Juxtaposition

1. Clef (F)

"I could give you some sleepfog," the lady robot said. "You stayed awake all night researching, and the Game is this afternoon. You have to rest."

"No drugs!" Stile snapped. "Better to be keyed up than fogged out."

"Better yet to be rational," she said.

He shook his head, looking at her. She was so exactly like a woman that most people never realized the truth. Not only could she function in all the ways of a living human female, she was extremely well formed. Her hair was a sun-bleached brown, shoulder length; her lips were full and slightly tinted, kissable; her eyes were green behind long lashes. She was the sort of creature rich, lonely men obtained to gratify their private passions more per fectly than any real woman would. But Stile knew her for what she was, and had no passion for her. "This is one time I wish I could just click off the way you can."

"I wish I were flesh," she said wistfully. She was programmed to love him and protect him and she was absolutely true to her program, as a machine had to be. "Come on-I'll put you to sleep." She took Stile's head in her lap and stroked his hair and hummed a lullaby.

Oddly enough, it worked. Her body was warm and soft, her touch gentle, and he had complete faith in her motive. Stile was dose to few people and he tended to feel easier around machines. His tensions slipped away and his consciousness followed.

He found himself dreaming of the time several days before, when he had passed the Platinum Flute on to the musician Clef and guided the man across the curtain. In this dream he followed Clef's consciousness, not his own.

Somehow this did not seem strange. Stile had felt an instant and deep camaraderie with the man when they played music together. Stile himself was highly skilled with a number of instruments, but Clef's musical ability amounted to genius. It had been impossible to remain aloof from a person who played that well.

Clef had never been to the frame of Phaze. He stared at the lush tufts of grass, the tremendous oaks and pines, and the unicorn awaiting them, as if he were seeing something strange.

"This is Neysa," Stile informed him, perceived in the dream as a different person. The unicorn was black, with white socks on the rear feet, and was as small for her species as Stile was for his. Clef towered over them both, and felt awkward. "She will carry thee to the Platinum Demesnes."

What affectation was this? Stile had spoken normally until this moment. "I don't even know how to ride!" Clef protested. "And that's a mythical creature!" He eyed the long spiraled horn, wishing he could touch it to verify that it was only tacked on to the horse. He had been told that this was a land of magic, but he found that hard to credit.

"Well, I could conjure thee there, but — "

"Absolutely not! Magic is — incredible. Wherever I have to go, I'll walk."

Stile shrugged. "That is thy business. But I must insist that Neysa accompany thee. Until thou dost reach the protection of the Little Folk, this region is not safe for thee."

"Why are you suddenly talking archaically?" Clef de manded.

"This is the tongue of this frame," Stile explained. "Now must I conjure clothing for thee."

"Clothing!" Clef exclaimed, daunted. "I am a serf, like you, forbidden to — I can not — "

Stile had recovered a package of clothing from a hiding place and was putting it on. "Here in Phaze, thou art a man. Trust me; clothe thyself." He paused, then said in a singsong voice: "An ye can, clothe this man."

Suddenly Clef was clothed like a Citizen of Proton, with silken trousers, shirt, jacket of light leather, and even shoes. He felt ludicrous and illicit. "If anyone sees me in this outrageous costume — " He squinted at Stile. "You were serious about magic! You conjured this!"

"Aye. Now must I conjure myself to the Blue Demesnes, to report to the Lady Blue. Neysa and the Flute will keep thee safe, methinks. Farewell, friend."

"Farewell," Clef responded weakly.

Stile sang another spell and vanished. Clef contemplated the vacated spot for a while, absorbing this new evidence of enchantment, then felt his own clothing. Blue trousers, golden shirt — what next? "And I'm supposed to travel with you," he said to the little unicorn. "With thee, I should perhaps say. Well, he did warn me there would be tribulations. I don't suppose you know the direction?"

Neysa blew a note through her horn that sounded like an affirmation rendered in harmonica music. Clef had not realized that the animal's horn was hollow, or that she would really comprehend his words. He followed her lead.

The scenery was lovely. To the near south was a range of purple-hued mountains, visible through gaps in the for est cover. The immediate land was hilly, covered with rich green turf. Exotic birds fluttered in the branches of the trees. No path was visible, but the unicorn picked out an easy passage unerringly.

"Are you — art thou able to play music on that horn?" Clef inquired facetiously, feeling a need to assert himself verbally if not physically.

For answer, Neysa played a merry little tune, as if on a well-handled harmonica. Clef, amazed, fell silent. He would have to watch what he said in this fantastic frame; more things were literal than he was inclined to believe.

