Juxtaposition

3. Honeymoon (F)

Stile crossed the curtain at the usual place, emerging from the food-servicing hall to the deep forest of Phaze. In a moment a unicorn trotted up. But it wasn't Neysa. This one was slightly larger, male, and his coat was deep dark blue except for the two red socks on his hind feet. "Clip!" Stile exclaimed, surprised. "I expected-" The unicorn metamorphosed into a young man garbed in blue shirt, furry trousers, red socks, floppy hat, gloves, and boots. His resemblance to the unicorn was clear to anyone conversant with the forms. "She's off getting bred, at long last The Herd Stallion's keeping her with the herd until she foals. That's S.O.P."

"Yes, of course," Stile agreed, disappointed. He found his hidden clothes and dressed quickly it would not do to travel naked here, though there was really no firm convention. He wanted only the best for Neysa, his best friend in this frame, yet he felt empty without her company. But he had made a deal with the Herd Stallion to release her for breeding when his mission of vengeance was finished; now that he had dispatched the Red Adept it was time. Time for relaxation, recovery, and love. Time to be with the lovely Lady Blue.

"That was the funniest thing," Clip said, evidently following the thrust of Stile's thoughts. "Thou didst marry the Lady, then skipped off without even-"

"An idiosyncracy of the situation," Stile said shortly. He had departed without consummating the marriage because of a prophecy that he would have a son by the Lady Blue; he knew he would survive the dangerous mission ahead of him if he only waited to generate that child thereafter, since such prophecies had the force of law. But

now the barbs of the ugly Citizen were fresh in his mind, making this subject sensitive. "You're volunteering to be my mount?"

"Neysa intimated gently that I'd get homed at the wrong end if I didn't," Clip admitted. "Besides, thou dost have interesting adventures."

"I'm only going to honeymoon with my wife."

"That's what I mean." Clip shifted to his natural form, his horn playing with the sound of a saxophone — a bar of the wedding march, trailing into a tune with risqué connotations.

Stile jumped on the unicorn's back, landing deliberately hard. Clip blew out one more startled note and took off. The velocity of the unicorn was greater than that of the horse because it was enhanced by magic; yet the two types of creatures were closely akin. As Clip himself had put it, once: as close as men were to apes. Stile was uncertain what freighting accompanied that statement, but had never challenged it. Man had intelligence and science the ape lacked; unicorns had intelligence and magic the horses lacked.

Soon they emerged from the forest and were racing over the fields toward the moated castle that was the heart of the Blue Demesnes. "Dost thou happen to know how Clef from Proton fared?" Stile inquired. "I gave him the Platinum Flute and sent him to the Little Folk, but I've been too busy to follow further. I'm sure you're up on all the news."

Clip blew an affirmative note. He was the gossipy kind.

"Did Clef arrive safely?" Stile was interested in verifying the accuracy of his dream. The frames had always been firmly separated; if his dream were true, it meant that that separation was beginning to fuzz, at least for him.

The unicorn sounded yes again. His sax-horn was more mellow than Neysa's harmonica-horn, though less clever on trills. Like her, he could almost speak in musical notes, making them sound like yes, no, maybe, and assorted other words, particularly colloquialisms. Actually, unicorns could express whole sentences in chords, but this was a separate mode that owed little to archaic English.

Stile was coming to understand that language too, but his grasp of it was as yet insecure.

"Was he — is he by any chance the one the Platinum Elves called the Foreordained?"

Again the affirmative.

"Then that earthquake — we felt it in Proton — that was the shaking of the mountains when he played?" But this had become rhetorical; he had the answer. The frames had certainly juxtaposed in this respect. "I wonder what that means?"

Now Clip had no answer. No one except the Little Folk of the Mound knew the significance of the Foreordained. And the all-knowing Oracle, who answered only one question in the lifetime of each querist.

Yet the arrival of the Foreordained suggested that the end of Phaze was near, according to another prophecy. That bothered Stile; he had worked so hard to secure his place here. Was he to be denied it after all?

Well, he was determined to snatch what joy he might, in what time remained. On the cosmic scale, the end might be centuries distant Magic prophecies were devious things, not to be trusted carelessly. People had died depending on misinterpreted omens.

