Juxtaposition

9. Source (F)

Stile crossed the curtain in the morning at the site of the last junction. There was nothing special in Phaze at this place; it was only the slope of a lightly forested hill. Whatever had fed the message in was gone. There were not even any footprints, after two months.

He was the Blue Adept, with potent magic. How could he apply it to follow this long-cold trail? Wouldn't an Adept have counterspelled the trail to prevent such tracing?

One way to find out. Stile played his harmonica, summoning his power, while he worked out a spell. Then he sang: "Make an arrow, point the way, that the message came that day."

The arrow formed, an illuminated spot like that made by a light projection. But it rotated uncertainly, like a compass without its magnetism. Sure enough, a counter-spell was interfering. There would be no simple, one-step answer.

However, his power at this spot, now, would be greater than that of a months-gone Adept. He should be able to trace the source — if he followed the trail in person, as he had in Proton. "Give a signal, hot or cold, to make current what is old," he sang, shaping the detail in his mind.

Now Stile's left side felt warmer than his right. He turned, and the warmth was on his face. He strode forward — and the effect faded.

He backed up until he felt the heat again. It had fallen away to his right. He got back on the trail, pursuing it more carefully — and it led him in a spaghettilike wriggle that coiled about and recrossed itself frequently. Obviously the other party had anticipated this approach also, and had left a tortuous path. It might take Stile a long time to unravel every wriggle, and the trail could lead into traps.

He decided to let it go for now. He wanted to rejoin the unicorns and the Lady Blue in plenty of time for the quest for Clip and vengeance. This message had waited two months; it would wait another day.

He used a prepared spell to transport himself to the herd, and stood for a moment in discomfort as he arrived. He certainly did not enjoy performing this kind of magic on himself, but he really had no alternative at the moment.

Neysa spied him first and trotted over. She would always be his steed and his friend in spirit. Yet now she did not prance, for the pall of her brother's fate hung over her.

She changed to girl-form and made one of her rare speeches: "The Stallion has news of Clip."

"What kind?" Stile asked tightly.

"He is alive." She shifted back to mare-form.

Stile vaulted to her back, and she trotted him over to the herd. He embraced the Lady Blue briefly.

The Herd Stallion awaited him in man-form. "Under the White Mountains, prisoner of the goblins. We must strike by night — tonight, ere they suspect."

"Yes," Stile agreed. "Thou and I alone, surgically."

"They will be alert for Adept magic, and will kill Clip the moment they detect it. Thou canst not employ thy power until he is safe."

"How am I to save him, then?" Stile asked, frustrated.

"I will save him. Then thou canst get us all out of danger."

Stile was uncertain about this procedure, but had to agree. There was no use going on a rescue mission if his mere presence precipitated Clip's murder.

"We start now," the Stallion said. "It will be night ere we reach the mountains. I know an entrance to the goblin demesnes — but once underground, I will know the way no better than thou."

Stile had an idea. "Suppose I make a spell to show the way? Will that continuing magic alert the goblins?"

The Stallion considered. "I know not, but think not. It is new magic that makes alarm; there are many ancient spells in the background, ignored."

"I'd better risk it," Stile said. He considered a moment, then played his harmonica and sang: "A star institute, to illumine our route."

A pinpoint glow appeared to their north, shedding faint light on the ground.

"But the goblins will see it too!" the Stallion protested.

"See what?" the Lady Blue asked.

The Stallion smiled. "Ah — others see it not!"

"Others see it not," Stile agreed. "I am not quite as foolish as I look."

"Not quite," the Stallion agreed, and shifted back to his natural form, pawing the ground. Stile took the hint and leaped to his back. This was much more of a challenge than it had been with Neysa, for the Herd Stallion stood four hands higher than she and massed twice as much. He was a lot of animal. Had they not had a clear understanding, Stile's touch on his back would have precipitated an instant death struggle. It was a sign of the passions involved and the seriousness of the situation that the untamable Stallion submitted to this indignity.

Immediately they were off. Stile, the most skilled rider in this frame, suddenly had to hang on, lest he be dumped like a novice. Evidently some spirit of rivalry remained; the Stallion wanted him to know that he kept his perch only by sufferance. Stile had never been on a steed like this before; the Stallion was the mass of a huge work horse, but had the velocity of a racer. Stile had originally tamed Neysa by riding her against her will; he knew he could never have done it with this steed.

The scenery raced by. Wind tore at Stile's clothing. The Stallion's hooves pounded on the doubled drumbeat of a full gallop, and sparks flew up where the hard hooves struck, but the ride was smooth. The Stallion was not wasting energy in extra up-and-down motion; he was sailing straight ahead.

The pinpoint star remained fixed at about head-height, its spot of light brightening to a patch of ground. It slid to one side sometimes, guiding them around obstructions and bad footing, so that the Stallion never had to slow to scout the way. He was able to maintain cruising speed, faster than that of any horse, and he seemed tireless. As he warmed up, jets of flame blasted from his nostrils. This was the way that unicorns cooled themselves, since they did not sweat; the heat was dissipated from their breath and hooves.

After a time the ride became routine, then dull. Stile had nothing to do, since the Stallion knew the way even without the help of the little star. Stile could have slept, but was too keyed up; he wanted to rescue and restore Clip. He could do it, he was sure; his magic could cement the severed horn and heal the scars of its cutting. The only problem was getting to the unicorn without triggering the murder. And getting them all out, thereafter. Meanwhile, he just had to wait.

"I've been thinking," he remarked. "Art thou amenable to conversation?"

The Stallion blew an affirmative accordion note. He, too, was bored by this stretch.

"Thou art a powerful creature," Stile said. "Surely the goblins will recognize thee as readily as me. I can be taken for an elf, but thou canst only be a unicorn, even in man-form. The snub-horn gives thee away."

The Stallion blew another note of agreement. Unicorns could change form but retained vestigial horns in all forms. This was because the horn was the seat of the unicorn's magic; without it the creature was no more than a horse, unable to play music or change form. If an alternate form lacked the horn, the unicorn would not be able to change back to equine form. This was plainly unacceptable; the human form was not one any self-respecting unicorn would care to be stuck in for long.

"Thy dragon-form is no better than thy man-form for concealment," Stile continued. "True, it could penetrate the goblin demesnes — but would create great alarm, for no one ignores a dragon! When thou didst approach Clip, the little monsters would surely realize thy nature and intent."

"Um," the unicorn noted with a thoughtful chord.