The pace became swift, as Neysa moved up to her limit. Clef had always liked to walk, so was in no discomfort, but wondered just how far they were going. In Proton, with the limitation of the domes, it was never necessary to walk far before encountering mass transportation. Obvi ously there was no such limit here.

Thе animal perked up her small ears, listening for some thing. Clef knew that horses had good hearing, and pre sumed unicorns were the same. It occurred to him that a world of magic could have magical dangers and he had no notion how to cope with that sort of thing. Presumably this equine would protect him in much the way Stile's distaff robot protected him in Proton; still, Clef felt ner vous.

Then, abruptly, the unicorn became a petite young woman, wearing a simple black dress and white slippers. She was small, even smaller than Stile, with lustrous black hair that reminded him of the mane or tail of -

Of course! This was, after all, the same creature, in a different shape. She even had a snub-horn in her forehead, and her shoes somehow resembled hooves, for their slipper tops tied into thick, sturdy soles.

"Stile is getting married," Neysa said. There was the suggestion of harmonica music in her voice. "I must go there. I will summon a werewolf to guide thee."

"A werewolf!" Clef exclaimed, horrified.

But the girl was a unicorn again. She blew a loud blast on her horn.

Faintly, there was an answering baying. Now Neysa played a brief harmonica tune. There was a responding yip, much closer. She changed back into the girl. Clef tried to ascertain how she did that, but it was too quick; she seemed simply to phase from one form to the other with no intermediate steps. Perhaps that was why this frame was called Phaze — people phased from one form to an other, or from nudity to attire, or from place to place.

"A bitch is coming," Neysa said, startling Clef again; he had not expected such a term from so pert a miss. "Farewell." She changed into a firefly, flashed once, and zoomed away to the north. There seemed to be no conservation of mass here.

A dark shape charged toward him, low and furry, gleaming-eyed and toothed. Clef clutched the Platinum Flute — and suddenly it was a fine rapier. "Will wonders never cease!" he exclaimed. This was a weapon with which he was proficient. He stood awaiting the onslaught of the wolf with enhanced confidence, though he was by no means comfortable. He did not relish the idea of blood shed, even in self-defense.

But the creature drew up short and metamorphosed into a woman. This one was older; in fact, she looked grand motherly.

Clef was catching on to the system. "You — thou art the werewolf the unicorn summoned?"

"Aye. I am the werebitch available, man-creature. I have seen weddings enow; since my old wolf died I care not overmuch to see more. I will guide and guard thee to the Elven Demesnes. Put thou that blade away."

"It is not a blade; it is a rapier," Clef said somewhat primly. But now it was neither; it was the Flute again. "Neysa told you all that in one brief melody?"

"Aye. She was ever economical of speech. What is thy name, man?" the bitch inquired as she walked east.

"Clef, from the frame of Proton. And thine?"

"Serrilryan, of Kurrelgyre's Pack. We range mostly southeast of the Blue Demesnes, up to the Purple Moun tains. Good hunting here."

"No doubt," Clef agreed dryly.

"If thou art walking all the way to the Platinum Demesnes, thou wilt have to step faster, Clef-man. We have forty miles to go."

"My legs are already tiring, Serrilryan."

"We can help that. Take thou a sniff of this." She held out a little bag of something.

Clef sniffed. The bag emitted a pungent aroma. "What is this?"

"Wolfsbane. For strength."

"Superstition," he muttered.

"Have ye noted how fast thy walk is now?"

Clef noticed, with surprise. "I'm almost running, but I don't feel winded at all!"

"Superstition," she said complacently.

Whatever it was, it enabled him to cover distance with wolflike endurance. Serrilryan shifted back to canine form to pace him.

Still, they were only partway there as night came on. The bitch became the woman again. "Do thou make a fire, Clef-man. I will hunt supper."

"But — " But she was already back to bitch-form and gone.

Clef gathered what dry wood he could find, along with bits of old moss and straw. He formed a neat tepee, but had no idea how to ignite it. Presumably the denizens of this frame could make fire with simple spells, or perhaps they borrowed fire-breathing dragons. Such resources were not available to him.

Then he had a notion. The Platinum Flute had become a rapier when he wanted a weapon; could it also become a fire maker?

He held it near the tepee. It had formed into a clublike rod. From the tip a fat spark jumped, igniting the mass. He had discovered how to use this thing! He was almost getting to like magic.

