabbages and blue beets. Snap beans snapped merrily and artichokes choked.

Then the flowers started, as she came to another section of her supply. White blossoms sprang up in great clusters, decorating the entire ocean near the raft. Then they moved away in herds, making faint baa-aa-aas.

“What’s that?” Grundy asked.

“Phlox, ninny,” Irene said.

Oh, flocks, Dor thought. Of course. The white sheep of flowers.

Firecracker flowers popped redly, tiger lilies snarled, honeybells tinkled, and bleeding hearts stained the water with their sad life essence. Irises that Irene’s mother had given her flowered prettily in blue and purple. Gladiolas stretched up happily; begonias bloomed and departed even before they could be ordered to begone. Periwinkles opened their orbs to wink; crocuses parted their white lips to utter scandalous imprecations.

Grundy leaned over the edge of the raft to sniff some pretty multicolored little flowers that were vining upward. Then something happened. “Hey!” he cried suddenly, outraged, wiping golden moisture off his head. “What did they do that for?”

Irene glanced across. “Dummy,” she said with satisfaction, “what do you expect sweet peas to do? You better stay away from the pansies.”

On Dor’s side there was an especially rapid development, the red, orange, and white flowers bursting forth almost before the buds formed. “My, these are in a hurry,” he commented.

“They’re impatiens,” Irene explained.

The display finished off with a dazzling emergence of golden balls -marigolds. “That’s half. Take it or leave it,” Irene said.

“The eel takes it,” Grundy said, still shaking pea out of his hair. “Now the eclectic eel will lead us through the storm to shore, in its fashion.”

“About time,” Chet said. “Everyone hang on. We have a rough sail coming.”

The eel wriggled forward. The craft followed. The storm struck with its moist fury. “What do you have against us?” Dor asked it as the wind tore at his body.

“Nothing personal,” it blew back. “It’s my job to clear the seas of riffraff. Can’t have flotsam and jetsam cluttering up the surface, after all.”

“I don’t know those people,” Dor said. The raft was rocking and twisting as it followed the elusive eel but they were somehow avoiding the worst of the violence.

A piece of planking floated by. “I’m flotsam,” it said. “I’m part of the ship that wrecked here last month, still floating.”

A barrel floated by on the other side, the battered trunk of a harvested jellybarrel tree. “I’m jetsam,” it blew from its bung. “I was thrown overboard to lighten the ship.”

“Nice to know you both,” Dor said politely.

“The eel uses them for markers,” Grundy said. “It uses anything it finds.”

“Where’s the riffraff?” Irene asked. “If the storm is here to clear it from the seas, there should be some to clear.”

“I’m the raf’,” the raft explained. “You must be the rff’.” And it chuckled.

Now the rain pelted down full-strength. All of them were soaked in an instant. “Bail! Bail!” Chet screamed thinly through the wind.

Dor grabbed his bucket-actually, it was a bouquet Irene had grown, which his spelling had fouled up so that its nature had completely changed-and scooped out water. Smash the Ogre worked similarly on the other side, using a pitcher. By dint of colossal effort they managed to stay marginally ahead of the rain that poured in.

“Get low!” Grundy cried through the weather. “Don’t let her roll over!”

“She’s not rolling,” Irene said. “A raft can’t-“

Then the craft pitched horribly and started to turn over. Irene threw herself flat in the bottom of the center depression, joining Dor and Smash. The raft listed sickeningly to right, then to left, first throwing Irene bodily into Dor, then hurling him into her. She was marvelously soft.

“What are you doing.?” Dor cried as his wind was almost knocked from him despite his soft landings.

“, m yawing,” the raft said.

“Seems more like a roll to me,” Chet grumbled from the rear.

Irene fetched up against Dor again, hip to hip and nose to nose.

“Dear, we’ve got to stop meeting this way,” she gasped, attempting to smile.

In other circumstances Dor would have appreciated the meetings more.

Irene was padded in appropriate places, so that the shocks of contact were pleasantly cushioned. But at the moment he was afraid for his life and hers. Meanwhile, she looked as if she were getting seasick.

The craft lurched forward and down, as if sliding over a waterfall.

Dor’s own gorge rose. “Now what are you doing?” he heaved.

“I’m pitching,” the raft responded.

“We’re out of the water!” Chet cried. His head remained higher despite his prone position. “There’s something beneath us! That’s why we’re rolling so much!”

“That’s the behemoth,” Grundy said.

“The what?” Dor asked.

“The behemoth. A huge wallowing creature that floats about doing nothing. The eclectic eel led us up to it, to help weather the storm.”

Irene unglued herself from Dor, and all of them crawled cautiously up and looked over the edge of the raft. The storm continued, but now it beat on the glistening blubbery back of the tremendous animal. The craft’s perch seemed insecure because of the way it rolled and slid on the slick surface, but the enormous bulk of the monster provided security from the heaving ocean.

“But I thought behemoths were fresh-water creatures,” Dor said.

“My father encountered one below Lake Ogre-Chobee, he said.

“Of course he did. I was there,” Grundy said superciliously. “Behemoths are where you find them. They’re too big to worry about what kind of water it is.”

“The eel just happened to find this creature and led us to it?” Chet asked. He also looked somewhat seasick.

“That’s the eclectic way,” Grundy agreed. “To use anything handy.”

“Aw, you cheated,” the storm howled. “I can’t sink that tub.” A whirling eye focused on Dor. “That’s twice you have escaped me, man-thing. But we shall meet again.” Disgruntled, it blew itself away to the west.

So that had been the same storm he had encountered at Good Magician Humfrey’s castle. It certainly traveled about!

The behemoth, discovering that its pleasant shower had abated, exhaled a dusty cloud of gas and descended to the depths. There was no point in staying on the surface when the storm didn’t want to play any more. The raft was left floating in a calming sea.

Now that he was no longer in danger of drowning, Dor almost regretted the passing of the storm. Irene was a good deal more comfortable to brace against than the reeds of the raft. But he knew he was foolish always to be most interested in what he couldn’t have, instead of being satisfied with what he did have.

A monster showed on the horizon. “Get this thing moving!” Irene cried, alarmed. “We aren’t out of the weather yet!”

“Follow the eel!” Grundy warned.

“But the eel’s headed straight for the monster!” Chet protested.

“That must be the way, then.” But even Grundy looked doubtful.

They forged toward the monster. It was revealed now as extremely long and flat, as if a sea serpent had been squeezed under a rolling boulder. “What is it?” Dor asked, amazed.

“A ribbonfish, dolt,” Grundy said.

“How can that help us?” For the storm had taken up more of the day than it had seemed to; the sun was now at zenith, and they remained far from shore.

“All I know is the eel agreed to get us to land by nightfall,” Grundy said.

They forged on. But now the pace was slowing; the bulrushes were losing their power. Dor realized that some of the material of the boat was dead now; that was why it had been able to speak to him, since his power related only to the inanimate. Soon the rushes would become inert, stranding the craft in mid-sea. They had no paddle; that had been lost with the first boat.

The ribbonfish brought its preposterously flat head down as the bulrush craft sputtered close. Then the head dipped into the water and slid beneath them. In a moment it emerged behind them, and the neck came up under the boat, heaving it right out of the water.

“Oh, no!” Irene screamed as they were carried high into the air.

She flung her arms about Dor in terror. Again, he wished this could have happened when he wasn’t terrified himself.

But the body of the ribbonfish was slightly concave; the raft remained centered, not falling off. As the head elevated to an appalling height, the boat began to slide down along the body, which was slick with moisture. They watched, horrified, as the craft tilted forward, then accelerated down the creature’s neck. Irene screamed again and clung smotheringly to Dor as their bodies turned weightless.

Down they zoomed. But the ribbonfish was undulating, so that a new hump kept forming just behind them while a new dip formed ahead of them. They zoomed at frightening velocity along the creature, never getting down to the water.

“We’re traveling toward land,” Dor said, awed. “The monster’s moving us there!”

“That’s how it gets its jollies,” Grundy said. “Scooping up things and sliding them along its length. The eel just made use of this for our benefit.”

Perceiving that they were not, after all, in danger, Irene regained confidence. “Let go of me!” she snapped at Dor, as if he had been the one doing the grabbing.

The ribbonfish seemed interminably long; the raft slid and slid.

Then Dor realized that the monster’s head had looked down under the water and come up to follow its tail; the creature was running them through again. The land was coming closer.

At last the land arrived. The ribbonfish tired of the game and dumped them off with a jarring splash. The rushes had just enough power left to propel them to the beach; then they expired, and the raft began to sink.

The sun was well down toward the horizon, racing to cut off their day before they could travel anywhere further. Soon the golden orb would be quenched again. “From here we go by foot, I think,” Chet remarked. “We will not achieve Centaur Isle this day.”

“We can get closer, though,” Dor said. “I’ve had enough of boats for now anyway.” The others agreed.

First they paused to forage for some food. Wild fruitcakes were ripe and a water chestnut provided potable water; Irene did not have to expend any of her diminished store of seeds. In fact, she found a few new ones here.

Suddenly something jumped from behind a tree and charged directly at Dor. He whipped out his magic sword without thinking and the creature stopped short, spun about, and ran away. It was all hair and legs and glower.

“What was that?” Dor asked, shaking.

“That’s a jump-at-a-body,” the nearest stone said.

“What’s a jump-at-a-body?” Irene asked.

“I don’t have to answer you,” the stone retorted. “You can’t take me for granite.”

“Answer her,” Dor told it.

“Aw, okay. It’s what you just saw.”

“That’s not much help,” Irene said.

“You aren’t much yourself, doll,” it said. “I’ve seen a better complexion on mottled serpentine.”

Bedraggled and disheveled from the ocean run, Irene was hardly at her best. But her vanity had been pricked. “I can choke you with weeds, mineral.”

“Yeah, greenie? Just try it!”

“Weeds-grow!” she directed, pointing to the rock. Immediately the weeds around it sprouted vigorously.

“Weed’s the best that ever was!” the weeds exclaimed. Startled, Dor looked closely, for his talent did not extend to living things. He found that some sand caught in the plants had actually done the talking.

“Oh, for schist sake!” the rock said. “She’s doing it!”

“Tell me what a jump-at-a-body is,” Irene insisted.

The rock was almost hidden by vegetation. “All right, all right, doll! Just clear these junky plants out of my face.”

“Stop growing,” Irene told the weeds, and they stopped with a frustrated rustle. She tramped them down around the rock.

“You do have pretty legs,” the rock said. “And that’s not all.”

Irene, straddling the rock, leaped away. “Just answer my question.”

“They just jump out and scare people and run away,” the rock said. “They’re harmless. They came across from Mundania not long ago, when the Mundanes stopped believing in them, and don’t have the courage to do anything bad.”

“Thank you,” Irene said, gratified by her victory over the ornery stone.

“I think the grass needs more tramping down,” the rock suggested.

“Not while I’m wearing a skirt.”

They finished their repast and trekked on south. Very little remained of the day, but they wanted to find a decent place to camp for the night. Dor questioned other rocks to make sure nothing dangerous remained in the vicinity; this did seem to be a safe island. Perhaps their luck had turned, and they would reach their destination without further ill event.

But as dusk closed, they came to the southern border of the island.

There was a narrow channel separating it from the next island in the chain.

“Maybe we’d better camp here for the night,” Dor said. “This island seems safe; we don’t know what’s on the next one.”

“Also, I’m tired,” Irene said.

They settled in for the night, protected by a palisade formed of asparagus spears grown for the occasion. The jump-at-a-bones kept charging the stockade and fleeing it harmlessly.

Chet and Smash, being the most massive individuals, lay at the outside edges of the small enclosure. Grundy needed so little room he didn’t matter. Dor and Irene were squeezed into the center. But now she had room enough and time to settle herself without quite touching him. Ah, well.

“You know, that rock was right,” Dor said. “You do have nice legs. And that’s not all.”

“Go to sleep,” she said, not displeased.

In the morning a large roundish object floated in the channel. Dor didn’t like the look of it. They would have to swim past it to reach the next island. “Is it animal or plant?” he asked.

“No plant,” Irene said. She had a feel for this sort of thing, since it related to her magic.

“I’ll talk to it,” Grundy said. His talent applied to anything living.

He made a complex series of whistles and almost inaudible grunts.

Much of his communication was opaque to others, since some animals and most plants used inhuman mechanisms. In a moment he announced: “It’s a sea nettle. A plantlike animal. This channel is its territory, and it will sting to death anyone who intrudes.”

“How fast can it swim?” Irene asked.

“Fast enough,”’ Grundy said. “It doesn’t look like much, but it can certainly perform. We could separate, crossing in two parties; that way it could only get half of us, maybe.”

“Perhaps you had better leave the thinking to those better equipped for it,” Chet said.