That brought him back to the manner in which he had secured his own fortune by postponing his fathering of a son. He was eager to get on with it. He had loved the Lady Blue from the first time he had encountered her. He had never before met such a regal, intelligent and desirable woman. But she was the widow of his other self, and that had made things awkward. Now she was his, and he would never leave her — except for one more necessary trip to the frame of Proton, to try for the final Round of the Tourney. It really was not as important to him as it once had seemed, but he had to give it his best try.

They galloped up to the prettily moated little castle. Stile vaulted off as they entered the courtyard. The Lady Blue, his vision of delight rushed to his arms. She was of course garbed in blue: headdress, gown, slippers. She was all that he desired.

"Are we ready?" he inquired when the initial sweetness of the embrace eased.

"I have been ready since we wed, but thou didst depart in haste," she said, teasing him.

"Never again, Lady!"

"Hinblue is saddled."

"We have already traveled much of the eastern curtain. Shall we pick up at the Platinum Demesnes?"

She did not reproach him about his concern for Clef's welfare, the obvious reason to pass the region of the Little Folk. "As my Lord Blue desires."

"Wilt thou condone magic for the start?"

She nodded radiantly. "Magic is the substance of my Lord Adept."

They mounted their steeds, and Stile played his good harmonica, summoning his magic. His Adept talent was governed by music and words, the music shaping the power, the words the application. Actually, his mind was the most important factor; the words mainly fixed the time of implementation. "Conduct us four," he sang, "to the platinum shore."

Clip snorted through his horn: shore?

But the magic was already taking hold. The four of them seemed to dissolve into liquid, sink into the ground, and flow rapidly along and through it south-southeast. In a moment they re-formed beside the Mound of the Platinum Elves. There was the fresh cairn of Serrilryan the werebitch, exactly as his vision-dream had shown it.

"Anything I visualize as a shore, is a shore," Stile explained. "There does not have to be water." But as it happened, there was some cloud cover here, thickest in the lower reaches, so that the descending forest disappeared into a sealike expanse of mist. They stood on a kind of shore. Almost, he thought he saw wolf shapes playing on the surface of that lake of mist.

"And we were conducted — like the electricity of Proton-frame," the Lady commented. "Methought thou wouldst provide us with wings to fly."

A dusky elf, garbed in platinum armor to shield his body from a possible ray of sunlight, appeared. He glanced up at Stile. "Welcome, Blue Adept and Lady," he said.

"Thy manner of greeting has improved since last we visited," the Lady Blue murmured mischievously.

"As well it might have," the elf agreed. "We know thee now."

He showed them into the Mound. Stile noted that the structure had been hastily repaired, with special shorings. Evidently the destruction wrought by the Foreordained's Flute had not entirely demolished it. Stile hoped there had not been much loss of life in the collapse. Clip and Hinblue remained outside to graze the verdant, purple-tinted turf.

A deeply darkened and wrinkled elf awaited them inside. This was Pyreforge, chief of this tribe of Dark Elves. "Thy friend is indeed the Foreordained," he said gravely. "Our trust in thee has been amply justified."

"Now wilt thou tell the meaning?" Stile inquired. "We are on our honeymoon. Yet my curiosity compels."

"Because thou art on thy honeymoon, I will tell thee only part," the old elf said. "Too soon wilt thou learn the rest."

"Nay! If it is to be the end of Phaze, I must know now."

"It be not necessarily the end, but perhaps only a significant transition. That much remains opaque. But the decision is near — a fortnight hence, perhaps, no more than two. Take thy pleasure now, for there will come thy greatest challenge."

"There is danger to my Lord Blue?" the Lady asked worriedly.

"To us all, Lady. How could we survive if our frame be doomed?"

"We can not head it off?" Stile asked.

"It will come in its own time. Therefore put it from thy mind; other powers are moving."

Stile saw that Pyreforge would not answer directly on this subject, and the elf could not be pushed. "The Foreordained — what is his part in this? A title like that-"

"Our titles hardly relate to conventional human mythology or religion. This one merely means he was destined to appear at this time, when the curtain grows visible and tension mounts between the frames. The great Adepts of the past foresaw this crisis and foreordained this duty."