When the bitch returned with a freshly slain rabbit, the fire was ready. "Good enough," she said gruffly. She roasted the rabbit on a spit.

This type of meal was foreign to Clef, but he managed to get through it. Stile had warned him there would be privations. But he was ready to suffer anything to obtain legitimate possession of the Platinum Flute, the most remarkable instrument he could imagine. Only the Little Folk could grant that; it was their Flute.

Serrilryan showed him where there was a streamlet of fresh water, so that he could drink and wash. Out of deference to his human sensitivity, she refrained from lapping her own drink until he was sated.

Now all he had to worry about was the night. He really wasn't equipped to sleep in the wilderness. "Serrilryan, I realize that for your kind this is no problem, but I am not accustomed to sleeping outside. I am concerned about bugs and things." Though in fact no bugs had bothered him here; perhaps the reek of the wolfsbane kept them away. "Is there any domicile available?"

"Aye," she said. She brought out a small object. Apparently she could carry clothing and objects on her per son even in wolf form, though none of it showed then.

Clef looked at the tiling. It appeared to be a tiny doll's house. "I'm afraid I don't quite follow."

"It is an amulet," she explained. "Invoke it."

"Invoke it?" he asked blankly.

She nodded. "Set it down first man."

He set it on the ground. "Uh, I invoke thee."

The amulet expanded. Clef stepped back, alarmed. The thing continued to grow. Soon it was the size of a dog-house, then a playhouse. Finally it stood complete: a small, neat, thatch-roofed log cabin.

"Well, I never!" Clef exclaimed. "A magic house!"

Serrilryan opened the door and entered. Clef followed, bemused. Inside was a wooden table with two chairs and a bed with a down quilt. Clef contemplated this with a certain misgiving, realizing that there were two of them and only one sleeping place. "Um — "

She phased back to canine form and curled herself up comfortably on the floor at the foot of the bed. That solved the problem. She needed no human props and would be there if anything sought to intrude during the night. Clef was getting to appreciate werewolves.

He accepted the bed gratefully, stripped away his un gainly clothing, lay down, and was soon asleep.

Stile's consciousness returned as Clefs faded. Sheen was still stroking his hair, as tireless as a machine. "I never realized he would have so much trouble," Stile murmured. He told her of his dream. "I'm used to Phaze now, but it was quite an adjustment at first. I forgot all about Clef, and I shouldn't have."

"Go back to sleep," she told him.

"That amulet — that would have been fashioned by the Red Adept. She's gone now, because of me. I really should see about finding a new Adept to make amulets; they are too useful to be allowed to disappear."

"I'm sure you will," Sheen said soothingly.

"Phaze needs amulets."

She picked up his head and hugged it against her bosom, smotheringly. "Stile, if you don't go to sleep voluntarily-"

He laughed. "You're a bitch."

"A female werewolf," she agreed. "We do take good care of wayward men."

They did indeed. Stile drifted back to his dream.

Next morning Serrilryan brought some excellent fruit she had foraged. They ate and prepared to resume the march. "This cabin — can it be compressed back into its token?" Clef asked.

"Nay. A spell functions but once," she said. "Leave it; others may use it after us, or the Blue Adept may disman tle it with a spell. Most likely the Little Folk will carry it to their mountain demesnes."

"Yes, of course it shouldn't be wasted," Clef agreed.

They walked. His legs were stiff from the prior day's swift walk. The wolfsbane had worn off, and Serrilryan did not offer more. It was dangerous to overuse such magic, she said. So they progressed slowly east, through forest and field, over hills and through deep gullies, around boulders and huge dense bushes. The rugged beauty of the natural landscape was such that it distracted him from his discomfort. What a special land this was!

In the course of the day he heard something to the east. Serrilryan's wolf ears perked. Then he observed a column of thick, colored smoke rising from the sky. There had been a bad explosion and fire somewhere.

"That is Blue fighting Red," the bitch said knowingly. "She killed him; now he is killing her."

"I realize this is a frame of magic," Clef said. "Even so, that does not seem to make an extraordinary amount of sense."

"Adept fighting Adept is bad business," she agreed.

"How could they take turns killing each other?"

"There are two selves of many people, one in each frame," she explained. "One self cannot meet the other. But when one dies, there is a vacuum and the other can cross the curtain. Blue now avenges the murder of his other self."

"Oh, I see," Clef said uncertainly. "And must I avenge the murderer of mine other self?"

"Mayhap. Where wast thou whelped?"

"On another planet," Clef said, surprised. "I signed for Proton serf tenure as a young man-"

"Then thy roots are not here. Thou hast no other self here, so art not barred from crossing."