“We have to get it out of there or nullify it,” Dor said. “I’ll try to lead it away, using my talent.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll start my stunflower,” Irene said.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” But Dor couldn’t blame her; he had had success before in tricking monsters with his talent, but it depended on the nature and intelligence of the monster. He hadn’t tried it on the water dragon, knowing that effort would be wasted.

This sea nettle was a largely unknown quantity. It certainly didn’t look smart.

He concentrated on the water near the nettle. “Can you do imitations?” he asked it. The inanimate often thought it had talent of this nature, and the less talent it had, the more vain it was about it. Once, years ago, he had caused water to imitate his own voice, leading a triton a merry chase.

“No,” the water said.

Oh. “Well, repeat after me: ‘Sea nettle, you are a big blob of blubber.”’

“Huh?” the water asked.

He would have to encounter a stupid quantity of water! Some water was volatile in its wit, with cleverness flowing freely; some just lay there in puddles. “Blob of blubber!” he repeated.

“You’re another!” the water retorted.

“Now say it to the sea nettle.”

“You’re another!” the water said to the sea nettle.

The others of Dor’s party smiled. Irene’s plant was growing nicely.

“No!” Dor snapped, his temper shortening. “Blob of blubber.”

“No blob of blubber!” the water snapped.

The sea nettle’s spines wiggled. “It says thank you,” Grundy reported.

This was hopeless. In bad temper, Dor desisted.

“The flower is almost ready,” Irene said. “It’s a bit like the Gorgon; it can’t stun you if you don’t look at it. So we’d better all line up with our backs to it-and don’t look back. There’ll be no returning this way; once a plant like this matures, I can’t stop it.”

They lined up. Dor heard the rustle of rapidly expanding leaves behind him. This was nervous business!

“It’s blossoming,” Grundy said. “It’s beginning to feel its power. Oh, it’s a bad one!”

“Sure it’s a bad one,” Irene agreed. “I picked the best seed. Start wading into the channel. The flower will strike before we reach the sea nettle, and we want the nettle’s attention directed this way.”

They waded out. Dor suddenly realized how constrictive his clothing would be in the water. He didn’t want anything hampering him as he swam by the nettle. He started removing his apparel. Irene, apparently struck by the same thought, quickly pulled off her skirt and blouse.

“Dor’s right,” Grundy remarked. He was riding Chet’s back. “You do have nice legs. And that’s not all.”

“If your gaze should stray too far from forward,” Irene said evenly, “it could encounter the ambience of the stunflower.”

Grundy’s gaze snapped forward. So did Chet’s, Smash’s, and Dor’s. But Dor was sure there was a grim smirk on Irene’s face. At times she was very like her mother.

“Hey, the flower’s bursting loose!” Grundy cried. “I can tell by what it says; it has a bold self-image. What a head on that thing!”

Indeed, Dor could feel a kind of heat on his bare back. The power of the flower was now being exerted.

But the sea nettle seemed unaffected. It quivered, moving toward them. Its headpart was gilled like a toadstool all around. Driblets of drool formed on its surface.

“The nettle says it will sting us all so hard-oooh, that’s obscene!” Grundy said. “Let me see if I can render a properly effective translation-“

“Keep moving,” Irene said. “The flower’s incipient.”

“Now the flower’s singing its song of conquest,” Grundy reported, and broke into the song: “I’m the one flower, I’m the STUNflower!”

At the word “stun” there was a burst of radiation that blistered their backs. Dor and the others fell forward into the channel, letting the water cool their burning flesh.

The sea nettle, facing the flower, stiffened. Its surface glazed. The drool crystallized. The antennae faded and turned brittle. It had been stunned.

They swam by the nettle. There was no reaction from the monster.

Dor saw its mass extending down into the depths of the channel with huge stinging tentacles. That thing certainly could have destroyed them all, had it remained animate.

They completed their swim in good order, Chet and Grundy in the lead, then Dor, Smash, and finally Irene. He knew she could swim well enough; she was staying back so the others would not view her nakedness. She wasn’t actually all that shy about it; it was mainly her sense of propriety, developing apace with her body, and her instinct for preserving the value of what she had by keeping it reasonably scarce. It was working nicely; Dor was now several times as curious about her body as he would have been had he seen it freely. But he dared not look; the stunning radiation of the stunflower still beat upon the back of his head.

They found the shallows and trampled out of the water. “Keep going until shaded from the flower,” Irene called. “Don’t look back, whatever you do!”

Dor needed no warning. He felt the heat of stun travel down his back, buttocks, and legs as he emerged from the water. What a monster Irene had unleashed! But it had done its job, when his own talent had failed; it had gotten them safely across the channel and past the sea nettle.

They found a tangle of purple-green bushes and maneuvered to put them between their bodies and the stunflower. Now Dor could put his clothing back on; he had kept it mostly dry by carrying it clenched in his teeth, the magic sword strapped to his body.

“You have nice legs, too,” Irene said behind him, making him jump. “And that’s not all.”

Dor found himself blushing. Well, he had it coming to him. Irene was already dressed; girls could change clothing very quickly when they wanted to.

They moved on south, but it was a long time before Dor lost his nervousness about looking back. That stunflower . . .

Chet halted. “What’s this?” he asked.

The others looked. There was a flat wooden sign set in the ground.

On it was neatly printed NO LAW FOR THE LOIN.

It was obvious that no one quite understood this message, but no one wanted to speculate on its meaning. At last Dor asked the sign: “Is there any threat to us nearby?”

“No,” the sign said.

They went on, each musing his private musings. They had come to this island naked; could that relate? But obviously that sign had been there long before their coming. Could it be a misspelling? he wondered. But his own spelling was so poor, he hesitated to draw that conclusion.

Now they came to a densely wooded marsh. The trees were small but closely set; Dor and Irene could squeeze between them, but Smash could not, and it was out of the question for Chet.

“Me make a lake,” Smash said, readying his huge hamfist. With the trees gone, this would be a more or less open body of murky water.

“No, let’s see if we can find a way through,” Dor said. “King Trent never liked to have wilderness areas wantonly destroyed, for some reason. And if we make a big commotion, it could attract whatever monsters there are.”

They skirted the thicket and soon came across another sign: THE LOIN WALKS WHERE IT WILL. Near it was a neat, dry path through the forest, elevated slightly above the swamp.

“Any danger here?” Dor inquired.

“Not much,” the sign said.

They used the path. As they penetrated the thicket, there were rustlings in the trees and slurpings in the muck below. “What’s that noise?” Dor asked, but received no answer. This forest was so dense there was nothing inanimate in it; the water was covered with green growth, and the path itself was formed of living roots.

“I’ll try,” Grundy said. He spoke in tree language, and after a moment reported: “They are cog rats and skug worms; nothing to worry about as long as you don’t turn your back on them.”

The rustlings and slurpings became louder. “But they are all around us!” Irene protested. “How can we avoid turning our backs?”

“We can face in all directions,” Chet said. “I’ll go forward; Grundy can ride me facing backward. The rest of you can look to either side.”

They did so, Smash on the left, Dor and Irene on the right. The noises stayed just out of sight.

“But let’s get on out of this place!” Irene said.

“I wonder how the loin makes out, since this seems to be its path,” Dor said.

As if in answer to his question, they came upon another sign: THE LOIN IS LORD OF THE JUNGLE. Obviously the cog rats and skug worms didn’t dare bother the loin.

“I am getting more curious about this thing,” Irene said. “Does it hunt, does it eat, does it play with others of its kind? What is it?”

Dor wondered, too, but still hesitated to state his conjectures. Suppose it wasn’t a misspelling? How, then, would it hunt, eat, and play?

They hurried on and finally emerged from the thicket-only to encounter another sign. THE LOIN SHALL LIE WITH THE LAMB.

“What’s a lamb?” Irene asked.

“A Mundane creature,” Chet said. “Said to be harmless, soft, and cuddly, but stupid.”

“That’s the kind the loin would like,” she muttered darkly.

Still no one openly expressed conjectures about the nature of this creature. They traveled on down to the southern tip of this long island. The entire coastline of Xanth, Chet explained, was bordered by barrier reefs that had developed into island chains; this was as good and safe a route as they could ask for, since they no longer had a boat.

There should be very few large predators on the islands, since there was insufficient hunting area for them, and the sea creatures could not quite reach the interiors of the isles. But no part of Xanth was wholly safe. All of them were ready to depart this Isle of the Loin.

As they came to the beach, they encountered yet another sign: A PRIDE OF LOINS. And a roaring erupted behind them, back along the path in the thicket. Something was coming-and who could doubt what it was?

“Do we want to meet a pride of loins?” Chet asked rhetorically.

“But do we want to swim through that?” Grundy asked.

They looked. A fleet of tiger sharks had sailed in while Dor’s party stood on the beach. Each had a sailfin and the head of a tiger. They crowded in as close to the shore as they could reach, snarling hungry welcome.

“I think we’re between the dragon and the dune again,” Grundy said.

“I can stop the tiger sharks,” Irene said. “I have a kraken seaweed seed.”

“And I still have the hypno-gourd; that should stop a loin,” Chet said.

“Assuming it’s a case of misspelling. There is a Mundane monster like the front half of a tiger shark, called a-“

“But there must be several loins in a pride,” Grundy said. “Unless it’s just one loin standing mighty proud.”

“Me fight the fright,” Smash said.

“A pride might contain twenty individuals,” Chet said. “You might occupy half a dozen, Smash-but the remaining dozen or so would have opportunity to eat up the rest of us. If that is what they do.”

“But we don’t know there are that many,” Irene protested uncertainly.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Grundy cried. “Oh, I never worried about my flesh when I was a real golem!”

“Maybe you weren’t as obnoxious then,” Irene suggested. “Besides which, you didn’t have any flesh then.”

But the only way to go was along the beach-and the tiger sharks paced them in the water. “We can’t escape either menace this way,” Irene said. “I’m planting my kraken.” She tossed a seed into the water.

“Grow, weed!”

Chet held forward the hypno-gourd that he had retained through all their mishaps, one palm covering the peephole. “I’ll show this to the first loin, regardless.”

Smash joined him. “Me reckon the secon’s” he said, his hamfists at the ready. “An’ nerd the third.”

“You’re the Magician,” Grundy told Dor. “Do something.”

Dor made a wild attempt. “Anything-is there way way out of here?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” the sand at his feet said. “Of course there’s a way out.”

“You know a way?” Dor asked, gratified.

“No.”

“For goodness’ sake!” Irene exclaimed. “What an idiot!”

“You’d be stupid, too,” the sand retorted, “If your brains were fragmented mineral.”

“I was referring to him!” she said, indicating Dor. “To think they call him a Magician! All he can do is play ventriloquist with junk like you.”

“That’s telling him,” the sand agreed. “That’s a real load of sand in his eyes.”

“Why did you say there was a way out if you don’t know it?” Dor demanded.

“Because my neighbor the bone knows it.”

Dor spotted the bone and addressed it. “What’s the way out?”

“The tunnel, idiot,” the bone said.

The sound of the pride of loins was looming louder. The tiger sharks were snarling as the growing kraken weed menaced them.

“Where’s the tunnel?” Dor asked.

“Right behind you, at the shore,” the bone said. “I sealed it off, took three steps, and fell prey to the loins.”

“I don’t see it,” Dor said.

“Of course not; the high tide washes sand over it. Last week someone goosed the tide and it dumped a lot more sand. I’m the only one who can locate the tunnel now.”

Dor picked up the bone. It resembled the thighbone of a man.

“Locate the tunnel for me.”

“Right there, where the water laps. Scrape the sand away.” It angled slightly in his hand, pointing.

Dor scraped, and soon uncovered a boulder. “This seals it?” he asked.

“Yes,” the bone said. “I hid my pirate treasure under the next island and tunneled here so no one would know. But the loins-:

“Hey, Smash,” Dor called. “We have a boulder for you to move.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” the bone cautioned. “That’s delicately placed so the thieves can’t force it. The tunnel will collapse.”

“Well, how do we get in, then?”

“You have to use a sky hook to lift the boulder out without jarring the sides.”

“We don’t have a sky hook!” Dor exclaimed angrily.

“Of course you don’t. That was my talent, when I was alive. No one but me could safely remove that boulder. I had everything figured, except the loin.”

As the bone spoke, the kraken weed, having driven back the tiger sharks, was questing toward the shore. Soon it would be more of a menace to them than the tiger sharks had been.

“Any progress?” Chet asked. “I do not want to rush you, but I calculate we have thirty seconds before the loins, whatever they are, burst out of the forest.”

“Chet!” Dor exclaimed. “Make this boulder into a pebble! But don’t jar anything.”

The centaur touched the boulder, and immediately it shrank. Soon it was a pebble that fell into the hole beneath it. The passage was open.

“Jump in!” Dor cried.

Irene was startled. “Who, me?”

“Close enough,” Grundy said. “Want to stand there and show off your legs to the loins?”