"What duty?" Stile asked. "Clef is merely a musician. A fine one, granted, the best I know — but no warrior, no Adept. What can he do?"

"No Adept?" Pyreforge snorted. "As well claim the Platinum Flute be no instrument! He can play the dead to Heaven and crumble mountains by his melody — and these be only the fringes of his untrained power. Once we have trained him to full expertise — he is the Foreordained!"

So Earth mythology might not relate, but the implication of significance did. "So he is, after all, Adept? He seemed ordinary to me — but perhaps I did not hear him play in Phaze."

Pyreforge smiled wryly. "Thou didst hear him, Adept. Music relates most intimately to magic, as thou shouldst know."

So the elf knew of Stile's vision! "And Clef is the finest musician to come to Phaze," Stile said, seeing it. "But what exactly is he to do? May we say hello to him?"

"You may not," the old elf said. This usage always sounded incongruous to Stile here, where "thee" and "thou" were standard — but of course it was the correct plural form. "His power be enormous, but he be quite new to it and has much to learn and little time ere he master his art. We need no more shaking of our mountains! He be deep in study for the occasion he must attend and may not be disturbed."

"What occasion?" Stile asked with growing frustration.

But still the elf would not respond directly. "Thou shalt meet him when it be time, Lord Blue, and all will be clarified. Leave us to teach the Foreordained his music. Go now on thy honeymoon; thou must recuperate and restore thine own powers for the effort to come."

So it seemed. They were teaching Clef music? This was either humor or amazing vanity! Disgruntled, Stile thanked the diminutive, wrinkled elf and departed. "I don't feel comfortable being ignorant of great events, especially when there are hints they relate intimately to me," he muttered to the Lady.

"How dost thou think I felt, cooped up in the Blue Demesnes whilst thou didst go out to live or die?"

"I don't recall thy staying cooped long-"

"Let's ride, my Lord."

Stile smiled. She had the feminine way of changing the subject when pressed. She was not a woman to let fate roll over her unchallenged, and her present deference to him was merely part of the honeymoon. Had he desired a creature to honor his every foible, he would have loved Sheen. The Lady Blue would always be someone to reckon with.

They mounted and rode. Pyreforge was right: the curtain was brighter now, faintly scintillating as it angled across the slopes of the Purple Mountains. It followed the contours of the terrain in its fashion; the curtain extended vertically until it became too faint for them to see, and evidently continued below the ground similarly. As the land fell away, it exposed more of the curtain. There was no gap; the curtain was continuous.

That was what intrigued Stile — that ubiquitous transition between frames. The landscapes of Proton and Phaze were identical, except that Proton was a barren, polluted world where science was operative, while Phaze was a fresh, verdant world of magic. Only those people who lacked alternate selves in the other frame could cross between them. No one seemed to know why or how the curtain was there, or what its mode of operation was. It just served as the transition between frames, responsive to a wish from one side, a spell from the other.

They intended to follow the curtain in its generally westward extension until it terminated at the West Pole. Stile had been increasingly curious about the curtain, and the West Pole held a special fascination for him because it didn't exist on any other world he knew. Now he had an excuse to satisfy both interests — by making them part of his honeymoon.

As the Blue Adept, he was one of the most powerful magicians in Phaze; riding a unicorn — ah, he missed Neysa! — he had some of the best transportation and protection available; and in the company of the lovely Lady Blue — oh, what an occasion this would be!

"I want to make a map," he said, remembering. "A map of Phaze, as I know it now and as I will discover it, and of the curtain in all its curvatures."

"The curtain is straight," the Lady said.

"Straight? It meanders all over the frame!" "Nay, Lord, it is the frame that meanders," she assured him. "When we follow the curtain, we bear due west."

Stile decided not to argue. After all, she was his new bride and she was heart-throbbingly delightful, and an argument at this time would be awkward. Nevertheless, he would map Phaze as he perceived it.

He played his harmonica, bringing the magic to him. Then he set the instrument aside and sang: "Place on tap a contour map."