"The thing is, thou art in all thy forms a mighty creature. Now this is no bad thing and ordinarily is altogether proper." The phrasing of a suggestion was sometimes more important than the suggestion itself, particularly when addressed to a creature of pride. "But this time I wish thou didst possess an insignificant form, like Neysa's firefly, that I could carry in unobserved."

The unicorn ran on, considering. After a time he blew a new note. "Could." The notes were not really words, but pitch and inflection conveyed definite meaning, and Stile could usually interpret them when he put his mind to it.

"Thou hast a fourth form?" he asked, surprised. "I thought three was the limit, and only one or two for some."

Now came a proud blast. This was no ordinary unicorn; the Stallion could master a fourth form, if he chose.

"That's great!" Stile exclaimed. "Couldst thou work it up in time for tonight? I know it takes a considerable act of discipline to implement a new form, and there is so little time-"

The Stallion was not foolishly optimistic. Any form was a challenge the first time, and a fourth one was special. But he thought he could manage it.

They discussed it as the miles and leagues rushed by. It developed that some forms were easier than others. Difficulty varied according to the necessary specialization and the change of size. Thus a unicorn could convert to a massive bear fairly readily, because the size was about the same. A man-form was harder, because the mass was less and because of the necessary specialization of the hands and voice. A man-form that could not tie a knot in string would not be very good, and one who could not talk would be worse. These things had to be done properly, or were not worth doing at all. Neysa's firefly-form was a greater achievement than Clip's hawk-form, because the fly was only a fraction of the mass. Neysa weighed about 850 pounds in her natural form, about 85 in her girl-form, and less than 85-hundredths of an ounce in firefly-form. It would be more than twice as hard for the Herd Stallion to get down to that size.

"But such size would be beyond suspicion," Stile remarked. "No one would believe that a beast as noble as thou couldst hide in a form so small." That accented the magnitude of the challenge, rather than the insignificance of the form.

Then there was the problem of flying, the unicorn explained in concerned notes. Flying was a specialization that had to be mastered by tedious practice, after the physical form had been achieved. The Stallion had learned it for his dragon-form, but would have to start all over for an insect-form, since insects employed a different mode of flight. That could take days.

"Oh, I did not mean thou must fly," Stile said. "It is the insignificance I am after, that none may suspect thee. Thou couldst go from dragon to roach, for that."

Roach! the Stallion blasted, affronted. Never!

But Stile was struck by something else. Dragon — roach. His poem: the one he had used to win the Tourney in Proton. Had this provided him with a prophetic key?

Now he thought back, discovering parallels. He had referred to Gabriel's horn — but there was also the unicorn's horn. Clip's horn had precipitated this venture. He had also referred to trying to cheat fate; but he had won his biggest bet because of cheating by another Citizen. How far did this go?

How far, indeed! The first four lines of that poem had matched his recent experience, deliberately. Then the key word: silence. And he had been struck by the silence-spell. Then love; and he had become betrothed to Sheen. That was not love, precisely, but related; she certainly wanted and deserved love.

In fact, those key words aligned beautifully with his experience — almost like a prediction of the Oracle. Yet the words had become the random product of the Game Computer. No magic there! So it must be coincidence. It was possible to make seeming sense of almost anything, as those two poems had shown. Still -

Why not? Stile decided to go for it. "That is one form no goblin would suspect. The nether passages must be overrun with roaches. What Herd Stallion would go to the enormous effort to achieve so lowly a form? It is beneath consideration — therefore the safest of all forms for the accomplishment of such a hazardous mission."

"Urn," the Stallion blew, heeding the logic but not the aesthetics.

"Actually, some roaches are quite elegant," Stile commented innocently. "When I was a serf in Proton, I had to deliver a horse to the dome of a Citizen who specialized in exotic creatures. He had a roach farm with some quite beautiful specimens. I remember some deep red ones, huge and sleek-surely the royalty of roaches. And others were frilly, like butterflies, only without wings-"

"Enough!" the unicorn snorted. He veered to a tight copse of trees and slowed. When he stopped inside, Stile was glad to dismount; they had been traveling for hours, and he was cramped and hungry and suffered the urgent calls of nature.

There was a convenient nut tree in the copse — unicorns generally had good taste about such things — so Stile could eat without using magic. There was also a small spring. This was really an oasis, probably known to every wild creature. There was a real advantage of traveling with such an animal — not only protection, but also the convenience of familiarity with the terrain. Stile had now traveled with three unicorns — Neysa, Clip, and the Herd Stallion — and this aspect was the same with each one. Stile had always liked horses; he knew he would always like unicorns better.

He had dreamed for more than fifteen years of becoming a Citizen of Proton, perhaps setting up his own racing stable. Now he was a Citizen — and all he really wanted was to stay here in Phaze, on any basis. He liked magic — not merely his ability to perform it, but more importantly, the very framework in which magic existed. He liked the verdant hills, the little streams, the various features of this irregular landscape. He liked the whole sweet outdoors, with its fresh air and unpredictable weather and feeling of freedom. Oh, there were horrors here — but even so, it was a better world than Proton. Three centuries of unrestricted development and narrow exploitation had destroyed the environment of Proton, so that comfort now existed only within the force-field domes. Stile liked civilization, but, after encountering Phaze, he feared it was at too great a price.

Stile became aware of a warm sensation on the left side of his face. Oh, yes — his spell to trace the sender of the message that had brought him Sheen was still in operation. Old spells never died, and faded away only slowly — which inertia was fortunate, since any given spell was effective only once. The warmth was faint, indicating that he was far from the source, but at least he could still trace it down. He would do so the moment Clip was safe.

He heard a musical groan, as of someone stepping on an accordion. The Stallion writhed, shimmered — and shrank to a gross, many-legged lump of flesh.

A spell leaped to Stile's lips. But he choked it back, realizing that this was not a magic attack. It was the Stallion's effort to master a new form.

Stile ambled over, peering down at the grotesque caricature of a roach. "Now that is the ugliest insect I've ever seen," he remarked. "But certainly the biggest." Indeed, it was almost the size of a man.

The monstrous bug waved its feelers, thrashed its legs about, and blew a furious peep from the miniature horn on its snout. Then it swelled rapidly into Stallion-form again, snorting fire from the effort.

"Oh, it's thou!" Stile exclaimed innocently. "I was about to step on it."

The Stallion glared and gave a snort that singed the hairs of Stile's arms. Then he tried again. This time he got the size right, but not the shape. He became a miniature unicorn. "I'm afraid that won't do," Stile said around a mouthful of nuts. "The goblins know that's not a normal 'corn size."