Irene jumped in. “Say, this is neat!” she called from below, her voice echoing hollowly. “Let me just grow something to illuminate it-“

“You next,” Dor said to Chet. “Try not to shake the tunnel; it’s not secure.” Chet jumped in with surprising delicacy, Grundy with him.

“Okay, Smash,” Dor said.

“No go,” the ogre said, bracing to face the land menace. “Me join the loin.” And he slammed one huge fist into a hammy palm with a sound like a crack of thunder.

Smash wanted to guard the rear. Probably that was best. Otherwise the loins might pursue them into the tunnel. “Stand next to the opening,” Dor said. “When you’re ready, jump in and follow us. Don’t wait too long. Soon the kraken will reach here; that will stop the loins, I think. Don’t tangle with the kraken; we need it to stand guard after you rejoin us.”

Ike ogre nodded. The bellow of the loins became loud. Dor jumped in the hole.

He found himself in a man-sized passage, leading south, under the channel. The light from the entrance faded rapidly. But Irene had thoughtfully planted starflowers along the way, and their pinpoint lights marked the progress of the tunnel. Dor paused to unwrap his midnight sunstone; its beam helped considerably.

As Dor walked, he heard the approach of the pride of loins out side. Smash made a grunt of surprise. Then there was the sound of contact. “What’s going on?” Dor cried, worried.

“The ogre just threw a dandyloin to the kraken,” the pebble in the mouth of the tunnel said. “Now he’s facing up to their leader, Sir Loin Stake. He’s tough and juicy.”

“Smash, come on!” Dor cried. “Don’t push your luck!”

The ogre’s reply was muffled. All Dor heard was “. . . luck!”

“Oooo, what you said!” the pebble exclaimed. “Wash out your mouth with soapstone!”

In a moment Smash came lumbering down the tunnel, head bowed to clear the ceiling. A string of kraken weed was strewn across his hairy shoulder. Evidently he had held off the loins until the kraken took over the vicinity. “Horde explored, adored the gourd,” he announced, cracking a smile like a smoking cleft in a lightning-struck tree. Those who believed ogres had no sense of humor were obviously mistaken; Smash could laugh with the best, provided the joke was suitably fundamental.

“What did the loins look like?” Dor asked, overcome by morbid curiosity.

Smash paused, considering, then uttered one of his rare nonrhyming utterances. “Ho ho ho ho ho!” he bellowed-and the fragile tunnel began to crumble around them. Rocks dislodged from the ceiling and the walls oozed moisture.

Dor and the ogre fled that section. Dor was no longer very curious about the nature of the loins; he just wanted to get out of this tunnel alive. They were below the ocean; they could be crushed inexorably if the tunnel support collapsed. A partial collapse, leading to a substantial leak, would flood the tunnel. Even an ogre could not be expected to hold up an ocean.

They caught up to the others. There was no crash behind them; the tunnel had not collapsed. Yet.

“This place makes me nervous,” Irene said.

“No way out but forward,” Chet said. “Quickly.”

The passage seemed interminable, but it did trend south. It must have been quite a job for the pirate to excavate this, even with his sky hook to help haul out the refuse. How ironic that the loin should be his downfall, after he had finished the tunnel! They hurried onward and downward, becoming more nervous as the depth deepened.

To heighten their apprehension, the bottom of the tunnel became clammy, then slick. A thin stream of water was flowing in it-and soon it was clear that this water was increasing.

Had the ogre’s laugh triggered a leak, after all? If so, they were doomed. Dor was afraid even to mention the possibility.

“The tide!” Chet said. “The tide is coming in-and high tide covers the entrance. This passage is filling with water!”

“Oh, good!” Dor said, relieved.

Four pairs of eyes focused on him, perplexed.

“Uh, I was afraid the tunnel was collapsing,” Dor said lamely. “The tide-that’s not so bad.”

“In the sense that a slow demise is better than a fast one,” the centaur said.

Dor thought about that. His apprehension became galloping dread.

How could they escape this? “How much longer is this tunnel?” Dor asked.

“You’re halfway through,” the tunnel said. “But you’ll have trouble getting past the cave-in ahead.”

“Cave-in!” Irene squealed. She tended to panic in a crisis.

“Oh, sure,” the tunnel said. “No way around.”

In a moment, with the water ankle-deep and rising, they encountered it-a mass of rubble that sealed the passage.

“Me bash this trash,” Smash said helpfully.

“Urn, wait,” Dor cautioned. “We don’t want to bring the whole ocean in on us in one swoop. Maybe if Chet reduces the pieces to pebbles, while

Smash supports the ceiling-“

“Still won’t hold,” Chet said. “The dynamics are wrong. We need an arch.”

“Me shape escape,” Smash offered. He started to fashion an arch from stray chunks of stone. But more chunks rolled down to splash in the deepening water as he took each one.

“Maybe I can stabilize it,” Irene said. She found a seed and dropped it in the water. “Grow.”

The plant tried, but there was not enough light. Dor shone his sunstone on it; then the plant prospered. That was all it needed; Jewel’s gift was proving useful!

Soon there was a leafy kudzu taking form. Tendrils dug into the sand; vines enclosed the rocks, and green leaves covered the wall of the tunnel. Now Smash could not readily dislodge the stones he needed to complete his arch without hurting the plant.

“I believe we can make it without the arch,” Chet said. “The plant has secured the debris.” He touched a stone, reducing it to a pebble, then touched others. Soon the tunnel was restored, the passage clear to the end.

But the delay had been costly. The water was now knee-deep. They splashed onward.

Fortunately, they were at the nadir. As they marched up the far slope, the water’s depth diminished. But they knew this was a temporary respite; before long the entire tunnel would be filled.

Now they came to the end of it-a chamber in which there stood a simple wooden table whose objects were covered by a cloth.

They stood around it, for the moment hesitant. “I don’t know what treasure can help us now,” Dor said, and whipped off the cloth.

The pirate’s treasure was revealed: a pile of Mundane gold coins-they had to be Mundane, since Xanth did not use coinage-a keg of diamonds, and a tiny sealed jar.

“Too bad,” Irene said. “Nothing useful. And this is the end of the tunnel; the pirate must have filled it in as he went, up to this point, so there would be only the one way in. I’ll have to plant a big tuber and hope it runs a strong tube to the surface, and that there is no water above us here. The tuber isn’t watertight. If that fails, Smash can try to bash a hole in the ceiling, and Chet can shrink the boulders as they fall. We just may get out alive.”

Dor was relieved. At least Irene wasn’t collapsing in hysterics. She did have some backbone when it was needed.

Grundy was on the table, struggling with the cap of the jar. “If gold is precious, and gems are precious, maybe this is the most precious of all.”

But when the cap came off, the content of the jar was revealed as simple salve.

“This is your treasure?” Dor asked the bone.

“Oh, yes, it’s the preciousest treasure of all,” the bone assured him.

“In what way?”

“Well, I don’t know. But the fellow I pirated it from fought literally to the death to retain it. He bribed me with the gold, hid the diamonds, and refused to part with the salve at all. He died without telling me what it was for. I tried it on wounds and bums, but it did nothing. Maybe If I’d known its nature, I could have used it to destroy the loins.”

Dor found he had little sympathy for the pirate, who had died as he had lived, ignominiously. But the salve intrigued him increasingly, and not merely because he was now standing knee-deep in water.

“Salve, what is your property?” he asked.

“I am a magic condiment that enables people to walk on smoke and vapor,” it replied proudly. “Merely smear me on the bottoms of your feet or boots, and you can tread any trail in the sky you can see. Of course, the effect only lasts a day at a time; I get scuffed off, you know. But repeated applications-“

“Thank you,” Dor cut in. “That is very fine magic indeed. But can you help us get out of this tunnel?”

“No. I make mist seem solid, not rock seem misty. You need another salve for that.”

“If I had known your property,” the bone said wistfully, “I could have escaped the loins. If only I had-“

“Serves you right, you infernal pirate,” the salve said. “You got exactly what you deserved. I hope you loined your lesson.”

“Listen, greasepot-“ the bone retorted.

“Enough,” Dor said. “If neither of you have any suggestions to get us out of here, keep quiet.”

“I am suspicious of this,” Chet said. “The pirate took this treasure, but never lived to enjoy it. Ask it if there is a curse associated.”

“Is there, salve?” Dor asked, surprised by the notion.

“Oh, sure,” the salve said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“You did not,” Dor said. How much mischief had Chet’s alertness saved them? “What is it?”

“Whoever uses me will perform some dastardly deed before the next full moon,” the salve said proudly. “The pirate did.”

“But I never used you!” the bone protested. “I never knew your power!”

“You put me on your wounds. That was a misuse-but it counted. Those wounds could have walked on clouds. Then you killed your partner and took all the treasure for yourself.”

“That was a dastardly deed indeed!” Irene agreed. “You certainly deserved your fate.”

“Yeah, he was purloined,” Grundy said.

The bone did not argue.

“Oops,” Chet said. He reached down and ripped something from his foreleg, just under the rising waterline. It was a tentacle from the kraken.

“I was afraid of that,” Irene said. “That weed is way beyond my control. It won’t stop growing if I tell it to.”

Dor drew his sword. “I’ll cut off any more tentacles,” he said. “They can’t come at me too thickly here at the end of the tunnel. Go ahead and start your tuber, Irene.”

She dipped into her seedbag. “Oh-oh. That seed must’ve fallen out somewhere along the way. It’s not here.”

They had had a violent trip on the raft; the seed could have worked loose anywhere. “Chet and Smash,” Dor said without pause, “go ahead and make us a way out of here, If you can. Irene, if you have another stabilization plant-“

She checked. “That I have.”

They got busy. Dor faced back down the dark tunnel as the water rose to thigh level, spearing at the dark liquid with his sword, shining the sunstone here and there. The sounds of the ogre’s work grew loud. “Water, tell me when a tentacle’s coming,” he directed. But there was so much crashing behind him as Smash pulverized the rock of the ceiling that he could not hear the warnings of the water. A tentacle caught his ankle and jerked him off his feet. He choked on water as another tentacle caught his sword arm. The kraken had him -and he couldn’t call for help!

“What’s going on here?” Grundy demanded. “Are you going swimming while the rest of us work?” Then the golem realized that Dor was in trouble. “Hey, why didn’t you say something? Don’t you know the kraken’s got you?”

The kraken seaweed certainly had him! The tentacles were dragging him back down the tunnel, half drowning.

“Well, somebody’s got to do something!” Grundy said, as though bothered by an annoying detail. “Here, kraken-want a cookie?” He held out a gold coin, which seemed to weigh almost as much as he did.

A tentacle snatched the coin away, but in a moment discovered it to be enedible and dropped it.

Grundy grabbed a handful of diamonds. “Try this rock candy,” he suggested. The tentacle wrapped around the gems-and got sliced by their sharp edges. Ichor welled into the water as the tentacle thrashed m pain.

“Now there’s a notion,” Grundy said. He swam to where Dor was still being dragged along, and sliced with another diamond, cutting into the tentacles. They let go, stung, though the golem was only able to scratch them, and Dor finally gasped his way back to his feet, waist-deep in coloring water.

“I have to go help the others,” Grundy said. “Yell if you get in more trouble.”

Dor fished in the water and recovered his magic sword and the shining sunstone. He was more than disheveled and disgruntled. He had had to be bailed out by a creature no taller than the span of his hand. Some hero he was!

But the others had had better success. A hole now opened upward, and daylight glinted down. “Come on, Dor!” Grundy called. “We’re getting out of here at last!”

Dor crammed coins and diamonds into one pocket with the sunstone, and the jar of salve into another. Smash and Chet were already scrambling out the top, having had to mount the new passage as they extended it. The centaur was actually pretty good at this sort of climbing because he had six extremities; four or five were firmly braced in crevices while one or two were searching for new holds.

Grundy had no trouble; his small weight allowed him to scramble freely.

Only Dor and Irene remained below.

“Hurry up, slowpoke!” she called. “I can’t wait forever!”

“Start up first,” he called. “I’m stashing the treasure.”

“Oh, no!” she retorted. “You just want to see up my skirt!”

“If I do, that’s my profit,” he said. “I don’t want this hole collapsing on you.” For, indeed, gravel and rocks were falling down as Chet’s efforts dislodged them. The whole situation seemed precarious, despite the effort of the plant Irene had grown to help stabilize the wall.

“There is that,” she agreed nervously. She started to climb, while Dor completed his stashing.

The kraken’s tentacles, given respite from the attacks of sword and diamond, quested forward again. The water was now chest-high on Dor, providing the weed ample play. “There’s one!” the water said, and Dor stabbed into the murky fluid. He was rewarded by a jerk on his sword that indicated he had speared something that flinched away.

For a creature as bloodthirsty as the kraken, it certainly was finicky about pinpricks!

“There’s another!” the water cried, enjoying this game. Dor stabbed again. But it was hard to do much damage, despite the magic skill the sword gave him, since he couldn’t slash effectively through water. Stabbing only hurt the tentacles without doing serious damage.