"Oh. Fortunate for me, I suppose. Dost thou also have another self in Proton?"

"Nay. But if I crossed, I would be but a cur, unable to were-change. And the hunting is not good there."

Clef had to laugh agreement. "All too true! Proton, beyond the force-field domes, is a desert. Nothing but pollution."

"Aye," she agreed, wrinkling her nose. "When men overrun a planet, they destroy it."

"Yet Stile — the Blue Adept — he is also a serf in Proton, like me."

"He was whelped on Proton. His root is here."

Clef watched the dissipating grotesqueries of the cloud of smoke. "I'm glad I'm not his enemy!" He resumed slogging forward. At this rate he would be lucky to travel ten miles by dusk.

Actually, he realized, it might be just as well to take several days before reaching the Little Folk. There was a tremendous amount to learn about Phaze, and this slow trek was an excellent introduction. When he finally did arrive, he would have a much better comprehension of the frame, and know how to deport himself. With all the pitfalls of magic, he needed that experience.

The werebitch paced him uncomplainingly. She shifted from form to form at need, conversing when he wished, scouting when there was anything suspicious in the vicinity. Finally he asked her: "Is this not an imposition, Serrilryan, for thee, shepherding a novice while thy Pack is active elsewhere?"

"I am oath-friend to Neysa the unicorn," she replied. "For her would I shepherd a snow-demon halfway to Hell."

"Halfway?"

"At that point, the demon would melt." She smiled tolerantly. "Besides which, this is easy duty for an old bitch. I am sure the Blue Adept has excellent reasons to convey thee to the Mound Demesnes." She considered. "If I may inquire-?"

"I am to play the Platinum Flute for the Mound Folk, to enable them to ascertain whether I am the one they call the Foreordained. That is all I know — except that my life will have little purpose if I can not keep this ultimate instrument"

"The Foreordained!" she exclaimed. "Then is the end of Phaze near!"

"Why? I consider it to be a pretentious, perhaps nonsensical title, to say the least, and of course there is no certainty that I am the one they seek. I am merely a fine musician and a rather good fencer. What have I to do with the fate of a land of magic?"

"That is all I know," she admitted. "Be not affronted, Clef-man, if I hope thou art not he."

"I take no affront from thee, bitch." He had long since realized that the term he had considered to be uncomplimentary was the opposite here.

"Thou dost play the flute well?"

"Very well."

"Better than Blue?"

"Aye. But I decline to play this particular instrument in the frame of Phaze until I meet the Mound Folk. It is said the mountain may tremble if-"

"Aye, wait," she agreed. "No fool's errand, this."

"Dost thou like music, Serrilryan?"

"Some. Baying, belike, at full moon."

"Baying is not my specialty. I could whistle, though."

"That is music?" she asked, amused.

"It can be, properly executed. There are many types of whistles. Hand-whistling can resemble a woodwind."

"Aye, with magic."

"No magic, bitch. Like this." He rubbed his hands together, convoluted his long fingers into the appropriate configuration, and blew. A fine, clear pipe note emerged. He adjusted his fingers as if tuning the instrument and blew again, making a different pitch. Then he essayed a minor melody.

The sound was beautiful. Clef had not exaggerated when he claimed to play well; he was probably the finest and most versatile musician on the planet. His crude hands produced prettier music than that of most other people using fine instruments.

Serrilryan listened, entranced, phasing back and forth between her forms to appreciate it in each. "That is not magic?" she asked dubiously when he paused.

"I know no magic. This is straight physical dexterity."

"Never have I heard the like!" she exclaimed. "The Blue Adept played the Flute at the Unolympics, and methought that was the most perfect melody ever made. Now I think thou mightest eclipse it, as thou sayest. Canst thou do real whistling too?"

Clef smiled at her naïveté. He pursed his lips and whistled a few bars of classical music eloquently. She was delighted.

So they continued, and in the evening he serenaded her with a whistle concert. Squirrels and sparrows appeared in nearby trees, listening raptly. Clef had discovered how to relate to the wild creatures of this lovely wilderness world.

This night the werebitch had located a serviceable cave to sleep in. They piled straw and fern for a bed, and she curled up by the entrance. It was a good night. He was getting to like Phaze.

Stile woke again. "Time to go for the Game," he mumbled.

"Not yet. Sleep," Sheen said. She was a machine, indefatigable; she could sit up and hold him indefinitely and was ready to do so. She was his best and perhaps his only personal friend in this frame. She had saved his life on several occasions. He trusted her. He slept.