The Stallion re-formed, pawing the ground. Obviously he was putting forth terrific effort; his hooves were beginning to glow red, and wisps of smoke rose from his ears.

A third time he tried. This time he got it right — normal-sized roach, with a silvery body and golden head. The bug took one step — and exploded back into the Stallion. He just had not been able to hold it for more than two seconds.

"Maybe you'd better let it rest a while," Stile suggested. "Give your system time to acclimatize to the notion. We're not at the goblin demesnes yet."

The Stallion played an affirmative chord. Stile conjured ten pounds of fine oats for the equine repast, then stood abashed. He should not have used his magic here. But it seemed no one had been paying attention; maybe that was not the kind of spell the enemy was looking for. In due course he remounted, and they were off again. The strength of this unicorn was amazing; having run for hours and struggled to master a difficult new form, he was, after this brief respite, galloping at unreduced speed. Neysa and Clip were good unicorns, but neither could have maintained this velocity so long.

By nightfall the grim White Mountains were near. The Stallion had been moving toward them at a slant, northwest, circling the demesnes of the ogres. No need for any ogre trouble, this trip! Actually, Stile had settled with the ogres, establishing that he was not their enemy, but ogres were not too bright and there could still be trouble.

Now the sun was dropping below the horizon. The Stallion galloped along west, parallel to the mountain range, then stopped. Stile saw the guiding star to their north, showing them to the entrance to the goblins' somber nether world.

But the region was guarded. Goblins patrolled the cliff-like fringe of the mountain range. How could they get in?

Stile had the answer to that. He was larger than a goblin, but close enough so that some stooping in the dark should enable him to pass. He scraped up handfuls of dirt and rubbed it over his face and arms, then removed his clothing and coated his bare body too. Goblins wore little clothing; Stile's Proton underpants sufficed for a costume. Goblin feet and hands, however, were far larger than his own, while their limbs were shorter. Stile experimented and finally fashioned a framework for each foot from small branches and dirt, making his extremities seem goblin-sized. He did the same for his head. Magic would have been much easier for disguising himself, either physically or by means of illusion, but he did not dare use that here. He was facile with his hands and knew how to improvise; his head was actually expanded by a gross turban fashioned from his former clothing.

"Grotesque," the Herd Stallion said, eyeing Stile in man-form. "The human shape is ugly enough to begin with, but thou hast improved on it."

"Just do thine own shape-change," Stile said. "And keep it stable."

"I can but try," the Stallion said grimly. He shifted back to 'corn-form, gathered himself, and phased down to bug-form. This roach was not handsome, but it did seem to be stable. Stile watched it take a step, moving all its legs on one side, followed by those on the other side. The thing trembled and started to expand, then got hold of itself and squeezed back into bug shape. It seemed it would hold.

Stile put down his open hand. The roach hesitated, then crawled on, moving clumsily. It evidently took special coordination to handle six legs, and it was hard for the Stallion to do this while hanging on to this awkward little size. Perhaps it was like juggling six balls in the air while walking a tightrope. As it happened, Stile had done such tricks in the past — but it had taken him time to master them. "Just don't lose control and convert to equine form on my head," Stile murmured as he set the roach on the framework he had wound there. "Don't drop anything, either."

The roach, catching the reference to droppings, began to shake with laughter. It expanded to triple roach size, emitted several little sparks, wrestled with itself, and recovered control. Stile decided not to make any more jokes.

The darkness was almost complete now. Stile nerved himself and walked forward, following the flash of light projected on the ground by his little guiding star. He hunched down as well as he could, making himself humpbacked and shorter. Stile was an experienced mimic, and this was another Game talent that served him in good stead now. He walked like a goblin, swung his arms like a goblin, and glared about like a goblin. Almost, he began to hate the world the way a goblin would.

The dark hole of the cave entrance loomed close. Stile shuffled boldly toward it. But a goblin guard challenged him. "Where the hell art thou going, dirtface?"

For an instant Stile's heart paused. But he had to assume that goblins normally insulted each other, and that the guard did not realize that Stile's face really was concealed by dirt. "What the hell business is it of thine, stink-rump?" he demanded in the grating tone of a goblin, and pushed on. He felt the Stallion-roach quaking with suppressed mirth again, enjoying the exchange.

Apparently it had been the right answer. The guard did not stop him. Stile followed his little star into the cave.

Goblins were coming and going, but none of these challenged him. Stile walked downward, through narrow apertures, along the faces of subterranean cliffs, and across dark chasm cracks. The star made it easy, unerringly guiding him through the labyrinth. What might have taken him hours to figure out only took minutes. He wondered passingly how this worked; more than mere energy was involved when magic provided him with specialized information. Amazingly soon he came to a deep nether passage barred by solid stalactitic columns.

The star moved on to illumine what was beyond. It was a horse.

No — not a horse. A dehorned unicorn, so grimed that his natural color hardly showed, standing with head hanging, bedraggled, evidently lacking the will to live but unable to die. Clip!

Stile heard a tiny accordion-note snort near his ear. The roach was seething. No unicorn should be treated like this!

Half a dozen armed goblins guarded the unicorn. Four were leaning against the wall; one was drinking a swig of something foul, and the sixth was entertaining himself by pricking Clip with the point of his spear. The forlorn unicorn hardly even winced; he seemed beyond the point of resistance and did not make a good subject for teasing. Blood streaked his once-glossy blue coat from prior cuts, and his mane was limp and tangled. Flies swarmed, yet his tail hardly twitched to flick them off.

Stile heard the roach on his head breathing hard, with accordion-chord wheezes. The Herd Stallion suffered no one to treat a member of his herd this way, and was in danger of exploding again. "Nay, Stallion," Stile whispered. "Thou must hold form until thou dost get inside. Neither I nor any of thine other forms can pass these bars mechanically; they are too strong and tight. Go inside, warn Clip, then take action against the guards before they strike."

The Stallion blew a low note of agreement. Stile put his hand to his head, and the roach climbed on it. Stile set the roach on the floor in the comer near the bars.

"Hey — who art thou, rockhead?" a goblin guard cried.

Uh-oh. He had to distract attention from the roach, lest a goblin spot it and idly step on it. The Herd Stallion was vulnerable in that form, and could not shift quickly enough to counter an abruptly descending foot.

"I just wanta see the creep," Stile said. "I heard you got a horsehead in here without a horn."

"That's none of thy business," the goblin snapped. "No unauthorized idiots allowed. That specifically means thee."