Also, the weed was learning to take evasive action. It wasn’t very smart, but it did learn a certain minimum under the constant prodding of pain.

Dor started to climb, at last. But to do this he had to put away his sword, and that gave the tentacles a better chance at him. Also, the gold was very solid for its size and weighed him down. As he drew himself out of the water, a tentacle wrapped around his right knee and dragged him down again.

Dor’s grip slipped, and he fell back into the water. Now three more tentacles wrapped themselves around his legs and waist. That kraken had succeeded in infiltrating this tunnel far more thoroughly than Dor had thought possible! The weed must be an enormous monster now, since this must be only a fraction of its activity.

Dor clenched his teeth, knowing that no one else could help him if he got dragged under this time, and drew his sword again. He set the edge carefully against a tentacle and sawed. The magically sharp edge sliced through the tender flesh of the kraken, cutting off the extremity. The tentacle couldn’t flinch away because it was wrapped around Dor; its own greed anchored it. Dor repeated the process with the other tentacles until he was free in a milky, viscous pool of kraken blood. Then he sheathed the sword again and climbed.

“Hey, Dor-what’s keeping you?” Irene called from halfway up.

“I’m on my way,” he answered, glancing up. But as he did, several larger chunks of rock became dislodged, perhaps by the sound of their voices, and rattled down. Dor stood chest-deep in the water, shielding his head with his arms.

“Are you all right?” she called.

“Just stop yelling!” he yelled. “It’s collapsing the passage!” And he shielded his head again from the falling rocks. This was hellish!

“Oh,” she said faintly, and was quiet.

Another tentacle had taken hold during this distraction. The weed was getting bolder despite its losses. Dor sliced it away, then once more began his climb. But now ichor from the monster was on his hands, making his hold treacherous. He tried to rinse off his hands, but the stuff was all through the water. With his extra weight, he could not make it.

Dor stood there, fending off tentacles, while Irene scrambled to the surface. “What am I going to do?” he asked, frustrated.

“Ditch the coins, idiot,” the wall said.

“But I might need them,” Dor protested, unwilling to give up the treasure.

“Men are such fools about us,” a coin said from his pocket. “This fool will die for us-and we have no value in Xanth.”

It did make Dor wonder. Why was he burdening himself with this junk? Wealth that was meaningless, and a magic salve that was cursed. He could not answer-yet neither could he relinquish the treasure. Just as the kraken was losing tentacles by anchoring them to his body, he was in danger of losing his life by anchoring it to wealth-and he was no smarter about it than was the weed.

Then a tentacle dangled down from above. Dor shied away; had the weed found another avenue of attack? He whipped up his sword; in air it was far more effective. “You can’t nab me that way, greedyweedy!” he said.

“Hey, watch your language,” the tentacle protested. “I’m a rope.”

Dor was startled. “Rope? What for?”

“To pull you up, dumbbell,” it said. “What do you think a rescue rope is for?”

A rescue rope! “Are you anchored?”

“Of course I’m anchored!” it said indignantly. “Think I don’t know my business? Tie me about you and I’ll rescue you from this foul hole.”

Dor did so, and soon he was on his way, treasure and all. “Aw, you lucked out,” the coin in his pocket said.

“What do you care?”

“Wealth destroys men. It is our rite of passage: destroy a man. We were about to destroy you, and you escaped through no merit of your own.”

“Well, I’m taking you with me, so you’ll have another chance.”

“There is that,” the coin agreed, brightening.

Soon Dor emerged from the hole. Chet and Smash were hauling on the rope, drawing him up, while Grundy called directions so that no snag occurred. “What were you doing down there?” Irene demanded. “I thought you’d never come up!”

“I had some trouble with the kraken,” Dor said, showing off a fragment of tentacle that remained hooked to his leg.

It was now late afternoon. “Any danger here?” Dor asked the ground.

“There’s a nest of wyverns on the south beach of this island,” the ground replied. “But they hunt only by day. It’s quite a nest, though.”

“So If we camp here at the north end we’ll be safe?”

“Should be,” the ground agreed grudgingly.

“If the wyverns hunt by day, maybe we should trek on past them tonight,” Irene said.

Smash smiled. “We make trek, me wring neck,” he said, his brute mitts suggesting what he would do to an unfortunate wyvern. The ogre seemed larger now, taller and more massive than he had been, and Dor realized that he probably was larger; ogres put on growth rapidly in their teen years.

But Dor was too tired to do it. “I’ve got to rest,” he said.

Irene was unexpectedly solicitous. “Of course you do. You stood rearguard, fighting off the kraken, while we escaped. I’ll bet you wouldn’t have made it out at all if Chet hadn’t found that vine-rope.”

Dor didn’t want to admit that the weight of the gold had prevented him from climbing as he should have done. “Guess I just got tired,” he said.

“The fool insisted on bringing us gold coins along,” the coin blabbed loudly from his pocket.

Irene frowned. “You brought the coins? We don’t need them, and they’re awful heavy.”

Dor sat down heavily on the beach, the coins jangling. “I know.”

“What about the diamonds?”

“Them, too,” he said, patting the other pocket, though he wasn’t sure which pocket he had put them in.

“I do like diamonds,” she said. “I regard them as friends.” She helped him get his jacket off, then his wet shirt. He had avoided the Kingly robes for this trip, but his garden-variety clothing seemed hardly better now. “Dor! Your arms are all scraped!”

“That’s the work of the kraken,” Grundy said matter-of-factly. “It hooked his limbs and dragged him under. I had to carve it with diamonds to make it let go.”

“You didn’t tell me it was that bad!” she exclaimed to Dor. “Krakens are dangerous up close!”

“You were busy making the escape,” Dor said. Now the abrasions on his arms and legs were stinging.

“Get the rest of this clothing off,” she said, working at it herself. “Grundy, go find some healing elixir; we forgot to bring any, but a number of plants manufacture it.”

Grundy went into the forest. “Any of you plants have healing juice?” he called.

Dor was now too tired to resist. Irene tugged at his trousers. Then she paused. “Oh, my-I forgot about that,” she said.

“What?” Dor asked, not sure how embarrassed he should be.

“I’m certainly glad you brought that along!” she said. “Hey, Chet -look at this!”

“The centaur came over and looked. “The salve!” he said. “Yes, that could be quite useful.”

Dor relaxed. For a moment he had thought-but of course she had been talking about the salve.

Soon Irene had him stripped. “Your skin’s abraded all over!” she scolded. “It’s a wonder you didn’t faint down there!”

“Guess I’ll do it now,” Dor said, and did.

Dor woke fairly well refreshed. Evidently Grundy had located a suitable balm, for the scraped skin was largely healed. His head was pillowed on something soft; after a moment he realized it was Irene’s lap. Irene was asleep with her back against an ash tree, and a fine coating of ashes now powdered her hair. She was lovely in that unconscious pose.

He seemed to be wearing new clothing, too. They must have located a flannel plant, or maybe Irene had grown one from seed. As he considered that, he heard a faint bleat in the distance and was sure; newly shorn flannel plants did protest for a while. He decided not to dwell on how she might have measured or fitted him for the clothing she had made. Obviously she was not entirely naive about such things. In fact, Irene was shaping up as a pretty competent girl. Dor sat up. Immediately Irene woke. “Well, someone had to keep you from thrashing about in the sand until you healed,” she said, embarrassed.

He had liked her better without the explanation. “Thank you. I’m better now.”

Chet and Smash had gathered red and blue berries from colorberry bushes and tapped a winekeg tree for liquid. They got pleasantly high on breakfast while they discussed the exigencies of the day. “I don’t think we had better try to walk by that wyverns’ nest,” Chet said. “But our most feasible alternative carries a penalty.”

“The curse,” Grundy said.

“Beware the air,” Smash agreed.

Dor scratched his head. “What are you talking about?”

“The salve,” Chet explained. “To walk on clouds.”

“I don’t want to perform some dastardly deed,” Irene said. “But I don’t want to get chewed up by wyverns either.”

Now a shape loomed on the ocean horizon. “What’s that?” Dor asked the sea.

“A big sea serpent,” the water answered. “She comes by here every morning to clean off the beaches.”

Now Dor noticed how clean this beach was. The sand gleamed as whitely as bone.

“I think our decision has just been made for us,” Chet said. “Let’s risk the curse and walk the vapors.”

“But the clouds are way out of reach,” Irene protested.

“Light a fire,” Grundy said. “We can walk up the smoke.”

“That ought to work,” Chet agreed.

Hurriedly they gathered dry wood from the interior of the island while Irene grew a flame-vine. Soon the vine was blazing, and they set the wood about it, forming a bonfire. Several fine bons puffed into the sky, looking like burning bones; then smoke billowed up, roiling its way slantwise to the west. It seemed thick enough; but was it high enough?

The sea monster was looming close, attracted by the fire. “Let’s move it!” Grundy cried. “Where’s the salve?”

Dor produced the salve, and the golem smeared it on his little feet.

Then he made a running leap for the smoke-and flipped over and rolled on the ground. “Lift me up to the top of it,” he cried, unhurt. “I need to get it firmly under me, I think.”

Smash lifted him up. Yes, the ogre was definitely taller than he had been at the start of their trip.

Now the golem found his footing. “Hey-it’s hot!” he cried, dancing. He ran up the column-but the smoke was moving, making his footing uncertain, and in a moment he stumbled, fell-and plummeted through the smoke toward the ground.

Smash caught him before he struck. The golem disappeared entirely inside the ogre’s brute hand. “Small fall,” Smash commented.

“How about putting it on his hands, too?” Irene asked.

Dor did so, dabbing it on the golem with the tip of his little finger.

They put Grundy up again. This time when the golem stumbled, he was able to catch himself by grabbing handfuls of smoke. “Come on up,” he cried. “The vapor’s fine!”

The sea monster was almost upon them. The others put salve on their hands and feet and scrambled onto the smoke. Chet, with four feet, balanced on the shifting surface fairly handily, but Smash, Irene, and Dor had trouble. Finally they scrambled on hands and feet, getting from the hot lower smoke to the cooler higher smoke.

This was less dense, but the footing remained adequate.

The surface was spongy, to Dor’s sensation, like a soft balloon that was constantly changing its shape. The smoke seemed solid to their soles and palms, but it remained gaseous in nature, with its own whorls and eddies. They could not stand still on it. Dor had to keep shifting his weight to maintain balance. It was a challenge-and became fun.

Now the sea monster arrived. She sniffed the beach, then followed her nose up to the smoke and the creatures on it. The wind was extending the smoke on an almost level course at this elevation, not quite beyond reach of the monster. The creature spied Irene up there, did a double take, then snapped at the girl-who screamed and jumped off the smoke.

For an instant Dor saw her there in midair, as if she were frozen, her shriek descending with her. He knew he could not reach her or help her. The fool girl!

Then a loop of rope snagged her and drew her back to the smoke.

Chet had saved his rope, the one used to draw Dor up from the hole, and now had used it to rescue Irene from her folly. Dor’s heart dropped back into place.

The sea monster, deprived of her morsel, emitted an angry honk and lunged again. But this time Irene had the wit to scramble away, and the huge snout bit into the smoke and passed through it harmlessly. The teeth made an audible clash as they closed on nothing.

However, the passage of the monster’s head through the smoke disturbed the column, and Dor and Smash were caught on the side nearer the fire. They could not rejoin the others until the column mended itself.

Now the monster concentrated on the two of them, since they were closest to the ground. They could not move off the smoke, so she had a good shot at them. Her huge ugly snout oriented on Dor and lunged forward.

Dor had had enough of monsters. He danced aside and whipped out his magic sword. The weapon moved dazzlingly in his hand, slicing through the soft tissue of the monster’s left nostril. The creature honked with pain and rage.

“Oooo, that’s not ladylike!” Grundy called from upsmoke.

“Depends on the lady,” Irene remarked.

Now the sea monster opened her ponderous and mottled jaws and advanced agape. Dor had to retreat, for the mouth was too big for him to handle; it could take him in with one chomp. The monsters of the ocean grew larger than those of the lakes!

But, stepping back, he stumbled over a fresh roil of smoke and sat down hard-on nothing solid. His seat passed right through, and he had to snatch madly with both hands to save himself. He was caught as if in a tub, supported only by his feet and hands.

The monster hissed in glee and moved in to take him in, bottomfirst. But Smash stepped into her mouth, hamfists bashing into the giant teeth with loud clashing sounds, knocking chips from them.

Startled, the monster paused, mouth still open. The ogre stomped on her tongue and jumped back to the smoke.

By the time Dor had regained his feet, the monster had retreated, and Smash was bellowing some rhyming imprecation at her. But the monster was not one of the shy little creatures of the inland lakes that gobbled careless swimmers; she was a denizen of the larger puddle. She had been balked, not defeated; she was really angry now.

The monster honked. “I have not yet begun to bite!” Grundy translated. She cast about for some better way to get at the smokeborn morsels-and spied the fire on the beach.