The third day Clef found his muscles acclimatizing, and he traveled better. But the world of Phaze seemed restless. There was the sound of horse or unicorn hooves pounding to the east, and a lone wolf passed nearby. "What's going on?"

"The Red Adept has sprung a trap on the Blue Adept," Serrilryan said, having somehow picked up this news from the pattern of baying and the musical notes of the distant unicorns. "He is badly injured but can not cross the curtain for magic healing, for that a basilisk has hold of him. It is very bad." Indeed, she was worried and, when she returned to bitch-form, her hackles were ruffled. Clef, too, was concerned; he had known Stile only a few hours before their parting, but liked him well and wished him well. There seemed to be nothing he could do, however.

But later the situation eased. "They have saved him," Serrilryan reported. "He is weak, but survives."

Clefs own tension abated. "I am exceedingly glad to hear that. He lent me the Platinum Flute, and for this marvelous instrument I would lay down my life. It was the sight of it that brought me here, though I am wary of the office it portends."

"Aye."

In the afternoon they heard a sudden clamor. Something was fluttering, squawking, and screeching. The sounds were hideous, in sharp contrast to the pleasure of the terrain.

Serrilryan's canine lip curled. Quickly she shifted to human form. "Beast birds! Needs must we hide."

But it was not to be. The creatures had winded them, and the pursuit was on. "Let not their filthy claws touch thee," the werebitch warned. "The scratches will fester into gangrene." She changed back to canine form and stood guarding him, teeth bared.

The horde burst upon them. They seemed to be large birds — but their faces were those of ferocious women. Clef's platinum rapier was in his hand, but he hesitated to use it against these part-human creatures. Harpies — that was what they were.

They gave him little opportunity to consider. Three of them flew at his head, discolored talons extended. "Kill! Kill!" they screamed. The smell was appalling.

Serrilryan leaped, her teeth catching the grimy underbelly of one bird. Greasy feathers fell out as the creature emitted a shriek of amazing ugliness. Immediately the other two pounced on the wolf, and two more swooped down from above.

Clefs misgivings were abruptly submerged by the need to act. There seemed to be no chance to reason or warn; he simply had to fight.

Clef was aware that the werewolf had taken his remark about his skill at fencing to be vanity, for he was hardly the warrior type. However, he had spoken the truth. The rapier danced before him. In seven seconds he skewerd four harpies, while Serrilryan dropped the fifth, dead.

The remaining beast birds now developed some crude caution. They flapped and bustled, screeching epithets, but did not charge again. Their eyes were on the gleaming platinum weapon; they had suddenly learned respect.

Clef took a step toward them, and the foul creatures scattered, hurling back one-syllable words fully as filthy as their feathers. This threat had been abated.

"Thou art quite a hand with that instrument" Serrilryan remarked appreciatively. "Never saw I a sword stab so swiftly."

"I never used a rapier in anger before," Clef said, feeling weak and revolted now that the brief action was over. "But those horrible creatures-"

"Thou didst withhold thy strike until they clustered on me."

"Well, I couldn't let them — those claws-" "Aye," she said, and went canine again. But there was something wrong. She had tried to conceal it, but his reaction to this combat had made him more perceptive to physical condition. "Wait — thou hast been scratched!" Clef said. "Thy shoulder's bleeding!"

"Wounds are nothing to wolves," she said, phasing back. But it showed on her dame-form too, the blood now staining her shawl. "How much less, a mere scratch."

"But thou didst say-"

"Doubtless I exaggerated. Bleeding cleans it." She changed back again and ran ahead, terminating the dialogue.

Clef realized that she did not want sympathy for her injury, at least not from the likes of him. Probably it was unwolflike to acknowledge discomfort. Yet shehad warned him about the poisonous nature of harpy scratches. He hoped nothing evil came of this.

That night they camped in a tree. Clef was now more accustomed to roughing it, and this was a hugely spreading yellow birch whose central nexus was almost like a house. Serrilryan curled up in bitch-form, and he curled up beside her, satisfied with the body warmth she radiated. The papery bark of the tree was slightly soft, and he was able to form a pillow of his bent arm. Yes, he was coming to like this life. "This frame is just a little like Heaven," he remarked as sleep drew nigh. "My frame of Proton is more like Hell, outside the domes, where nothing grows."

"Mayhap it is Proton-frame I am destined for," she said, shifting just far enough to dame-form to speak, not bothering to uncurl.

"Proton? Dost thou plan to cross the curtain, despite thy loss of magic there?"