The roach was now crawling uncertainly along the wall. Obviously it wasn't used to clinging to vertical surfaces, but didn't want to get stepped on. Progress was slow, so Stile had to stall longer.

"Oh, I do have business here, mucksnoot," Stile said, and of course that was the truth. "I have come to.take the 'corn away."

"Thou art crazy, manface! We have orders to 'kill this brute as soon as our armies finish massing and the enemy Adept be trapped. He's not going anywhere."

So they weren't going to let Clip live, regardless of Stile's response. And they expected to trap Stile himself. This was a straight kidnap-hostage-murder plot. No honor among goblins!

The roach, overhearing the dastardly scheme, lost its footing and fell to the floor with a loud-seeming click and whoosh of accordion-breath. Stile was afraid it would attract attention. It lay on its back, six legs waving, trying to recover its footing. Oh, no!

"Thou art not up on the latest, foulfoot," Stile said sneeringly. "You guards will be executed before the hostage is." This, too, he intended literally.

His certainty daunted the goblin. Apparently such betrayals did happen in the nether realms. "Aw, whatcha know about it, gnarltoes?" the goblin blustered.

The roach had finally struggled to right-side-up position, with tiny musical grants. Any goblin who paid attention would immediately catch on that this was no ordinary vermin! Stile had to keep talking.

"I know a lot about it, mandrakenose. That 'corn's the steed of an Adept, isn't it?"

"Sure, smarty, and that's why he ain't dead yet. To keep that Adept off our backs till he's out of the picture. We got Adepts of our own, but they don't like to tangle with each other, so we're keeping this one clear this way. The fool likes animals. We're just doing our job here; no reason to wipe us out." He looked at Stile uncertainly. "Is there?"

The roach had finally reached Clip. Stile relaxed. Just a few more seconds, and it would be all right. "How about what that other Adept thinks? Once he knows thy part, he'll come for thee — and what other Adept would breathe a spell to help thee?"

But as he spoke, Stile saw Clip lift a forefoot, eying the roach. He was about to crash it, not realizing its identity.

"Clip!" Stile called. "No!"

Then things happened one on top of another. All six goblin guards whirled, scrambled, and looked up, depending on their starting positions, to orient on the hornless unicorn. The magic roach let out a chord and scuttled away from Clip's poised hoof. Clip's head jerked about, his ears rotating to cover Stile.

"It's a trick!" the goblin nearest Stile cried. "This creep's been bugging me about the hostage. Kill him!"

It wasn't clear whether he referred to Clip or to Stile. It hardly mattered. The alarm had been sounded.

Two goblins thrust their spears at Clip. One stomped at the roach. The one nearest Stile poked his spear through the bars to skewer Stile. The remaining two set up a scream for help.

Clip suddenly animated, swinging his horn about to skewer a goblin. But he had no horn, only the truncated stump. The goblin was merely brushed aside by Clip's nose and struck out with a horny fist.

The roach skittered out of the way and began to expand like a demon amulet that had been invoked. Stile dodged the spear.

In moments the Herd Stallion stood within the prison chamber, stomping his hooves, snorting fire. His horn was not truncated. It blurred as it lunged at one goblin, then at a second and a third, before any could flee. Three goblins were lifted into the air, skewered simultaneously on that terrible spike.

Clip charged the goblin who was poking at Stile, crushing the creature's head with a blow of a forehoof. But the two others were running down the far passage, too narrow for the unicorns to follow, crying the alarm.

Stile readied a spell, but paused. So far he had not used magic and, now that he knew there was an enemy Adept involved here, he did not want to give himself away one second sooner than necessary. The goblins did not know it was the Blue Adept who was in their midst, so the other Adept might not know, either — until Stile gave himself away by using magic.

But now there were two unicorns in the prison, and the main goblin mass was stirring in the bowels of the mountain. The Stallion could use his roach-form to escape-but Clip could not change form without his horn. Stile could change Clip's form for him — but that meant magic of Adept signature. Stile could also melt the bars away with magic, if they were not of the magic-resistive type. That must have been how Clip was brought here; the enemy Adept had spelled him through.

If he had to use magic, he might as well tackle the most important thing first. How he wished discovery had been delayed a little longer! "Clip — here to me!" he called, bringing out the thing he carried like a spear. It was Clip's severed horn.

The unicorn stared, almost unbelieving. No doubt he had thought the horn destroyed.

"My power can restore it!" Stile said, holding the horn out, base first.

Clip came and put his head near the bars. Stile reached through, setting the horn against the stump. "Restore the horn of this unicorn!" he sang, willing the tissue to merge, the thing to take life again.

It was hard, for he had not intensified his power by playing the harmonica, and the horn was magic. It resisted Stile's magic, and he knew the two parts were not mending properly. He was grafting on a dead horn. Meanwhile, a phalanx of goblins appeared in the passage behind Stile, bristling with spears. Stile saw them from the corner of his eye but could not release his hands from the horn, lest the slow healing he interrupted. Clip could not move, either, for he was on the other side of the bars waiting for the healing.

But the Herd Stallion was free. He launched himself at the bars. "No!" Stile cried in alarm, knowing the stone was too strong for the animal to break. But the Stallion shifted in midair to roach-form, sailed between columns, and shifted on Stile's side to dragon-form.

The dragon spread his wings, banked about, and fired forth a horizontal column of flame that seared the oncoming goblins. The stench of burnt flesh wafted back. Stile felt sorry for the goblins, then remembered how they had treated Clip, and stilled his sympathy. The creatures of the frame of Phaze conducted their business violently, and goblins were among the worst. Stile continued to concentrate on the healing, letting the Stallion guard him, and slowly the two parts of Clip's horn melded together. Stile felt the living warmth creep along the length of it, animating it. Soon all would be well.

A horde of goblins poured in from the far side of the prison. "Stallion!" Stile cried, and the Herd Stallion turned about, charged the bars, shifted into and out of roach-form, and appeared on the other side in dragon-form again. Another burst of flame seared out, cooking more flesh.

But greater trouble was gathering. Stile could feel the rumble of the march of many feet as hundreds or thousands of goblins closed in, traveling in unseen neighboring passages. He knew he had alerted the enemy Adept, for he had performed Adept magic; that would further complicate the situation. Still he held on to the horn, waiting for the final inch to be restored to life so that Clip's full capacity would return. He would settle for nothing less.

There was a puff of fog. The White Adept stood beside Stile. Her hair was white, matching her eyebrows, and a sparkling white gown bedecked her somewhat stout form. "So it is thee, Blue, as we suspected," she said, her voice and gaze cold as ice, "Thou didst take the bait."