The monster was not stupid for her kind. The tiny wheels rotated almost visibly in her huge ugly head as she contemplated the blaze.

Then she dropped her head down, gathered herself, and with her flippers swept a huge wash of water onto the beach.

The fire hissed and sent up a violent protest of steam, then ignominiously capitulated and died. The smoke stopped billowing up.

Dor and his friends were left standing on dissipating smoke. Soon they would be left with no visible means of support.

The remaining cloud of smoke coalesced somewhat as it shrank.

Dor and Smash rejoined the other three. Now all were balancing on a diffusing mass; soon they would fall into the ocean, where the sea monster slavered eagerly.

“Well, do something!” Irene screamed at Dor.

Dor’s performance under pressure had been spotty. Now his brain percolated more efficiently. “We must make more smoke,” he said. “Irene, do you have any more flammable plants in your bag?”

“Just some torchflowers,” she replied. “I lost so many good seeds to the eclectic eel! But where can I grow them? They need solid ground.”

“Smear magic salve on the roots,” Dor told her. “Let a torch grow in this smoke.”

Her mouth opened in a cute of surprise. “That just might work!” She took out a seed, smeared it in the salve Dor held out, and ordered it to grow.

It worked. The torch developed and matured, guttering into flame and smoke. The wind carried the smoke west in a thin, dark brown stream.

Irene looked at it with dismay. “I expected it to spread out more. It will take a balancing act to walk on that!”

“In addition to which,” Chet said, “the smoke in which the torch is rooted is rapidly dwindling. When it falls into the ocean-“

“We’ll have to root it in its own smoke,” Dor said. “Then it will never fall.”

“Can’t,” she protested. “The smoke won’t curl down, and anyway it’s always moving; the thing would go into a tailspin.”

“It also smacks of paradox,” Chet said. “This is a problematical concept when magic is involved; nevertheless-“

“Better do something,” Grundy warned. “That sea monster’s waiting open-mouthed beneath this cloud.”

“Have you another torch-seed?” Dor asked.

“Yes, one more,” Irene said. “But I don’t see-“

“Grow it in smoke from this one. Then we’ll play leapfrog.”

“Are you sure that makes sense?”

“No.”

She proceeded. Soon the second torch was blazing, rooted in the smoke of the first, and its own trail of smoke ran above and parallel to the first. “But we still can’t balance on those thin lines,” Chet said.

“Yes, we can. Put one foot on each.”

Dubiously, Chet tried it. It worked; he was able to brace against the two columns, careful not to fall between them, and walk slowly forward. Irene followed, more awkwardly, for the twin columns were at slightly different elevations and varied in separation.

There was a honking chuckle from below. Irene colored. “That monster is looking up my skirt!” she exclaimed, furious.

“Don’t worry,” Grundy said. “It’s a female monster.”

“You can be sure your legs are the first it will chomp if it gets the chance,” Dor snapped. He had little patience with her vanity at this moment.

Smash went out on the columns next, balancing easily; the ogre was not nearly as clumsy as he looked.

“Go on, Grundy,” Dor said. “I’ll move the first torch.”

“How can you move it?” the golem demanded. “You can’t balance on one column.”

“I’ll manage somehow,” Dor said, though this was a complication he hadn’t worked out. Once the first torch was moved, there would be no smoke from it for him to walk on.

“You’re so busy trying to be a hero, you’re going to wind up monster food,” Grundy said. “Where is Xanth, if you go the way of King Trent?”

“I don’t know,” Dor admitted. “Maybe the Zombie Master will discover he likes politics after all.”

“That sourpuss? Ha!”

“But those torches have to be moved.”

“I’ll move them,” Grundy said. “I’m small enough to walk on one column. You go ahead.”

Dor hesitated, but saw no better alternative. “Very well. But be careful.”

Dor straddled the two columns. This felt more precarious than it had looked, but was far better than dropping to the water and monster below. When he had progressed a fair distance, he braced himself and looked back.

Grundy was laboring at the first torch. But the thing was about as big as the golem, and was firmly rooted in the remaining cloud of smoke from the erstwhile beach fire; the tiny man could not get it loose. The sea monster, perceiving the problem, was bracing herself for one good snap at the whole situation.

“Grundy, get out of there!” Dor cried. “Leave the torch!”

Too late. The monster’s head launched forward as her flippers thrust the body out of the water. Grundy cried out with terror and leaped straight up as the snout intersected the cloud.

The monster’s teeth closed on the torch-and the golem landed on the massive snout. The saucer-eyes peered cross-eyed at Grundy, who was no bigger than a mote that might irritate one of those orbs, while smoke from the torch drifted from the great nostrils. The effect was anomalous, since no sea monster had natural fire. Fire was the perquisite of dragons.

Then the sea monster’s body sank back into the ocean. Grundy scrambled up along the wispy trail of smoke from the nostrils and managed to recover his perch on the original smoke cloud. But the torch was gone.

“Run up the other column!” Dor shouted. “Save yourself!”

For a moment Grundy stood looking down at the monster. “I blew it,” he said. “I ruined it all.”

“We’ll figure out something!” Dor cried, realizing that everything could fall apart right here if every person did not keep scrambling. “Get over here now.”

Numbly the golem obeyed, walking along the widening but thinning column. Dor saw that their problems were still mounting, for the smoke that supported the second torch was now dissipating. Soon the second column, too, would be lost.

“Chet!” Dor called. “Smear salve on your rope and hook it over one smoke column. Tie yourself to the ends and grab the others!”

“You have the salve,” the centaur reminded him.

“Catch it!” Dor cried. He hefted the small jar in his right hand, made a mental prayer to the guiding spirit of Xanth, and hurled the jar toward the centaur.

The tiny missile arched through the air. Had his aim been good?

At first its course seemed too high; then it seemed to drop too rapidly; then it became clear the missile was off to the side. He had indeed missed; the jar was passing well beyond Chet’s reach. Dor, too, had blown his chance.

Then Chet’s rope flung out, and the loop closed neatly about the jar.

The centaur, expert in the manner of his kind, had lassoed it.

Dor’s relief was so great he almost sat down-which would have been suicidal.

“But this rope’s not long enough,” Chet said, analyzing the job he had to do with it.

“Have Irene grow it longer,” Dor called.

“I can only grow live plants,” she protested.

“Those vine-ropes live a long time,” Dor replied. “They can root after months of separation from their parent-plants, even when they look dead. Try it.” But as he spoke, he remembered that the rope had spoken to him when it came for him down the hole. That meant that it was indeed dead.

Dubiously, Irene tried it. “Grow,” she called.

They all waited tensely. Then the rope grew. One end of it had been dormant; it must have been the other end that had been dead.

Once more Dor’s relief was overwhelming. They were skirting about as close to the brink of disaster as they could without falling in.

Once the rope started, it grew beautifully. Not only did it lengthen, it branched, becoming a full-fledged rope-vine. Soon Chet had enough to weave into a large basket. He smeared magic salve all over it and suspended it from the smoke column. Chet himself got into it, and Irene joined him, then Smash. It was a big basket, and strong; it had to be, to support both centaur and ogre. The two massive creatures clapped each other’s hands together in victory; they liked each other.

Now the second torch lost footing and started to fall. Dor charged back along the two columns, dived down, reached out, and grabbed it. But his balance on one column was precarious. He wind milled his arms, but could not quite regain equilibrium.

Then another loop of rope flung out. Dor was caught under the arms just as he slipped off the column.

Chet hauled him in as he fell, so that he described an are toward the water. The sea monster pursued him eagerly. Dor’s feet barely brushed the waves; then he swung up on the far side of the are.

“Sword!” Grundy cried, perched on smoke far above.

Dazedly, Dor transferred the torch to his left hand and drew his sword.

Now he swung back toward the grinning head of the monster.

Chet heaved, lifting Dor up a body length. As a result, instead of swinging into the opening mouth, he smacked into the upper lip, just below the flaring nostrils. Dor shoved his feet forward, mashing that lip against the upper teeth. Then he stabbed forward with the sword, spearing the tender left nostril. “How’s that feel, garlic-snoot?” he asked.

The snoot blasted out an angry gale of breath that was indeed redolent of garlic and worse. Creatures with the most objectionable qualities were often the ones with the most sensitive feelings about them. Dor was blown back out over the ocean, steam rising as Chet hauled him up.

But now the smoke supporting the rope and basket was dissipating. Soon they would all fall-and the monster was well aware of this fact. All the pinpricks and taps on teeth and snout she had suffered would be avenged. She hung back for the moment, avoiding Dor’s sword, awaiting the inevitable with hungry eagerness.

“The smoke!” Grundy cried.

Dor realized that the torch he held was pouring its smoke up slantingly. The breeze had diminished allowing a steeper angle. “Yes! Use this smoke to support the rope!” he ordered.

Chet, catching on, rocked the rope-basket and set it swinging. As the smoke angled up, the basket swung across to intersect it. But that caused Dor to swing also, moving his torch and its smoke.

“Grow a beanpole!” he told Irene.

“Gotcha,” Irene said. Soon another seed was sprouting: a bean in the form of a pole. Smash wedged this into the basket and bent it down so that Dor could reach the far tip. Dor grabbed it and hung on. Now the pole held him at an angle below the basket. Chet and Smash managed to rotate the whole contraption so that Dor was upwind from them. The smoke poured up and across, passing just under the basket, buoying it up, each wrinkle in the smoke snagging on the woven vines. The rising smoke simply carried the basket up with it.

The sea monster caught on that the situation had changed. It charged forward, snapping at Dor-but Dor was now just out of its reach. Slowly and uncertainly the whole party slid upward, buoyed by the smoke from the torch. The arrangement seemed too fantastic and tenuous to operate even with magic, but somehow it did.

The sea monster, seeing her hard-won meal escape, vented one terrible honk of outrage that caused the smoke to waver. This shook their entire apparatus. The sound reverberated about the welkin, startling pink, green, and blue birds from their island perches and sending sea urchins fleeing in childish tears.

“I can’t even translate that,” Grundy said, awed.

The honk had one other effect. It attracted the attention of the nest of wyverns. The empty nest flew up, a huge mass of sticks and vines and feathers and scales and bones. “What’s this noise?” it demanded.

Oh, no! Dor’s talent had to be responsible for this. He had been under such pressure, his magic was manifesting erratically. “The sea monster did it!” he cried, truthfully enough.

“That animated worm?” the nest demanded. “I’ll teach it to disturb my repose. I’ll squash it!” And it flew fiercely toward the monster.

The sea monster, justifiably astonished, ducked her head and dived under the water. Xanth was the place of many incredible things, but this was beyond incredibility. The nest, pursuing the monster, landed with a great splash, became waterlogged, and sank. “I’m all washed up!” it wailed despairingly as it disappeared.

Dor and the others stared. They had never imagined an event like this. “But where are the wyverns?” Chet asked.

“Probably out hunting,” Grundy answered. “We’d better be well away from here when they return and find their nest gone.”

They had by this devious route made their escape from the sea monster. As time passed, they left the monster far below. Dor began to relax again-and his torch guttered out. These plants did not burn forever, and this one had expended all its smoke.

“Smoke alert!” Dor cried, waving the defunct torch. They were now so high in the air that a fall would be disastrous even without an angry monster below.

“So close to the clouds!” Chet lamented, pointing to a looming cloudbank. They had almost made it.

“Grow the rope some more,” Grundy said. “Make it reach up to those clouds.”

Irene complied. A new vine grew up, anchored in the basket. It penetrated the lowest cloud.

“But it has no salve,” Chet said. “It can’t hold on there.”

“Give me the salve,” Grundy said. “I’ll climb up there.”

He did so. Nimbly he mounted the rope-vine. In moments he disappeared into the cloud, a blob of salve stuck to his back.

The supportive smoke column dissipated. The basket sagged, and Dor swung about below it, horrified. But it descended only a little; the rope-vine had been successfully anchored in the cloud, and they were safe.

There was no way the rest of them could climb that rope, though. They had to wait suspended until a vagary of the weather caused a new layer of clouds to form beneath them, hiding the ocean. The new clouds were traveling south, in contrast to the westward-moving higher ones.

When the positioning was right, they stepped out and trod the billowy white masses, jumping over the occasional gaps, until they were safely ensconced in a large cloudbank. In due course this cleared away from the higher clouds, letting the sky open. The winds at different levels of the sky were traveling in different directions, carrying their burdens with them; this wind was bearing south. Since the basket was firmly anchored to the higher cloudbank, they had to unload it quickly so they would not lose their remaining possessions.

They watched it depart with mixed emotions; it had served them well.

They sprouted a grapefruit tree and ate the grapes as they ripened.

It was sunny and warm here atop the clouds; since this wind was carrying them south, there was no need for the travelers to walk. Their difficult journey had become an easy one.

“Only one thing bothers me,” Chet murmured. “When we reach Centaur Isle-how do we get down?”