She growl-chuckled ruefully. "Figuratively, man-person. When I die, it will be the real Hell I will see."

"Hell? Thee? Surely thou wilt go to Heaven!" Clef did not believe in either region, but neither did he believe in magic.

"Surely would I wish to go to Heaven! There, belike, the Glory Hounds run free. But that is not the destiny of the likes of me. Many evils have I seen since I was a pup." She shifted back to canine and slept.

Clef thought about that, disturbed. He did not believe this was an immediate issue, but feared that she did. He was bothered by her growing morbidity and her low estimate of self-worth. She might have seen evil, but that did not make her evil herself; sometimes evil was impossible to escape. It had been that way with the harpies. Yet what could he do to ease her depression?

Troubled, he slept.

"Strange dream," Stile said. "Every time he sleeps, I wake. But I'm dreaming in minutes what he experienced in days."

"How much farther does he have to go?" Sheen asked.

"He should reach the Elven Demesnes in two more days."

"Then you sleep two more times. I want to learn how this ends." Her fingers stroked his eyes closed.

Serrilryan's wound was not healing. It was red and swollen, the blood refusing to coagulate properly. She limped now, when she thought he wasn't looking, and her pace was slower. She was suffering — and he couldn't comment for fear of embarrassing her.

The terrain became more hilly. Huge trees grew out of the slopes, some of their roots exposed by erosion. But the eager grass was covering every available patch of ground, and the turf was thick and spongy. Clef was soon breathless, ascending the steep, short slopes, drawing himself up by handholds on trees and branches and tangles of roots. Serrilryan followed, her familiarity with this region making up for her weakness, shifting back and forth between forms to take advantage of the best properties of each.

Something tugged at his hair. It was not the wind. Clef paused, fearing he had snagged it in a low branch — but there was no branch. He put his hand up, but there was nothing. Yet the tugging continued, and now there were little touches on his skin.

"Something's here!" he exclaimed, alarmed.

The bitch sniffed the air and cocked her ears. She phased into woman-form. "Whistle," she said.

Perplexed, he whistled. Oddly, the touchings abated. He whistled louder and with more intricacy, a medley of classical themes. He enhanced it with trills and double notes, warming to it, serenading the landscape.

Slowly, shapes appeared. They were little people, perching on branches and on the slope and even floating in air. All were listening raptly.

"Aye, the sidhe," Serrilryan said, pronouncing itshee. "The Faerie Folk. They cause no harm, just idle mischief."

Discovered, the sidhe moved into a dance, whirling in air. Their little lasses were, in the archaic measurement of this frame, about four feet tall, the lads not much larger. They moved prettily and smiled often — happy folk.

But when Clef stopped whistling, they faded out of sight again. "The sidhe associate not overmuch with other folk, but they do like music," the werebitch said. "I am destined to see them three times before I die."

"How many times hast thou seen them so far?"

"This is the third time."

"Then I should not have whistled them into sight!"

She made a gesture of unconcern. "I am old; my pace is slowing. My teeth are no longer sharp. The Pack will not let me live much longer anyway. Glad am I to have seen the lovely Faerie Folk once more."

"But this is barbaric! The other wolves have no right-"

"Question not the way of the Pack. I have killed others in my day; always I knew my turn would come. Perhaps it would have come ere now, had I not been fated to guide thee. I am content, Clef-man."

Clef shook his head, not commenting further. Obviously there was violence along with the beauty and literal magic of this frame.

They marched on. Later another phenomenon occurred — a kind of sweeping of an unbreeze through the forest, dissipation of nonexistent clouds in the sky, and revivification of things that had not been dead. A hidden tension had been released, an obligation expiated. "What is it?" Clef asked.

"The lifting of a geis," Serrilryan said.

"I don't think I understand."

"The abatement of an oath. It hung over the forest; now it is done."

"What oath is this?"

"The Blue Adept swore vengeance against the Red Adept."

"Um, yes. But I thought he was getting married. He is also moving through the Proton Tourney. Isn't this an awful lot of activity for such an occasion?"

"There is no comprehending the ways of Adepts."

That seemed to be the case. The Blue Adept evidently had a lot more power, and was involved in more great events, than Clef had realized. It was mildly odd that so small a man had so large an impact on this frame.

By nightfall they reached the marker for the Platinum Demesnes, indicated by a sign saying PT 78.

"The path within is treacherous," the werebitch said. "Morning is better for it."