"I took it," Stile agreed grimly. He was not really surprised; his relations with the White Adept had always been chill. But why was she involved with the goblins? "I got tired of getting ambushed by the likes of thee." Would she tell him anything before making her move? If she started a spell-diagram before he was finished with Clip's horn, he would be in trouble; he would have to defend himself, for without him the unicorns could not escape. But White could have generated a spell that acted at a distance instead of facing him directly. Maybe she wanted to talk.

The Herd Stallion turned from his endeavors, leaving a pile of scorched goblins rolled up like dehydrated bugs, and saw the witch. He braced for renewed action.

"Caution," Stile called. "She's Adept."

The mighty animal stood still. He knew better than to attack an Adept in a situation like this. He also knew that

Stile was not finished with Clip. For the moment it was an impasse.

"I can not attack thee directly, Blue," the White Adept said. "And thou canst not attack me. Yet can our minions make mischief."

"Agreed," Stile said. "But why has mischief been made? I sought none."

"Abate thine onus for the moment and hear me out," she said. "Blue, I would reason with thee."

In Stile's experience, those who claimed to want to reason with others were apt to have cases that were less than secure. Still, it was better to talk than to fight. Now at last Clip's horn had healed. Stile let go, and the unicorn backed away, blowing an experimental saxophone note. It was off-key, but strong. His coat seemed to be brightening under the grime; he had been restored to the joy of life.

The White Adept had known what Stile was doing, and had not interfered. She had to be serious about her subject, and Stile seriously wanted to know what this was all about. "Give thy word there will be no attack by Adept or goblin without fair warning," he said. "No treachery."

"I give it, Blue." There was a faint ripple in the air about her.

He had to accept that. Truth animated the very atmosphere and substance of Phaze. Adepts did not get along well with each other, but they honored the deals they made. "Then I will hear thy reason."

"Thou knowest that the end of Phaze draws nigh," she said. "The Purple Mountains have shaken, the Foreordained is on the scene, the Little Folk mass as for war, and portents abound."

"Aye," he agreed. "They tell me I am involved. Yet all I sought was to honeymoon with my wife. Someone set traps for me, and one trap setter resembled thee."

"Merely to warn thee off," she said. "Thou art Adept and perhaps the strongest of us all. Thou hast suffered much, yet thou shouldst be the leader in our effort instead of opposing it."

"What effort?" Stile's interest intensified.

"To save Phaze."

"Of course I want to save Phaze! I love this land! I want to live and die here!"

"But not, methinks, before thy time."

Stile smiled grimly. "I wish not to die here among goblins, true. But I sought no quarrel with goblins. Thou didst kidnap my steed, and abused him, and forced this quarrel on me."

"Aye. Unable to strike effectively at thee or at thy Lady, or to warn thee off, we finally had to take thy steed. It is not a thing I like. Now thou canst have thy freedom with our apologies, and thine animals with thee, and leadership in the present Order, if thou wilt but accept it."

"Why should I not accept it?" Stile asked, not rhetorically.

"Because thou art prophesied to be the leader of the forces of the destruction of this order. The Foreordained is only part of it; thou art the other part."

"Obviously there's a loophole," Stile said. "Aside from the fact that I have no intention of harming Phaze, thou wouldst not be pressuring me if thou didst believe my destiny was fixed."

"There is a loophole. A dead man cannot lead."

Stile laughed ironically. "Kill me? My fate will survive thine effort, if it be truly set."

"Aye. Fate has indeed charmed thee, unlike thine other self. But we are not assured thou canst not be killed, only that if thou dost remain alive in Phaze, thou wilt destroy it. The charms that preserved thee so cleverly before are passing. Thou hast already conceived thy son on the Lady Blue-"

"I have?" Stile asked, surprised.

"— which is why she joins thy former steed and accepts the protection of the animal herd. So fate no longer preserves thee for that. It preserves her. Still, her feeling for thee is such that she might not survive thy demise, so thou art indirectly protected yet. I warned the others of that, but they heeded me not; they thought they could vanquish thee before thou didst reach the West Pole."

"They?"

"The other Adepts. We all are patriots in the end, Blue. We all must needs try to save our land."

She seemed sincere! "All the other Adepts are against me?" he asked incredulously.

"All except Brown; the child wavers. She likes thy steed."

Stile remembered how Neysa had given the little girl a ride. It seemed that kindness had paid a dividend. "What of Yellow?" Stile had had differences with the Yellow Adept, but recently had gotten along with her tolerably well. He could not believe she was his enemy.

"Dost thou want it from her own mouth?"

"Aye."

'"Then let me bring her here." White made a diagram on the floor and tapped it three times. A puff of smoke formed and dissipated, and there stood the Yellow Adept in her natural hag-form.

"Oh, no!" Yellow exclaimed. "Let me just get changed for the occasion, my handsome bantam." She brought out a vial, tipped it to her lips, swallowed — and changed to a young, ravishingly pretty creature.

"White tells me that thou and the other Adepts think I will destroy Phaze, so are against me, Yellow," Stile said. "Can this be true?"

Yellow made a devastatingly cute moue. "It is close enough, Blue," she said. "I am not thine enemy and will not oppose thee — but neither can I join thee, for that thou art indeed destined to wreak much mischief and overthrow the natural order."

"How is it I know nothing of this?" Stile demanded.

"The instruments of great events seldom know their destinies," Yellow said. "This prevents paradox, which can be an awkward complication and a downright nuisance."

"Nuisance, hell! I was attempting to have my honeymoon! Why should this represent a threat to anyone?"

"Thou didst bring the Foreordained, and then thou didst travel to the West Pole. These were elements of the prophecy."

"So the other Adepts decided to stop me from getting there," Stile said, grimacing. "Setting neat little magical traps."

"Some did. Green chose to stand aloof, as I did, misliking this. Sure enough, thou didst get there. Now the onrush of events is upon us, and if we do not get thee away from Phaze promptly, we all are doomed."

"So you propose to remove me by killing me?"

"Nay, we know that would not work," Yellow said. "At least White and Green and I suspected it would not. Black and Orange and Translucent did not participate in the proceedings, and Brown opposed them. We had to suppress her, lest she warn thee."

So it now developed that the other Adepts were anything but unanimous; most were at best neutral. That explained why they had not simply massed their magic against him. Stile's expression turned hard. "Suppressed Brown? What dost thou mean by that?"