True to his visualization, the map appeared — a neatly folded pseudo-parchment. He opened it out and contemplated its lines and colors. There were the White Mountains to the north, the Purple Mountains to the south, the sites of the Blue, Black, Yellow, White, Brown, and — former-Red Demesnes, and the curtain winding around and between them. Contour lines indicated the approximate elevations.

But there were sizable blank areas. This map covered only the territory Stile knew. He had traveled around a lot of Phaze recently, but there was more to explore. He expected to enjoy filling in the rest of this map. The plotting of the curtain should take care of much of it, since it meandered — went straight? — past most of the significant establishments of this frame.

"No one uses a map in Phaze," the Lady protested, intrigued.

"I am not from Phaze," he retorted. He showed her the map. "Now as I make it, the curtain should bear west a day's leisurely travel, then veer north here to pass the palace of the Oracle and on by the Yellow Demesnes near the White Mountains. That will be a couple days' ride. Then it must curve southwest to intersect the Black Demesnes here-"

"The curtain is straight," she repeated. "Humor me, beloved. Then on until we reach the West Pole, somewhere over here. The whole trip should take a week, which will leave us-"

"Thou art a fool," she said pleasantly. "Little thou knowest of Phaze."

"That's why I'm exploring it," he agreed. "Thou art wife of a fool, fool."

She leaned toward him, and her mount obligingly closed the gap. They kissed, riding side by side, while Clip played another suggestive tune. Stile gave the unicorn a sharp little kick in the flank with his left heel. Clip emitted a blast of musical laughter with an undertone of Bronx cheer and flicked his tail across Stile's back in the familiar fly-swatting gesture.

"Now let's move," Stile said as the kiss ended.

The two steeds broke into a canter, following the curtain down the hill, through a valley, and up a wooded slope. Stile loved riding; it was the thing he did best. The Lady paralleled him, balancing smoothly, her hair flying out in a golden splay. She, too, was a fine rider and she had a fine steed, though no horse could match a unicorn in full exertion. Stile probably could have borrowed another unicorn from the herd, but there had been no point. This was no dangerous mission, but a gentle romance. Hinblue was a very good mare, the offspring of the Blue Stallion and the Hinny — the best equine heritage in Phaze. Stile remained sorry his friend Neysa was not here to share the trip with him — but realized that Neysa might be jealous of the Lady Blue, with some reason. Maybe Neysa's breeding had been mostly a pretext to separate herself from this excursion. Well, Clip was good, if spirited, company.

Time passed. The curtain veered to the south, forcing them to cross over the height of the Purple range, rather than at any natural pass. Their steeds slowed to a walk, and the air became chill. There was no snow here, but the vegetation turned bluish as if from cold, and then full purple. That was what gave the range its color, of course; he should have known. Finally Stile cast a spell to make them warm — himself and the Lady and the two animals — so that no one would have to overexert to maintain body heat.

Then, on the steep downslope, he cast another spell to enable them all to float through the air, resting. A harpy popped out of a hole in a cliff, saw the two equines with their riders, all drifting blithely in midair, and popped hastily back into her hole. "Just as well," the Lady Blue remarked. "That creature's scratch is poisonous, and they oft resent intrusion into their demesnes."

Clip snorted. Unicorns were invulnerable to most magic and had no fear of harpies. Stile, remembering how the werebitch Serrilryan had died, knew that if the harpy had attacked, he would have reacted with ferocity perhaps unbecoming to this occasion.

Then they passed the cliffside nest of a griffin. Three cubs poked their beaks up to peer at the weird procession. In the distance there was the birdlike scream of an adult, probably the mother, aware that her babies were being disturbed. A griffin was a fighting animal, almost as fierce as a dragon; unicorns did not normally seek combat with this species. Stile, of course, could handle it — but he elected to hasten their descent, getting well away from the nest before the mother griffin appeared. Why seek trouble?

At the southern foot of the range an extensive plain commenced. Evening was approaching, and in the slanting sunlight they saw shapes in the sky like grotesque birds. "Dragons," the Lady Blue murmured. "This is dragon country."