"Yes, certainly." Clef wasn't sure, now that he was this close, that he really wanted to reach these mysterious elves. If he were not the Foreordained, they would take the Flute from him, for it belonged to them.

Serrilryan knew of an existing shelter nearby, and they spent the night there. "I want thee to know," he told her, '"how I appreciate the trouble thou hast taken on my behalf. This all may come to naught, yet it has been worthwhile for me."

"I thank thee, man," she said. "It has been nice talking with thee and hearing thy music. Few among the Pack have time or courtesy for the old."

She did not look well at all. It was evident that pain was preventing her from relaxing. Clef whistled, filling the air with melody, and after a time the werewolf fell into a troubled slumber. Then Clef himself relaxed.

"I didn't know there were harpies in that vicinity," Stile said, waking. "I should have given him better protection. Though the way he used that rapier-" He shrugged and returned to sleep himself, secure in the robot's embrace.

In the morning Clef woke before the werebitch. She was breathing in pants and whining slightly in her sleep. The bad shoulder bulged with swelling, and the fur was falling out. This was obviously a severe infection. A good antibiotic could abate it — but this was Phaze, the frame of magic, where antibiotics were not available and perhaps would not work anyway.

Magic was what was needed — but he could not perform it. Unless the Flute — but no, he had resolved to play it only for the Mound Folk, because of the potential significance of the rendition. Still, maybe its magic could help. He laid the instrument against her body, as close to the wound as he could.

Her whining stopped; she was drawing comfort from the propinquity of this powerful talisman. Still, she was shivering, though the morning was warm. He had nothing with which to cover her.

Clef began to whistle again; it was all he could do. This time he selected a merry folk-song melody. He whistled it well; the joyous notes rippled through the forest, abolishing sadness. The bitch's shivering eased, and she slept peacefully at last.

For an hour he whistled. At last she turned and woke. She made a growl of displeasure at the lateness of the hour, but Clef wasn't fooled. She had needed that extra rest.

Breakfast was no problem. Squirrels and birds had dropped nuts and berries as offerings of appreciation, and these were excellent. This was a world that liked music.

Clef, in return, was becoming quite fond of this world. Yet it had its dark side, as Serrilryan's ailment showed.

They mounted the steep trail leading to the Mound Demesnes. Clef was now better able to manage than the werewolf. He wished he could help her, but all he could do was slow his pace to make it easier for her, leaving her pride intact.

Deep in the mountains there was a thin, suspended bridge crossing a chasm. Clef eyed it dubiously, but Serrilryan proceeded on across without hesitation. She was so unsteady he hastened to follow, so he could catch her if she started to fall.

Halfway across he looked down. The chasm yawned so deep and dark it made him dizzy. He did not enjoy the sensation. Fortunately the chasm was narrow, and in moments they were across.

At last they came in sight of the Mound. Serrilryan sank in a heap before it, her waning energy exhausted. She had done her job; she had delivered him safely.

But there was no one about. The sun shone down brightly and the hills were alive with small animals and birds — but no people. Clef, worried about the werebitch, did not care to wait overlong for an introduction. "Ho there!" he called. "I must meet with the Platinum Mound Folk."

There was no answer. Could he have come to the wrong place? "Serrilryan-" he began.

She changed with difficulty to dame-form. She was haggard. "This is the place, music man. The Mound Folk go not abroad by day. At night thou wilt see them."

"I don't think thou canst last till night," he said. "We must have healing magic for thee now."

She smiled weakly. "It is too late for me, friend. My day is done. One favor only I beg of thee-"

"Anything!"

"I would hear the Flute ere I die. Canst thou play an epitaph for me?"

He knew this was final. She would expire within the hour. He was at the realm of the Little Folk; he was no longer obliged to wait. "Yes, it is time," he agreed. "There can be no better use for this instrument." He brought out the Flute.

He played an ancient folk song that he felt was appropriate to this occasion: Tumbleweeds. It was the sort of theme a wolf could appreciate, for it related to the freedom of the great outdoors, the rolling bushes called tumbleweeds drifting in the wind across the plain, cares of the world left behind. Perhaps it was not that way, here in Phaze, but he felt confident the mood would be conveyed.

From the first note, the Platinum Flute was potent, the finest instrument he had ever played, enhanced by its magic so that the sound transcended mere physics. The music rippled, it flowed, it resonated; it was as if he were flying, expanding, encompassing the landscape, the world, the universe, the split infinities that were the frames of science and magic. The sound loomed loud enough to embrace all of Phaze, yet delicate enough to touch the soul.