“Maybe we’ll think of something by then,” Dor said. He was tired again, mentally as well as physically; he was unable to concentrate on a problem of the future right now, however critical that problem might be.

They smeared salve on their bodies so they could lie down and rest. The cloud surface was resilient and cool, and the travelers were tired; soon they were sleeping.

Dor dreamed pleasantly of exploring in a friendly forest; the action was inconsequential, but the feeling was wonderful. He had half expected more nightmares, but realized they could not reach him up here in the sky. Not unless they got hold of some magic salve for their hooves.

Then in his dream he looked into a deep, dark pool of water, and in its reflection saw the face of King Trent. “Remember the Isle,” the King told him. “It is the only way you can reach me. We need your help, Dor.”

Dor woke abruptly, to find Irene staring into his face. “For a moment you almost looked like-“ she said, perplexed.

“Your father,” he finished. “Don’t worry; it’s only his message, I guess. I must use the Isle to find him.”

“How do you spell that?”

Dor scratched his head. “I don’t know. I thought-but I’m not sure. Island. Does aisle make sense?”

“A I S L E?” she spelled. “Not much.”

“I guess I’m not any better at visions than I am at adventure,” he said with resignation.

Her expression changed, becoming softer. “Dor, I just wanted to tell you-you were great with the smoke and everything.”

“Me?” he asked, unbelieving. “I barely scrambled through! You and Chet and Grundy did all the-“

“You guided us,” she said. “Every time there was a crisis and we froze or fouled up, you called out an order and that got us moving again. You were a leader, Dor. You had what it took when we really had to have it. I guess you don’t know it yourself, but you are a. leader, Dor. You’ll make a decent King, some day.”

“I don’t want to be King!” he protested.

She leaned down and kissed him on the lips. “I just had to tell you. That’s all.”

Dor lay there after she moved away, his emotions mixed. The kiss had been excruciatingly sweet, but the words sweeter yet. He tried to review the recent action, to fathom where he might have been heroic, but it was all a nightmare jumble, despite the absence of the night mares. He had simply done what had to be done on the spur of the moment, sometimes on the very jagged edge of the moment, and had been lucky.

He didn’t like depending on luck. It was not to be trusted. Even now, some horrendous unluck could be pursuing them. He almost thought he heard it through the cloudbank, a kind of leathery swishing in the air Then a minor kind of hell broke loose. The head of a dragon poked through the cloud, uttering a raucous scream.

Suddenly the entire party was awake and on its feet. “The wyverns!” Chet cried. “The ones whose nest we swamped! They have found us!”

There was no question of avoiding trouble. The wyverns attacked the moment they appeared. In this first contact, it was every person for himself.

Dor’s magic sword flashed in his hand, stabbing expertly at the vulnerable spots of the wyvern nearest him. The wyvern was a small dragon, with a barbed tail and only two legs, but it was agile and vicious. The sword went unerringly for the beast’s heart, but glanced off the scales of its breast. The dragon was past in a moment; it was flying, while Dor was stationary, and contact was fleeting.

There were a number of the wyverns, and they were expert flyers.

Smash was standing his own, as one ogre was more than a match for a dragon of this size, but Chet had to gallop and dodge madly to avoid trouble. He whirled his lasso, trying to snare the wyvern, but so far without success.

Irene was in the most trouble. Dor charged across to her. “Grow a plant!” he cried. “I’ll protect you!”

A wyvern oriented on them and zoomed in, its narrow lance of fire shooting out ahead. Cloud evaporated in the path of the flame, leaving a trench; they had to scramble aside.

“Some Protection!” Irene snarled. Her complexion was turning green; she was afraid.

But Dor’s magic sword slashed with the uncanny accuracy inherent in it and lopped off the tip of a dragon’s wing. The wyvern squawked in pain and rage and wobbled, partly out of control, and finally disappeared into the cloud. There were sputtering sounds and a trail of smoke fusing with the cloud vapor where the dragon went down.

It was a strange business, with Dor’s party standing on the puffy white surface, the dragons passing through it as if it were vapor-which of course it was. The dragons had the advantage of maneuverability and concealment, while the people had the leverage of a firm anchorage. But Dor knew the wyverns could undercut the people’s footing by burning out the clouds beneath them; all the dragons needed to do was think of it. Fortunately, wyverns were not very smart; their brains were small, since any expendable weight was sacrificed in the interest of better flight, and what brains they had were kept too hot by the fire to function well. Wyverns were designed for fighting, not thinking.

Irene was growing a plant; evidently she had saved some salve for it. It was a tangler, as fearsome a growth as the kraken seaweed, but one that operated on solid land-or cloud. In moments it was big enough to be a threat to all in its vicinity. “Try to get the tree between you and the dragon,” Irene advised, stepping back from the vegetable monster.

Dor did so. When the next wyvern came at him, he scooted around behind the tangler. The dragon, hardly expecting to encounter such a plant in the clouds, did a double take and banked off. But the tangler shot out a tentacle and hooked a wing. It drew the wyvern in, wrapping more tentacles about it, like a spider with a fly. The dragon screamed, biting and clawing at the plant, but the tangler was too strong for it. The other wyverns heeded the call. They zoomed in toward the tangler. Chet lassoed one as it passed him; the dragon turned ferociously on him, biting into his shoulder, then went on to the plant. Three wyverns swooped at the tangler, jetting their fires at it. There was a loud hissing; foul-smelling steam expanded outward. But a tentacle caught a second dragon and drew it in. No one tangled with a tangler without risk!

“We’d better get out of here,” Irene said. “Whoever wins this battle will be after us next.”

Dor agreed. He called to Grundy and Smash, and they went to join Chet.

The centaur was in trouble. Bright red blood streamed down his left side, and his arm hung uselessly. “Leave me,” he said. “I am now a liability.”

“We’re all liabilities,” Dor said. “Irene, grow some more healing plants.”

“I don’t have any,” she said. “We have to get down to ground and find one; then I can make it grow.”

“We can’t get down,” Chet said. “Not until night, when perhaps fog will form in the lower reaches, and we can walk down that.”

“You’ll bleed to death by night!” Dor protested. He took off his shirt, the new one Irene had made for him. “I’ll try to bandage your wound. Then-we’ll see.”

“Here, I’ll do it,” Irene said. “You men aren’t any good at this sort of thing. Dor, you question the cloud about a fast way down.”

Dor agreed. While she worked on the centaur, he interrogated the cloud they stood on. “Where are we, in relation to the land of Xanth?”

“We have drifted south of the land,” the cloud reported.

“South of the land! What about Centaur Isle?”

“South of that, too,” the cloud said smugly.

“We’ve got to get back there!”

“Sorry, I’m going on south. You should have disembarked an hour ago. You must talk to the wind; if it changed-“

Dor knew it was useless to talk to the wind; he had tried that as a child. The wind always went where it wanted and did what it pleased without much regard for the preferences of others. “How can we get down to earth in a hurry?”

“Jump off me. I’m tired of your weight anyway. You’ll make a big splash when you get there.”

“I mean safely!” It was pointless to get mad at the inanimate, but Dor was doing it.

“What do you need for safely?”

“A tilting ramp of clouds, going to solid land.”

“No, none of that here. Closest we have is a storm working up to the east. Its turbulence reaches down to the water.”

Dor looked east and saw a looming thunderhead. It looked familiar. He was about to have his third brush with that particular storm.

“That will have to do.”

“You’ll be sor-ree!” the cloud sang. “Those T-heads are mean ones, and that one has a grudge against you. I’m a cumulus humius myself, the most humble of fleecy clouds, but that one-“

“Enough,” Dor said shortly. He was already nervous enough about their situation. The storm had evidently exercised and worked up new vaporous muscle for this occasion. This would be bad-but what choice did they have? They had to get Chet down to land-and to Centaur Isle-quickly.

The party hurried across the cloud surface toward the storm. The thunderhead loomed larger and uglier as they approached; its huge damp vortex eyes glared at them, and its nose dangled downward in the form of a whirling cone. New muscle indeed! But the slanting sunlight caught the fringe, turning it bright silver on the near side.

“A silver lining!” Irene exclaimed. “I’d like to have some of that!”

“Maybe you can catch some on the way down,” Dor said gruffly.

She had criticized him for saving the gold, after all; now she wanted silver.

A wyvern detached itself from the battle with the tangler and winged toward them. “Look out behind; enemy at six o’clock!” Grundy cried.

Dor turned, wearily drawing his sword. But this dragon was no longer looking for trouble. It was flying weakly, seeming dazed. Before it reached them it sank down under the cloud surface and disappeared. “The tangler must have squeezed it,” Grundy said.

“The tangler looks none too healthy itself,” Irene pointed out. She was probably the only person in Xanth who would have sympathy for such a growth. Dor looked back; sure enough, the tentacles were wilting. “That was quite a fight!” she concluded.

“But if the tangler is on its last roots,” Dor asked, “why did the wyvern fly away from it? It’s not like any dragon to quit a fight unfinished.”

They had no answer. Then, ahead of them, the wyvern pumped itself above the cloud again, struggling to clear the thunderstorm ahead. But it failed; it could not attain sufficient elevation. It blundered on into the storm.

The storm grabbed the dragon, tossed it about, and caught it in the whirling cone. The wyvern rotated around and around, scales flying out, and got sucked into the impenetrable center of the cloud.

“I hate to see a storm feeding,” Grundy muttered.

“That thing’s worse than the tangler!” Irene breathed. “It gobbled that dragon just like that!”

“We must try to avoid that cone,” Dor said. “There’s a lot of vapor outside it; if we can climb down that, near the silver lining-“

“My hooves are sinking in the cloud,” Chet said, alarmed.

Now they found that the same was happening to all their feet. The formerly bouncy surface had become mucky. “What’s happening?” Irene demanded, her tone rising warningly toward hysteria.

“What’s happening?” Dor asked the cloud.

“Your salve is losing its effect, dolt,” the thunderhead gusted, sounding bluffed.

The salve did have a time limit of a day or so. Quickly they applied more. That helped-but still the cloud surface was tacky. “I don’t like this,” Grundy said. “Maybe our old salve was wearing off, but the new application isn’t much better. I wonder if there’s any connection with the wilting tangler and the fleeing wyvern?”

“That’s it!” Chet exclaimed, wincing as his own animation shot pain through his shoulder. “We’re drifting out of the ambience of magic! That’s why magic things are in trouble!”

“That has to be it!” Dor agreed, dismayed. “The clouds are south of Xanth-and beyond Xanth the magic fades. We’re on the verge of Mundania!”

For a moment they were silent, shocked. The worst had befallen them.

“We’ll fall through the cloud!” Irene cried. “We’ll fall into the sea! The horrible Mundane sea!”

“Let’s run north,” Grundy urged. “Back into magic!”

“We’ll only come to the edge of the cloud and fall off,” Irene wailed. “Dor, do something!”

How he hated to be put on the spot like that! But he already knew his course. “The storm,” he said. “We’ve got to go through it, getting down, before we’re out of magic.”

“But that storm hates us!”

“That storm will have problems of its own as the magic fades,” Dor said.

They ran toward the thunderhead, who glared at them and tried to organize for a devastating strike. But it was indeed losing cohesion as the magic diminished, and could not concentrate properly on them.

As they stepped onto its swirling satellite vapors, their feet sank right through, as if the surface were slush. The magic was certainly fading, and very little time remained before they lost all support and plummeted.

Yet as they encountered the silver lining, Dor realized there was an unanticipated benefit here. This slow sinking caused by the loss of effect of the salve was allowing them to descend in moderate fashion, and just might bring them safely to ground. They didn’t have to depend on the ambience of the storm.

They caught hold of each other’s hands, so that no one would be lost as the thickening winds buffeted them. Smash put one arm around Chet’s barrel, holding him firm despite the centaur’s useless arm. They sank into the swirling fog, feeling it about them like stew.

Dor was afraid he would be smothered, but found he could breathe well enough. There was no salve on his mouth; cloud was mere vapor to his head.

“All that silver lining,” Irene said. “And I can’t have any of it!”

The swirl of wind grew stronger. They were thrown about by the buffets and drawn into the central vortex-but it now had only a fraction of its former strength and could not fling them about as it had the wyvern. They spiraled down through it as the magic continued to dissipate. Dor hung on to the others, hoping the magic would hold out long enough to enable them to land softly. But If they splashed into deep water After an interminably brief descent, they did indeed splash into deep water. The rain pelted down on them and monstrous waves surged around them. Dor had to let go of the hands he held, in order to swim and let the others swim. He held his breath, stroked for the surface of the current wave and, when his head broke into the troubled air, he cried, “Help! Spread the word!”

Did any magic remain? Yes-a trifle. “Help!” the wave echoed faintly. “Help!” the next wave repeated. “Help! Help! Help!” the other waves chorused.

A raft appeared. “Someone’s drowning!” a voice cried. “Where are you?”