"If any come for us, well simply step across the curtain," Stile said. Again it was easier to avoid than to fight; he had no desire to waste magic or to prove his power. A unicorn, a werewolf, or a vampire could change forms as often as it wished, because that was inherent in such creatures' nature, while Stile could use a particular spell only once. When he had to, he could accomplish more by magic than any other creature and could change one creature to another — but eventually he would run out of new spells. Magic was best saved for true emergencies.

"What of Hinblue?" the Lady asked.

"Um, yes. Maybe she can cross the curtain too."

"She could not survive in Proton-frame. There is no good air there, no grazing. And what of thine own mount?"

"Have no fear for me, Lady," Clip said, changing to man-form. "As a hawk, I can escape. But I cannot cross the curtain. In Proton I would be reduced to but a horse, and unable to cross back."

"Then I will use magic if the need arises," Stile decided.

"My lord, there is no time like the present," the Lady said. For a shape was winging toward them.

Stile had made up and memorized a number of spells, including some dragon restraints. In this case he would simply cause the dragon to forget it had seen anything interesting here.

But as the creature flew closer, Stile squinted at it. This was a peculiar dragon. The wings were wrong, the tail, the head-

"Why, that's no dragon," the Lady said.

Clip snapped his fingers. "That's a thunderbird! I didn't know there were any left in these parts."

"I don't have a specific spell for thunderbirds," Stile said dubiously. "I'll have to go to a general one."

"No need," the Lady said. "The bird is full of sound and fury-"

The creature swooped close, its wings spreading hugely, then sweeping together in a deafening clap of thunder.

"Signifying rain," Clip finished, as the drenchpour commenced.

Hastily Stile spelled into existence a large tent, already set up and guyed. The rain beat down on its canvas so heavily that he had to spell additional supports. Water seeped under the edges, and fog drifted through, coating them with condensation. A little frog appeared and croaked contentedly.

The other three were with him, but soon Clip returned to unicorn-form and moved outside to graze; the rain did not bother his equine form very much. Hinblue followed him out; grazing was always worthwhile, and the dragons would avoid this storm.

That left the Lady Blue. Stile turned to her. "I had thought of sunshine and sweet music for this occasion. Still-"

"Desist thy stalling," she said, and opened her arms.

Thereafter, the storm disappeared from his consciousness. It was a long, ecstatic night. In the morning he woke in a fine bed of hay and feathers, so concluded he must have done some incidental conjuring, but none of that remained in his memory. He had only his awareness of the Lady Blue — his woman at last.

There was a neat pile of assorted fruits at the tent entrance; Clip had evidently scouted around in the night and harvested what he thought was appropriate. At the top of the mound was passion fruit, and below were apples, cherries, and bananas. Symbolistic humor of the equine kind. They had an excellent meal.

They resumed their ride. Clip had the sense not to play any more ribald melodies on his sax-horn, but on occasion he could not quite contain a faint musical snigger.

The curtain wandered back up the slope of the mountains, having no regard for the convenience of travelers — as well it might not; Stile's party was probably the first to make this particular trek. Here on the southern side, flowers of many colors abounded, and the bushes and trees were highly varied. Birds flitted, and squirrels and rabbits scurried. On occasion a grassy round trapdoor would open and a little head would pop out — hermit-elves, harmless.

Then they came to a river. It cut across the curtain, deep and swift — and a formidable steam-breathing water dragon inhabited it.

They halted, eyeing the monster. The monster eyed them back. Slowly a purple tongue came out and moistened its chops. The mere sight of them made this creature salivate. This hardly seemed a safe passage.

Stile pondered which spell to use. Immobilization seemed best; he didn't want to hurt this animal. Yet that was such a useful spell for emergencies that he hated to use it routinely. Again he was up against the ad hoc nature of magic; once any specific spell was used, it was gone. All Adepts used magic sparingly, never squandering it. Stile, a relative newcomer to the art, tended to use it more freely than was wise; the novelty had not yet worn off. Until recently, there had been so many challenges to his well-being that he had hardly worried about wasting spells; what use to save them for a nonexistent future?