And the mountain trembled. The ground shook, but not in the manner of an earthquake. It started shuddering where he stood, and vibrated outward rhythmically, responding harmonically to the music of the Flute. The effect intensified as he continued playing. Leaves fluttered on trees, pine needles shook free of their moorings, and the green grass of the slopes stood up tall and quivered like the tines of tuning forks. The clear sky thickened; clouds formed from nothing, flinging outward in rainbow-hued bands. The sunlight dimmed; dusk coalesced.

Clef played on, caught in the wonder of the animation the Flute was working. Serrilryan's fur stood out from her body, charged. There was a canine smile on her face. Washes of color traversed her, causing her human and canine aspects to mingle aesthetically.

The ground shook harder. Branches fell from trees. The roof of the Mound collapsed. The mountains in the Purple range peeled off segments of themselves and settled substantially. Dust rose up. Animals fled. The sky swirled nearer and nearer.

The Little Folk appeared, for now there was no direct sunlight to shrivel them. They stood in the twisting dust and fog, staring while their Demesnes collapsed about them. Yet such was the power of the Flute that no one protested.

An avalanche formed and crashed downward. No one moved. The rocks and debris coursed past them all, avoiding living creatures, and advanced like a channeled flow of water until they piled up in a cairn over the body of Serrilryan, the werebitch. She had died smiling. She had heard the Platinum Flute; she had expired. Now she had been buried.

Still Clef played. From the cairn a spirit diffused, billowing and tenuous, extricating itself from the piled stones. Now it looked like a wolf, and now like a woman. It was Serrilryan's soul, departing her tired body at last.

Barb-tailed, horned, fire-clothed man-form devils hurried across the slope to intercept that soul. Suddenly Clef realized that the werebitch had spoken literally of Hell; she had known her spirit would be taken there. But Clef recoiled from the concept. She had helped him loyally and given her life in consequence. Surely that helped counterbalance whatever prior evils there might have been in her life. If he had any say at all in the matter, she would go to Heaven, where she wanted to be. He owed her that much. He shifted his playing, questing for the tune that would carry her soul upward.

Now from the troubled sky came wolves, flying without wings, their fur shining, so that they seemed possessed of light auras like halos. The music brought them down, showed them the way they might otherwise have missed, and marked the cairn.

The devils reached the soul first. But the angel-wolves arrived in time to balk the conveyance of the soul to Hell. A battle ensued, the half-visible humanoid figures against the half-visible canine figures. Spiritual fog and cloud and dust roiled along with the physical. But the theme of the Flute strengthened the wolves and weakened the devils. In a moment the angel-wolves wrested the bitch soul from the minions of Hell and loped up into the turbulent sky.

Yet before they departed entirely, the soul of Serrilryan paused. She looted back toward Clef, and he knew she was thanking him for a gift as unexpected as it was gratifying. Her sinful human component had been juxtaposed with her pure wolf component in death, nearer perfection than they had been in life, and the forces of Heaven had prevailed. She sent to earth one glance of purest appreciation that made the air about Clef sparkle. Then she turned again and loped on toward Heaven with her divine companions.

The Purple Mountains continued to shake and settle. Dragons flew up from the southern marches; creatures stirred all over Phaze. But Clef would not stop playing until the bitch was safely ensconced in Heaven. He would permit no loophole, no reversal.

Stile woke in alarm. The building was shaking!

"There seems to be an earthquake in progress," Sheen said. "The Purple Mountain range is settling."

"That's no natural phenomenon! That's the Foreordained!" Stile cried. "Now I realize that Clef is indeed the ultimate magician, with power to level mountains and delicacy to send souls to Heaven."

"The Foreordained," Sheen repeated. "Clef is the one destined to save Phaze?"

"He played the Platinum Flute, and the mountain trembled and tumbled. That's the signal. I saw it in my dream — and now I know it's true. My vision has caught up to the present and affirmed it."

Sheen checked the newsscreen. "There has certainly been a shake-up in Proton. Power has been disrupted all along the southern range. Mine shafts have collapsed. If that's the result of one melody on one flute, it means magic is spilling over into the science frame."

"So it seems. I'm sure my encounter with Clef was not coincidental. It was — foreordained. And my dream of his progress — there has to be some reason for that. I suspect he and I are destined to meet again."

"You could never stay out of mischief," she agreed. "Now it's time to get ready for your Tourney match."

"Did anyone ever tell you you are inhumanly practical? The end of the split infinity may be in the offing, and you pack me off to a Game."

"Your match is foreordained too," she said complacently.