“Here!” Dor gasped. “Five of us-“ Then a cruel wash of water smacked into his face, and he was choking. After that, all his waning energies were taken trying to stay afloat in the turbulence, and he was not quite succeeding.

Then strong hands caught him and hauled him onto a broad wooden raft.

“The others!” Dor gasped. “Four others-“

“We’ve got them, King Dor,” his rescuer said. “Water-logged but safe.”

“Chet-my friend the centaur-he’s wounded-needs healing.”

The rescuer smiled. “He has it, of course. Do you suppose we would neglect our own?”

Dor’s vision cleared enough to take in the nature of his rescuer. It was an adult centaur! “We-we made it-“

“Welcome to the waters of the coast of Centaur Isle, Your Majesty.”

“But-“ Dor spluttered. “You aren’t supposed to know who I am!”

“The Good Magician Humfrey ascertained that you were in trouble and would require assistance when you touched water. The Zombie Master asked us to establish a watch for you in this locale. You are a most important person in your own land, King Dor! It is fortunate we honored their request; we do not ordinarily put to sea during a funnel-storm.”

“Oh.” Dor was abashed. “Uh, did they tell you what my mission was?”

“Only that you were traveling the Land of Xanth and making a survey of the magic therein. Is there something else we should know?”

“Uh, no, thanks,” Dor said. At least that much had been salvaged.

The centaurs would not have taken kindly to the notion of a Magician among them-a centaur Magician. Dor did not like deceit, but felt this much was necessary.

Irene appeared, soaked through, bedraggled, and unkempt, but still quite pretty. Somehow she always seemed prettiest to him when she was messed up; perhaps it was because then the artifice was gone. “I guess you did it again, Dor,” she said, taking his hand. “You got us down alive.”

“But you didn’t get your silver lining,” he reminded her.

She laughed. “Some other time! After the way that storm treated us, I don’t want any of its substance anyway.”

Then the centaurs led them into the dry cabin of the raft. Irene continued to hold his hand, and that pleased Dor.

It was dark by the time the centaurs’ raft reached port. Chet was taken to a vet for treatment, as the wyvern’s bite seemed to be resisting the healing elixir. Dor and his companions were given a good meal of blues and oranges and greens and conducted to a handsome stable for the night. It commanded a fine view of a succulent pasture, was adequately ventilated, and was well stocked with a water trough, hay, and a block of salt.

They stared at the accommodations for a moment; then Smash stepped inside. “Say, hay!” he exclaimed, and plunked himself down into it with a crash that shook the building.

“Good idea,” Grundy said, and did likewise, only the shaking of the building was somewhat less. After another moment, Dor and Irene settled down, too. The hay was comfortable and sweetly scented, conducive to relaxation and thoughts of pleasant outdoors.

Irene held Dor’s hand, and they slept well.

In the morning a stately elder centaur male entered the stable. He seemed oddly diffident. “I am Gerome, the Elder of the Isle. King Dor, I am here to apologize for the error. You were not supposed to be bedded here.”

Dor got hastily to his feet, brushing hay off his crumpled clothing while Irene straightened out her skirt and brushed brown hay out of her green hair. “Elder, we’re so glad to be rescued from the ocean, and fed and housed, that these accommodations seem wonderful. We’ll be happy to complete our business and go home; this was never intended as an official occasion. The stable was just fine.”

The centaur relaxed. “You are gracious, Your Majesty. We maintain assorted types of housing for assorted types of guests. I fear a glitch got into the program; we try to fence them out, but they keep sneaking in.”

“They infest Castle Roogna also,” Dor said. “We catch them in humane glitch traps and deport them to the far forests, but they breed faster than we can catch them.”

“Come,” the centaur said. “We have attire and food for you.” He paused. “One other thing. Some of our number attended the Good Magician’s wedding. They report you performed splendidly in trying circumstances. Magician Humfrey had intended to give you an item; it seems the distractions of the occasion caused it to slip his mind.”

The centaur almost smiled.

“He does tend to be forgetful,” Dor said, remembering the lapse about notifying the human Elders about King Trent’s excursion to Mundania.

“Accordingly, the Gorgon asked one of our representatives to convey the item to you here.” Gerome held out a small object.

Dor accepted it. “Thank you, Elder. Uh, what is it?”

“I believe it is a magic compass. Note that the indicator points directly to you-the one Magician on the Isle.”

Dor studied the compass. It was a disk within which a needle of light showed. “This isn’t pointing to me.”

Gerome looked. “Why, so it isn’t. But I’m sure it was until a moment ago; that is how I was certain it had reached its proper destination. Perhaps I misunderstood its application; it may have pointed to you only to guide us to you. Certainly it assisted our search for you yesterday afternoon.”

“That must be it!” Dor agreed. The Good Magician might have anticipated the problem with the storm and sent down the one thing that would bring help to him unerringly. Humfrey was funny that way, doing things anachronistically. Dor tucked the compass in a pocket with the diamonds and sunstone and changed the subject.

“Chet-how is he doing this morning?”

Gerome frowned. “I regret to report that he is not fully recovered. Apparently he was bitten near the fringe of magic-”

“He was,” Dor agreed.

“And a Mundane infection got in. This is resistive to magic healing. Perhaps, on the other hand, it was merely the delay in applying the elixir. We cannot be certain. Odd things do happen at the fringe of magic. He is in no danger of demise, but I fear it will be some time before his arm is again at full strength.”

“Maybe we can help him back at Castle Roogna,” Dor said, uncomfortable. “He is our friend; without him, we could not have made it down here. I feel responsible.”

“He must not indulge in any further violence until he recovers completely,” Gerome said gravely. “It is not at all wise to take a magic-resistive illness lightly. Come-he awaits you at breakfast.”

On the way there, Gerome insisted they pause at the centaur clothier. Dor was outfitted with bright new trousers, shirt, and jacket, all intricately woven and comfortable. Irene got a dress set that set her off quite fetchingly, though it was not her normal shade of green.

Even Smash and Grundy got handsome jackets. The ogre had never worn clothing before, but his jacket was so nice he accepted it with pride.

“This material,” Irene said. “There’s something magic about it.”

Gerome smiled. “As you know, we centaurs frown on personal magic talents. But we do work with magic. The apparel is woven by our artisans from iron curtain thread, and is strongly resistant to penetration by foreign objects. We use it for vests during combat, to minimize injuries.”

“But this must be very precious stuff!” Dor said.

“Your welfare is important to us, Your Majesty. Had you and Chet been wearing this clothing, the wyvern’s teeth would not have penetrated his shoulder.”

Dor appreciated the rationale. It would be a big embarrassment to the centaurs if anything happened to the temporary King of Xanth or his friends during their stay here. “Thank you very much.”

They entered a larger room, whose tall ceiling was supported by ornate white columns. Huge windows let in the slanting morning sunlight, lending a pleasant warmth and brilliance. On an enormous banquet table in the center were goblets of striped sardonyx and white alabaster, doubly pretty in the sun. The plates were of green jadeite. “A King’s ransom,” Irene whispered. “I think they trotted out the royal crockery for you, Dor.”

“I wish they hadn’t,” he whispered back. “Suppose something gets broken?”

“Keep an eye on Smash,” she said. That made Dor more nervous than ever.

How would the ogre handle the delicate tableware?

They were given high chairs, for the table was too tall for them.

Several more centaurs joined them, male and female, introduced as the other Elders of the Isle. They stood at the table; centaurs had no way to use chairs, and the table was crafted to their height.

The food was excellent. Dor had been halfway fearful that it would be whole oats and cracked corn with silage on the side, but the glitch of the stable-housing was not repeated. There was a course of yellow cornmeal mush, from cornmeal bushes, and fine chocolate milk from cocoa-nuts. For sweetening there was an unusual delicacy called honey, said to be manufactured by a rare species of bees imported from Mundania. Dor had encountered sneeze-bees and the spelling bee, but it was odd indeed to think of honey-bees!

Smash, to Dor’s surprise and relief, turned out to be a connoisseur of delicate stone. His kind, he informed them happily in rhyme, had developed their power by smashing and shaping different kinds of minerals. They could not turn out goblets as nice as these, but did produce pretty fair marble and granite blocks for walls and buildings.

“Indeed,” Gerome agreed. “Some fine cornerstones here were traded from ogres. Those corners stand up to anything.”

Smash tossed down another couple mugs of milk, pleased. Few other creatures recognized the artistic propensities of ogres.

Chet was there, looking somewhat wan and eating very little, which showed that his injury was paining him somewhat. There was nothing Dor could do except politely ignore it, as his friend obviously wanted no attention drawn to his weakness. Chet would not be traveling with them again for some time.

After the meal they were treated to a guided tour of the Isle. Dor was conscious of King Trent’s reference to isle or aisle in the vision.

If it were the only way Dor could reach him, he must be alert for the mechanism. Somewhere here, perhaps, was the key he needed.

The outside streets were broad, paved with packed dirt suitable for hooves, and were banked on the curves for greatest galloping comfort.

At intervals were low wooden props that the centaurs could use to knock the dottle from their feet. The buildings were mixed; some were stables, while others were more like human residences.

“I see you are perplexed by our premises,” Gerome said. “Our architecture derives from our origin; in due course you shall see our historical museum, where this will be made clear.”

During their walk, Dor surreptitiously looked at the magic compass Good Magician Humfrey had sent him. He had believed he had figured out its application. “Compass-do you point to the nearest and strongest Magician who is not actually using you?” he asked.

“Sure.” the compass replied. “Any fool knows that.”

So it was now pointing to the centaur Magician. Once Dor got free of these formalities, he would follow that needle to the object of his quest.

They stopped at the extensive metalworking section of town. Here were blacksmiths and silversmiths and coppersmiths, fashioning the strange shoes that important centaurs used, and the unusual instruments they employed for eating, and the beautiful pots they cooked with. “They had no trouble harvesting plenty of silver linings,” Irene commented enviously.

“Ah-you appreciate a silver lining?” Gerome inquired. He showed the way to another craftshop, where hundreds of silver linings were being fashioned as the fringes of jackets and such. “This is for you.” And the centaur gave her a fresh fur with a fine silver lining sewn in, which gleamed with the splendor of sunlight after storm.

“Ooooh,” Irene breathed, melting into it. “It’s soft as cloud!” Dor had to admit, privately, that the decorative apparel did enhance her appearance.

One centaur was working with a new Mundane import, a strong light metal called aluminum. “King Trent’s encouragement of trade with Mundania has benefited us,” Gerome remarked. “We have no natural aluminum in Xanth. But the supply is erratic, because we never seem to be able to trade with the same aspect of Mundania twice in succession. If that problem could be ameliorated, it would be a great new day for commerce.”

“He’s working on it,” Irene said. But she had to stop there; they had agreed not to spread the word about King Trent’s situation.

They saw the weaving section, where great looms integrated the threads garnered from assorted sources. The centaurs were expert spinners and weavers, and their products varied from silkenly fine cloth to heavy ruglike mats. Dor was amazed; it had never occurred to him that the products of blanket trees could be duplicated artificially. How wonderful it would be to be able to make anything one needed, instead of having to wait for a plant to grow it!

Another section was devoted to weapons. Centaurs were superlative bowmen and spearmen, and here the fine bows and spears were fashioned, along with swords, clubs, and ropes. A subsection was devoted to armor, which included woven metal clothing as well as helmets, greaves, and gauntlets. Smash tried on a huge gauntlet and flexed it into a massive fist. “Me see?” he inquired hopefully.

“By all means,” Gerome said. “There is a boulder of quartz we mean to grind into sand. Practice on it.”

Smash marched to the boulder, lifted his fist high, and smashed it down upon the boulder. There was a crack of sound like thunder, and a cloud of dust and sand erupted from the point of contact, enveloping him. When it settled, they saw the ogre standing knee-deep in a mound of sand, a blissful smile cracking his ugly face. “Love glove,” he grunted, reluctantly removing it. Wisps of smoke rose from its fingertips.

“Then it is yours, together with its mate,” Gerome said. “You have saved us much labor, reducing that boulder so efficiently.”

Smash was thrilled with the gift, but Dor was silent. He knew ogres were strong, but Smash was not yet grown. The metal gauntlet must have enhanced his power by protecting his hand. As an adult, Smash would be a truly formidable creature, with almost too much power. That could get him exiled from the vicinity of Castle Roogna.

But more than that, Dor was disquieted by something more subtle.

The centaurs were evidently giving choice gifts to each member of Dor’s party-fine protective clothing, plus whatever else offered, such as Irene’s silver lining and Smash’s gauntlets. This might be a fine gesture of friendship-but Dor distrusted such largesse. What was the purpose in it? King Trent had warned him once to beware strangers bearing gifts. Did the centaurs suspect Dor’s mission, and were they trying to affect the manner he pursued it? Why? He had no ready answer.