"A stasis-spell," White said quickly. "No harm was done her. It is hard indeed to do direct harm to an Adept; the spell is likely to bounce and strike down the speller. But slantwise action can be taken, as with the silence and confinement for thee."

"You froze the child in place?" Stile demanded. "Our truce is just about to come to an unkind end."

"She would have blabbed to thee," White repeated.

"Now I am blabbing to thee: release her."

White's expression hardened, as was typical of those whose reason was only a front. Yellow quickly interceded. "Provoke him not unnecessarily, White; he has power and friends we hardly know. We need hold Brown no longer. I shall go free her." She brought out another vial, sipped the potion, and vanished.

"Methinks thou hast won the heart of more than Brown," White grumbled. She viewed him critically, noting the mud caking his body and the awkward turban, loincloth, and shoe structures. "It must be thy magic, rather than thy demeanor."

Stile relaxed marginally. Ugly things were happening, and he knew it wasn't over. So far there had been attacks against him, the Lady Blue, Clip, and the Brown Adept. An organization of Adepts had formed against him. He needed to know the rest of it. "Let's have it, White. Exactly what is the threat to Phaze, and what dost thou want of me?" For he knew her suggestion about giving him a place of leadership was wrong; how could he lead, if his presence meant the end?

"We want thee to leave Phaze voluntarily, so that the dangers of Adept confrontations are abated. Thou canst take Lady Blue and aught else thou wishest. Cross the curtain, embark on a Proton spaceship, and depart for the farthermost corner of the universe as that frame knows it, never to return."

Stile had no intention of doing that. Apart from the complication of the Lady Blue's official nonexistence in the other frame, where the Records Computer took such things more seriously than people did in Phaze, there was the matter of the robot Sheen. How could he marry her, with his other wife in Proton? And how could he leave his friends the unicorns and werewolves and vampires? Phaze was the world of his dreams and nightmares; he could never leave it. "Nay."

"The applicable portion of the prophecy is this: Phaze will never be restored till the Blue Adept is forever gone.' Thou canst not remain."

"I have had some experience with misrepresented predictions," Stile said. "Restoration of Phaze after my departure is hardly synonymous with my destruction of it — which I maintain is no intent of mine. Thou hast answered only a fraction of my question, and deviously at that."

"I am getting to it, Blue. The goblins guard an apparatus from the other frame, protecting it from all threats. The end of Phaze will come when that device is returned. The goblins guard it blindly from harm; we would prefer to destroy it."

"So the collusion of Adepts with goblins is rife with internal stress," Stile observed. "Doubtless the goblins know not of this aspect."

"Doubtless they suspect, however," White said.

"Surely the massed power of the Adepts can prevail against mere goblins," Stile said, pushing at her verbally. "Any one of us could enchant the entire species of goblin into drifting smoke."

"Thou might, Blue. Few others could. But this device is a special case and can not be attacked directly."

"Anything can be attacked!" Stile said. "Some things with less success than others, though, as seems to be the case when Adepts attack Adepts."

"Nay. This device is what is called in the other frame a computer."

"A computer can't operate in Phaze! No scientific device can." Except, he remembered, near the West Pole.

"This one has a line running to the West Pole."

Parallel thoughts! "Maybe. If it could figure out how to use magic in its circuits."

"Aye. It functions partially, and has many thoughts. Some concern thee — which is why we did not wish thee to make connection with it at the Pole."

"How canst thou know this if the goblins let thee not near it? In fact, why do the goblins allow Adepts in their demesnes, seeing the likes of thee would destroy what they endeavor to guard from harm?"

"The goblin-folk are not unduly smart," she said with a fleeting smile. "But smart enough to keep Adepts away from the device. They cooperate with us to some extent because they know that we oppose thee — and thou art one who will take the contraption from them and return it to Proton-frame, where it seems it will wreak all manner of mischief on both frames. So it is an uneasy alliance, but it will do. All of us, Adept and goblin alike, wish to save Phaze."

"And I wish to destroy Phaze," Stile said. "Or so you other Adepts choose to believe. Because of some fouled-up prophecy. No matter that I love Phaze; you believe that not."

"Nay, Blue, this one is not distorted. Thou wilt return the thing to Proton and thereby destroy Phaze, and only thy departure can alleviate that."

Stile was annoyed by this insistence. There had to be some flaw in the logic. "How dost thou know the prophecy is true?"

"The computer itself made it."

"And what relevance can the guess of an other-frame contraption have? Thou dost credit it with the accuracy of the Oracle!"

She nodded, and Stile's mouth dropped open. "Oh, no!" he exclaimed.

"It is so," she affirmed. "The computer is the Oracle. That is how it defends itself from the likes of us. Any thrust we can conceive against it, it anticipates and foils. Its means are devious but effective. We dare not attack it directly."

"Now let me back up," Stile said. "Thou didst offer me peace and fortune in Phaze, then told me I have to get out of Phaze forever or be killed, so that I won't destroy it. Surely thou perceivest the contradiction. Where is the lie?"

"Nay, Blue!" she said. "We Adepts differ some amongst ourselves about our manner of dealing with thee, so there may be seeming contradictions. It is a fair offer — if thou dost but accept it. Cooperation or exile. We fear thou wilt not."

"Try me, White."

Her glance played across the cavern, indicating the unicorns and goblins, all waiting for the settlement of Adepts. "Needs must we have greater privacy than this," she said. "Thy spell or mine?"

"Mine," he said. He played a bar of harmonica music, then sang: "Give us a globe that none may probe." And about them formed an opaque sphere that cut off all external light and sound.

In a moment light flared, as the witch made a spell of her own. "Now before we suffocate," she said, "I'll give it to thee without artifice. We want thee to destroy the Oracle. Only thou canst do it, for thou art its tool. It will admit thee to its presence, if thou canst get somehow past the goblins, and thy power is great enough to do the deed. Destroy that evil machine, Blue, and Phaze will be saved. This is the loophole we dare not voice aloud. Only if it returns operative to Proton can it act to destroy Phaze, and it can not foresee its own demise. Do this, Blue, and all other prophecies are null; we then shall have no onus against thee, and thou canst govern in Phaze."

"Thou art asking me to betray a — a consciousness that trusts me," Stile said, disturbed. "That has never been my way."

"Agreed. Thou hast ever been honorable, Blue, which is why I trust myself to thy power here. It is no fault in thee that causes us to oppose thee; it is only that it is in thy power to save or finish Phaze. Save our land and suffer our gratitude; try to destroy it and suffer our opposition; or vacate the frame so that we have no need to fear thee. These are thy choices, Blue. Thou knowest our determination; we are fighting for our lives and world. We are not limited by thy scruples, and our massed magic is stronger than thine. Thus united, we can attack thee directly. Oppose us not gratuitously."

It was a fair ultimatum. But Stile found he could not take the easy way out. "I love Phaze," he repeated. "I want never to leave it. In addition, I am now a Citizen in Proton, with considerable wealth. I shall not sacrifice my place in both frames by forever departing the planet. That leaves me with two choices: join thee or oppose thee. I know nothing of these prophecies thou dost speak of. Why should I try to destroy a device that has done me no harm?"

"No harm!" she flared, her white hair seeming to darken and melt with the heat. "Thou trusting fool! That device killed thee once and imperiled thy life again by setting us against thee."

"That last I perceive," Stile agreed. "Yet the business of the Oracle is making prophecies and being correct. If I am to be the leader of the forces of destruction of Phaze by helping this computer to return to Proton — though the reason remains opaque as to why it should wish ill to Phaze or how it could harm this frame from Proton — and someone inquires about that, the Oracle can but answer truthfully. Naturally that imperils me, and I like it not — but neither can I fault it for that answer. Truth is often unpleasant. Rather should I inquire in what way I am to do a deed whose nature appalls me. Were I sure the Oracle would destroy Phaze, I would not help it, and surely it is aware of that. There must be circumstances I know not and that you other Adepts know not. Better that I at least talk with the Oracle to ascertain the rationale."

"Of course," she said. "That is thy sensible response, and surely the machine is expecting thee to come to it. That makes it possible for thee to destroy it."

"Or to help it to destroy Phaze," Stile said wryly. "At the moment I intend to do neither evil, and can not see what rationale would sway me either way."

"Then consider this, Blue. It was the Oracle who hinted at the doom of the Red Adept and started her mischief against thee. She killed thine other self and attacked thee in Proton — but it was the Oracle who motivated her. If thou dost seek vengeance for the murder of the Blue Adept, seek it at the source — the infernal Oracle. This is no sweet contraption like thy golem mistress, Blue. It plays the game savagely."

"But all its predictions were true!" Stile protested, experiencing a trace of doubt. "I can not blame it for fulfilling that role!"

"Fool! dost thou not realize it was a self-fulfilling prophecy? Red attacked thee because the Oracle fingered thee, no other reason. The Oracle knew what would happen. It alone generated that murder — and knew that also."

Stile was shaken. He was conversant with the bypaths of logic. White was right; the Oracle had initiated the campaign against him. A lesser entity might have made a mistake, but the Oracle had to have known what it was doing. It had murdered Stile's other self, caused Stile's knee misery, and set him on the horrendous path he had followed on the way to Phaze and to vengeance against the Red Adept.

Yet he remembered also that the original Blue Adept had accepted his own murder. Why?

"But why should the Oracle do this to me?" he asked plaintively, seeking to resolve this part of the mystery. Maybe if he knew the Oracle's motive, he could fathom his alternate self's strange acquiescence. His mind was, after all, identical.

"I suggest thou dost go ask it," White said. "Ask also why it should seek to use thee to destroy Phaze. Then must thou do what thou shalt see fit to do."

It all did seem to add up, at least to this incomplete extent. He had to settle with the Oracle. "I will go ask the machine and then do what I see fit to do."

"I meant that facetiously," the White Adept said. "We do not believe the computer will allow thee to approach it unless it knows thou wilt side with it. I have made our case to thee, but thou hast not reacted with proper fury.

Something we know not of has influenced thee against us.

The knowledge of his other self's acquiescence — that was the influencing factor. "Of course I am not with thee!" Stile exclaimed. "I am not with anyone who kidnaps and dehorns my steed. Thy methods make thy side suspect."

"And the methods of the Oracle make it not similarly suspect?"

Stile spread his hands. "I admit I know not the final truth. I will seek the Oracle."

"I did not think thou wouldst join us. But I undertook to make the case. Hadst thou accepted honestly-"

"I have done nothing dishonest!"

"Aye. So we must destroy thee. Yellow will not like that, but it must be done. When we leave this bubble, it will be war between us. The other Adepts have massed their power, and the goblins are ready."

"Fortunate art thou that thy trust in this truce was well placed. Else would I simply confine thee here."

"Honor is not a luxury many of us can afford," she said sadly. "Yet in the name of honor, some are fools. Thou wilt not attack us or the Oracle without fair warning. This makes thee ideal for whatever side can use thee." She sighed. "I do not hate thee, Blue. I respect thee. I, too, am true to my cause, and it is a worthy one. Thou art true only to thine honor, and therein lies thy grief. Phaze will never be safe whilst Blue remains. Thus says our enemy the Oracle, and this we do believe. We like it not, but so must it be. Be on thy guard against my kind, Blue."

Stile studied her. The White Adept was no young thing, and she had not bothered with Yellow's type of vanity. She looked old and ugly and careworn. He had encountered her before and found little to please him. But he knew she was a witch and a skilled one; backed by the power of the other Adepts, she was far more formidable than she appeared. Her warning had to be heeded. The Adepts would now be fully unified and coordinated. The veil was off; nothing would be held back. She was giving him the most forceful warning she could, without betraying her associates.

He would have to get away from here in a hurry, the moment the shell opened. Yet where could he escape to? The Adepts could follow him anywhere in Phaze. White's warning, perhaps, was intended to focus his attention on this problem so that he would have a fair chance. His respect for her had been small; now it had enlarged. She had taken pains to give information that he needed, when she really hadn't had to. "I thank thee for thy courtesy, White," he said.

Stile released the spell that enclosed them and stood on guard. If the witch tried to strike against either unicorn, Stile would counter the spell. By the same token, if he started magic against the lurking goblins, she would block it. Since no spell could be used twice, it was sheer waste for Adept to squander magic against Adept. Their special powers would cancel each other out — until the other Adepts oriented — and she had told him they were ready. He was outgunned and would have to move fast so that they could not keep proper track of him.

"We must travel!" Stile cried. "I must stave off magic; you two handle the rest!" He vaulted aboard the nearest unicorn, which happened to be the Herd Stallion.

Clip was now outside the prison, probably having shifted to hawk-form to pass by the bars. That meant he was back in full health. But Stile was happier riding the Stallion, whom he knew to be in full possession of his powers. Clip might tire quickly.

The Stallion blasted out a medley of chords. Goblins had appeared in the passage; they hastily faded back, heeding the warning. Clip went to hawk-form and flew ahead, leading the way. The Stallion launched himself forward.