They viewed the centaur communal kitchen, where foodstuffs from a wide area were cleaned and prepared. Obviously the centaurs ate very well. In fact, in most respects they seemed to be more advanced and to have more creature comforts than the human folk of the Castle Roogna area. Dor found this unsettling; he had somehow expected to find Centaur Isle inhabited by a few primitives galloping around and fighting each other with clubs. Now that he was here, Centaur Isle seemed more like the center of culture, when Castle Roogna appeared to be the hinterland.

The power of magic was surely weaker here near the fringe, which helped explain why most centaurs seemed to lack talents, while those farther toward the center of Xanth were showing them. How was it, then, that these deficient centaurs were doing so well? It was almost as if the lack of magic was an advantage, causing them to develop other skills that in the end brought more success than the magic would have. This was nonsense, of course; but as he viewed the things of the Isle, he almost believed it. Suppose, just suppose, that there way a correlation between success and the lack of magic. Did it then follow that Mundania, the land completely devoid of magic, was likely to become a better place to live than Xanth?

That brought a puff of laughter. He had followed his thought to its logical extremity and found it ludicrous. Therefore the thought was false. It was ridiculous on the face of it to think of drear Mundania as a better place than Xanth!

The others were looking askance at him because of his pointless laughter. “Uh, just a chain of thought that snapped in a funny place,” Dor explained. Then, fearing that wasn’t enough to alleviate their curiosity, he changed the subject. “Uh, if I may inquire-since you centaurs seem to be so well organized here-certainly better than we humans are-how is it that you accept human government? You don’t seem to need us, and if it ever came to war, you could destroy us.”

“Dor!” Irene protested. “What a thing to say!”

“You are too modest, Your Majesty,” Gerome said, smiling.

“There are several compelling reasons. First, we are not interested in empire; we prefer to leave decisions of state to others, while we forward our arts, crafts, skills, and satisfaction. Since you humans seem to like the tedious process of government, we gladly leave it to you, much as we leave the shaping of granite stones to the ogres and the collection of diamonds to the dragons. It is far simpler to acquire what we need through trade.”

“Well, I suppose so,” Dor agreed dubiously.

“Second, you humans have one phenomenal asset that we generally lack,” Gerome continued, evidently embarked on a favorite subject. “You can do magic. We utilize magic, but generally cannot perform it ourselves, nor would we wish to. We prefer to borrow it as a tool. Can you imagine one of us prevailing over King Trent in an altercation? He would convert us all to inchworms!”

“If he could get close enough,” Dor said. He remembered that this matter had been discussed before; Chet had pointed out how the centaurs’ skill with the bow and arrow nullified Trent’s magic. Was there an answer to that? Dor would much prefer to believe that magic was the supreme force in Xanth.

“Who can govern from a distance?” Gerome inquired rhetorically. “Armies in the field are one thing; governing people is another. King Trent’s magic enables him to govern, as does your own. Even your lesser talents are far beyond our capacities.”

Was the centaur now gifting him with flattery? “But centaurs can do magic!” Dor protested. “Our friend Chet-“

“Please,” Gerome said. “You humans perform natural functions, too, but we do not speak publicly of such things, in deference to your particular sensitivities. It is a fact that we centaurs were not aware of any personal magic talents through most of our history, and even now suspect manifestations are an aberration. So we have never considered personal magic as being available for our use and would prefer that no further mention of this be made.”

“Uh, sure,” Dor agreed awkwardly. It seemed the other centaurs were just as sensitive and unreasonable about this as Dor’s tutor

Cherie was. Humans were indeed finicky about certain natural functions, as the centaur Elder had reminded him, while centaurs were not; while humans were not finicky about the notion of personal magic the way the centaurs were. Probably one attitude made as much nonsense as the other.

But how would the citizens of Centaur Isle react to the news that a full Magician of their species was among them? Eventually Dor would have to tell them. This mission could be awkward indeed!

“Third, we honor an understanding dating from the dawn of our species,” Gerome continued, leaving the distasteful subject of magic behind like a clod of manure. “We shall not indulge in politics, and will never compete with our human brethren for power. So even if we desired empire and had the ability to acquire it, we would not do so. We would never renege on that binding commitment.” And the centaur looked so serious that Dor dared not pursue the matter fur their.

At last they came to the historical museum. This was an impressive edifice of red brick, several stories high, with small windows and a forbidding external aspect. But it was quite interesting inside, being crowded with all manner of artifacts. There were samples of all the centaurs’ products, going back decade by decade to before the First Wave of human conquest. Dor could see how the earlier items were cruder; the craftsmen were still improving their skills. Everything was identified by neat plaques providing dates, places, and details of manufacture. The centaurs had a keen sense of history!

During the tour, Dor had continued to sneak glances at the magic compass. He was gratified to see that it pointed toward the museum; maybe the Magician was here!

“And this is our keeper of records,” Gerome said, introducing a middle-aged, bespectacled centaur. “He knows where all the bodies are hidden. Amolde the Archivist.”

“Precisely,” Amolde agreed dourly, peering over his glasses. The demon Beauregard was the only other creature Dor had seen wearing such devices. “So nice to encounter you and your party, King Dor. Now if you will excuse me, I have a new shipment of artifacts to catalogue.” He retreated to his cubby, where objects and papers were piled high.

“Amolde is dedicated to his profession,” Gerome explained. “He’s quite intelligent, even by our standards, but not sociable. I doubt there is very much about Xanth natural history he doesn’t know. Recently he has been picking up items from the fringe of magic; he made one trip to an island to the south that may have taken him entirely out of magic, though he denies this. Prior to the time King Trent dropped the shield that enclosed Xanth, such expeditions were impossible.”

Dor remembered the shield, for his tutor had drilled him on it.

Cherie Centaur was particularly strong on social history. The Waves of human conquerors had become so bad that one King of Xanth had finally put a stop to further invasion by setting up a magic shield that killed any living thing that passed through it. But that had also kept the inhabitants of Xanth in. The Mundanes, it seemed, came to believe that Xanth did not exist at all and that magic was impossible, since none of it leaked out any more. There had, it seemed, been many recorded cases of magic that Mundanes had witnessed or experienced; all these were now written off as superstition. Perhaps that was the Mundanes’ way of reconciling themselves to the loss of something as wonderful as enchantment, to pretend it did not exist and never had existed.

But Xanth had suffered, too. In time it had become apparent that mankind in Xanth needed those periodic infusions of new blood, however violently they came, for without the Waves there was a steady attrition of pure human beings. First, people developed magic talents; later generations became magic themselves, either mating with animals to form various composite species like harpies or fauns or merfolk, or simply evolving into gnomes or giants or nymphs. So King Trent had lowered the shield and brought in a number of settlers from Mundania, with the understanding that these new people would be drawn on as warriors to repel any future violent invasion that might come. So far there had been none-but the Waves had been a pattern of centuries, not of decades, so that meant little. Immigration was an uncertain business, as it was far easier to go from Xanth to Mundania than the other way around, at least for individual people. But the human situation in Xanth did seem to be improving now. Dor could appreciate how an intelligent, inquisitive centaur would be eager to begin cataloguing the wonders of Mundania, which long had been a great mystery. It was still hard to accept the notion that here was a region where magic was inoperative, and where people survived.

They moved on down the narrow hall. Dor checked the compass again-and found that it pointed directly toward Amolde the Archivist.

Could he be the centaur Magician, the threat to the welfare of Xanth, the important business Dor had to attend to? That didn’t seem to make much sense. For one thing, Amolde showed no sign of magic ability. For another, he was hardly the type to threaten the existing order; he was dedicated to recording it. For yet another, he was a settled, middle-aged person, of a species that lived longer than man. Magic talents might not be discovered early, but the evidence was that they existed from birth on. Why should this talent become an issue now, perhaps a century into Amolde’s life? So it must be a mistake; Dor’s target had to be a young centaur, perhaps a newborn one.

Yet as Dor moved about the building, only half listening to the presentation, the compass pointed unerringly toward Amolde’s cubby.

Maybe Amolde was married, Dor thought with exasperated inspiration. Maybe he had a baby centaur, hidden there among the papers. The compass could be pointing to the foal, not to Amolde.

Yes, that made sense.

“If you don’t get that glazed look off your face, the Elder will notice,” Irene murmured, jolting Dor’s attention.

After that he concentrated and managed to assimilate more of the material. After all, there was nothing he could do about the Magician at the moment.

At length they completed the tour. “Is there anything else you would like to see, King Dor?” Gerome inquired.

“No, thank you, Elder,” Dor replied. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

“Shall we arrange to transport your party back to your capital? We can contact your conjurer.”

This was awkward. Dor had to complete his investigation of the centaur Magician, so he was not ready to leave this Isle. But it was obvious that his mission and discovery would not be well received here. He could not simply tell the centaur Elders the situation and beg their assistance; to them that would be obscenity, and their warm hospitality would abruptly chill. A person’s concept of obscenity was not subject to reasonable discussion, for of course the concepts of obscenity and reason were contradictory.

In fact, that might be the root of the centaurs’ accommodation and generosity. Maybe they suspected his mission, so were keeping him reined at all times, in the guise of hospitality. How could he decide to go home promptly, after they had seemingly catered to his needs so conscientiously? They wanted him off the Isle, and he had little chance to balk their wish.

“Uh, could I talk with Chet before I decide anything?” Dor asked.

“Of course. He is your friend.” Again Gerome was the soul of accommodation. That made Dor more nervous, ironically. He was almost sure, now, that he was being managed.

“And my other friends,” Dor added. “We need to decide things together.”

It was arranged. In the afternoon the five got together in a lovely little garden site of guaranteed privacy. “You all know our mission,” Dor said. “It is to locate a centaur Magician and identify his talent-and perhaps bring him back to Castle Roogna. But the centaurs don’t much like magic in themselves; to them it’s obscene. They react to it somewhat the way we do to-well, like people looking up Irene’s skirt.”

“Don’t start on that!” she said, coloring slightly. “I think the whole world has been looking up my skirt recently!”

“Your fault for having good legs,” Grundy said. She kicked at him, but the golem scooted away. Dor noted that she hadn’t tried very hard to tag Grundy; she was not really as displeased as she indicated.

“I happen to be in a position to understand both views,” Chet said. Iris left arm was now in a sling, and he wore a packing of antipain potions. His outlook seemed improved, but not his immediate physical condition. “I admit that both centaur and human foibles are foolish. Centaurs do have magic talents and should be proud to display them, and Irene does have excellent limbs for her kind and should be proud to display them. And that’s not all-“

“All right!” Irene snapped, her color deepening. “Point made. We can’t go blabbing our mission to everyone on Centaur Isle. They just wouldn’t understand.”

“Yes,” Dor said, glad to have this confirmation of his own analysis of the situation. “So now I need some group input. You see, I believe I have located the centaur Magician. It has to be the offspring of Amolde the Archivist.”

“Amolde?” Chet asked. “I know of him. He’s been at his job for fifty years; my mother speaks of him. He’s a bachelor. He has no offspring. He’s more interested in figures of the numerical persuasion than in figures of fillies.”

“No offspring? Then it must be Amolde himself,” Dor said. “The magic compass points directly to him. I don’t know how it is possible, since I’m sure no such Magician was known in Xanth before, but I don’t believe Good Magician Humfrey would give me a bad signal on this.”

“What’s his talent?” Irene asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to find out.”

“I could ask around,” Grundy offered. “If there are any plants or animals around his stall, they should know.”

“I can ask around myself,” Dor said. “There are bound to be inanimate objects around his stall. That’s not the problem. The Elders are ready to ship us home now, and I have no suitable pretext to stay. Even one night might be enough. But what do I tell them without lying or alienating them? King Trent told me that when in doubt, honesty is the best policy, but in this case I’m in doubt even about honesty.”

“Again I perceive both sides,” Chet said. “Honesty is best-except perhaps in this case. My kind can become exceedingly ornery when faced with an incompatible concept. While I would not wish to imply any criticism of my sire-“

The others knew what he meant. Chester Centaur’s way to handle something he didn’t like was to pick it up in a chokehold and shake the stuffing from it. The centaurs of Centaur Isle were more civilized, but just as ornery underneath.

“Tell them your business is unfinished and you need another day,” Irene suggested. “That’s the literal truth.”

“That, simplistic as it sounds, is an excellent answer,” Chet said.

“Then go out at night and spy out Amolde’s talent. Have Grundy scout the route first, so you don’t arouse suspicion. That way you can complete the mission without giving offense and go home tomorrow.”

“But suppose we need to take him with us? A full Magician should come to Castle Roogna.”

“No problem at all,” Chet said. “I can tell you right now he won’t come, and no Magician can be compelled. There’s hardly a thing that could dislodge the archivist from his accustomed rounds.”

“Knowing his talent should be enough,” Irene said. “Our own Council of Elders can decide what to do about it, once they have the information.”

Dor was relieved. “Yes, of course. Tonight, then. The rest of you can sleep.”