Stile was only peripherally aware of these details. His attention was on the White Adept. As the Stallion moved out, she started drawing a symbol in the dust on the floor. Stile sang out a spell that was mostly in his head: "Dust — gust!"

The dust stirred up into a cloud, gusting about the cavern. The witch was unable to complete her sketch. Her spell had been intercepted. She could not function any better in this swirl than Stile could when he had been a victim of the silence-spell. She looked up — and Stile saw with surprise that she was smiling. It was as if she were glad to see him escape. She must have spoken truly when she said she did not like this business. She had to fight him, but didn't really mind failing. Some Adepts, it seemed, were not as bad as others.

However, he had to heed her warning about the other enemy Adepts, most of whom he had never interacted with. They would not hold back, once they got around White's tacit obstruction and oriented directly on him.

Meanwhile, the goblins were bad enough. These were their passages, and they were thoroughly conversant with the dusky recesses. The Herd Stallion was retracing the route they had descended — but suddenly a great iron gate slammed into place ahead, blocking the way. The Stallion could not pass and Clip barely squeezed back through the narrow aperture to rejoin them. They were caught in the passage, and a solid mass of goblins was wedging in behind them.

The Stallion played more chords. Clip, answering the command, shifted to man-form and joined Stile on the Stallion's back. He was clothed now, with a rapier. He drew this and faced back, menacing a few goblins who tried to squeeze in behind.

Stile got the idea. He unwrapped his concealed broadsword and sat ready to slice at any goblins who got within range to either side. His main attention was on whatever signs of hostile magic there might be, but he could slash while hardly looking.

The Stallion charged the goblins. They scattered, throwing their spears away in their frantic scramble to get clear. It was not that they were cowardly; it was that a ton of unicorn bristling with horn and two armed riders was a truly formidable thing. Any who tried to stand their ground would be skewered or slashed or trampled. As it happened, a number could not get out of the way in time and were indeed trampled and skewered.

There was a side passage. The unicorn hurtled into this, causing Stile to grab for the mane in order to hold his seat, and thundered along it.

Suddenly there was a ledge. The Herd Stallion could not brake in time. He leaped out over the edge, into the darkness of nothing.

Then Stile found himself riding the dragon. The Stallion's dragon was not large for this type, being perhaps only twelve feet long from snout to tail, and Stile's weight bore him down. Fortunately Stile was not large for his own type, and the dragon was able to spread his wings and descend slowly. Clip, of course, had converted to hawk-form.

Stile still wore his grotesque shoes and turban. Quickly he sloughed these off, lightening the burden on the reptile; but the descent continued.

The dragon snorted fire that illuminated the cavern. They were in a deep cleft whose upper reaches were lit by wan shafts of moonlight. There was their escape!

But the dragon could not make it that high under Stile's weight. Stile readied a spell, felt the questing magic of another Adept, and had to hold back. He could be messed up much as he had messed up White's spell, and in midair that could be disastrous. Also, it seemed the enemies could not quite locate him as long as he remained in the dark and cast no spells. He had to hold off until it was safer. So the dim light above faded, and they dropped down into the deeper depths silently.

There was a detonation of something. Light blazed and metallic fragments whistled by. Someone had fired an explosive amulet or something similar at them. This was blind shooting, hoping to catch the dragon by a random shot; the assailants did not have a perfect fix on Stile's party. Now he was certain that if he used defensive magic, he would give away his location. Better to lie quiet, like a submarine on a water planet, and hope the depth-charges missed.

The dragon tried again to rise, but could not. Stile felt the body heating with the effort. This could not continue long.

There was a pop behind them. The Stallion-dragon turned his head to send back a jet of flame-and the light showed a griffin, an eagle-headed lion, the next enemy Adept sending. "Uh-oh," Stile murmured. "Can't hide from that."

But the Stallion was burning hot from his exertions. He looped about, aimed his snout at the pursuing griffin, and exhaled a scaring shaft of fire.

The griffin squawked as it was enveloped in flame. The blaze of its burning wings lit up the entire cavern. It tumbled down to the water, smoking feathers drifting after it.

But the next sending was another dragon, a big one. Its chest pumped like a bellows, building up pressure for a devastating blast that would incinerate Stile and the Stallion. The enemy was now fighting fire with fire.

The hawk winged at it, too small and fast for the dragon to catch or avoid. The dragon ignored the bird, knowing nothing that size could dent its armored hide. The enormous metal-foil wings beat swiftly, launching the dragon forward.

The hawk dived, zeroing in on the dragon's head. Stile could only watch with dismay, knowing Clip was throwing away his life in a useless gesture, a diversionary effort that was not working. He could not even think of a preventive spell on this too-brief notice.

The dragon opened its monstrous mouth to take in the tiny missile — and Clip changed abruptly to unicorn-form. He struck horn-first, piercing the dragon's head, his horn passing from inside the throat right on between the eyes and out, penetrating the little brain on the way.

The strike was so unexpected and powerful that the monster simply folded its wings and expired. It plummeted to the water, while Clip changed back to hawk-form and flew clear. "Well done!" Stile cried, amazed and gratified.

Now for a time there were no more sendings. But Stile knew worse attacks were in the offing. His party had to get out of the chasm — and could not. Already they were close to the nether water. He had to relieve the Herd Stallion of his weight — yet was sure that the one enchantment the enemy Adepts would have blocked would be a personal transport-spell. They were trying to force Stile to use it — and launch himself into oblivion.

The Stallion sent forth more fire, just enough to light the way. The dark water below reflected with slight iridescence, as if oily. Stile mistrusted that. He didn't want the Stallion to fall into that liquid. He would have to risk magic. Not transport, of course; something unexpected.

The hawk had been circling. Now he came back, squawking news. Over and over he cried it, until Stile was able to discern the word. "Curtain!" Stile cried. "The curtain is ahead?"

That was it. Now Stile had a better alternative. "Fly low, Stallion, and I'll pass through the curtain. Then thou and Clip can fly up and escape in the night. They want thee not, only me, and soon thou canst return to thy herd. I'll climb up on the Proton side, where magic can't reach me." Of course there would be other problems across the curtain, but he would handle them in due course.

The Stallion was in no position to argue. He glided low — and there in the dark was the scintillation of the curtain, crossing the chasm. "If there's any sort of ledge — I don't want to drop too far."

There was no ledge. It would have to be the water. They intersected the curtain, and Stile spelled himself across.