Now he was a fairly secure married man, becoming daily more conservative. So he pondered: Was there any mundane way to pass by this dragon? The creature was limited to the water, having flippers in lieu of wings and frogs' feet. This was, after all, a very restricted threat.

Again the Lady's thoughts were parallel to his own. She had an uncanny insight into his mind, perhaps because she had had much longer experience with him than he had had with her, odd as that might seem in any other frame than this. He had in fact been momentarily dismayed during the night by her almost-too-ready anticipation of his desires; none of this was really new to her. "It would be a long trek around the river, methinks, for the dragon would pace us. Clip could change to hawk-form and fly safely across, but Hinblue has no such magic."

"This becomes a challenge," Stile said. "For most of my life I existed without the benefit of magic. A year ago I would have found a way across without sorcery; I should be able to do it now."

"Though it take but a fortnight," she murmured, smiling.

"The curtain-" Stile began, but cut that off. He kept forgetting Hinblue!

"Put my steed not through that torture gratuitously," the Lady agreed.

Clip changed to man-form. "Thou wilt be all day on this. I can get us across now."

"Oh?" Stile asked, not entirely pleased. "How?"

"By decoying this dragon downstream while the three of you swim. The average dragon is not smart enough for that ruse."

Of course! Simplicity itself. "Thou are smarter than I, today," Stile said ruefully.

"Naturally. I'm a unicorn," Clip said generously. "I did not dissipate my strength all night in pointless heroics." He changed back to his usual form and snorted insultingly at the dragon, adding an obnoxious gesture with his horn. Unicorns could convey considerable freighting in this manner. The dragon oriented on him, steam pressure building up, measuring the distance it might strike.

Clip stayed just out of range, trotting downstream with a lewd swish of his tail. He played a few bars of music, and Stile could just about make out the words: "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out. " Dragons were the monarchs of the kingdom of worms, and were sensitive to such disparaging references. This dragon followed Clip briskly, hoping the unicorn would stray just within range of fang or steam.

Soon Stile and the Lady stripped and swam safely across with Hinblue, holding their garments aloft. They were, after all, prevailing without magic.

"This is fun," Stile murmured, contemplating her body in the clear water. "Shall we dally a bit?"

"Until the dragon joins the party?" she inquired sweetly.

They climbed out at the far bank and shook themselves dry in the sun. Stile tried not to stare; this was a type of motion he had never seen done by a woman of her construction, though he had lived most of his life in a society of nudity.

There was a small coughing sound. Both Stile and the Lady turned — and discovered the dragon was watching too, its labile Hps pursed into the semblance of a whistle.

Stile experienced a rapidly developing emotion. He tried to control it, but in a moment it overwhelmed him. It was mirth. He burst out laughing. "Oh, I'll bet that monster doesn't see what I seel"

The Lady looked down at herself, frowning. "It doesn't?"

"It sees the most delicious morsel in two frames. I see-"

"Never mind what thou seest," she said with mock severity. "I take thy meaning." She was neither self-conscious nor angry. She had one of the finest bodies in the frame and knew it.

A hawk arrived, swooping low and converting to unicorn-form. Clip was ready to resume the journey.

Soon the curtain veered north, crossing the mountain range again. Fortunately this occurred at a natural pass, so they were able to get past expeditiously.

They emerged into the rolling countryside that was the main grazing range of the unicorns. Now progress was swift — but the distance was long. They were not yet near the Oracle's palace before night overtook them and forced another halt.

Again the animals grazed, and Stile was about to conjure another tent when the Lady stayed him. "Expend not thy magic superfluously, my Lord. Tonight the open sky suffices for us."

"If that is what thou dost desire, that is what thou shalt have," he agreed. He gathered straw and moss to fashion a bed, and they lay down side by side and looked up at the moons.

"Oh, see — the blue moon rises!" she cried, squeezing his hand.

"Our moon," he agreed. This was sheer delight, being with her, sharing her incidental pleasures.

"Oh, play, my Lord, play," she begged.

Obediently Stile found his harmonica and brought it to his mouth. But something stayed him — an ominous though not unpleasant feeling. He concentrated and placed it. "It was not far from here that I first found this instrument, or thought I found it. Here in the open, riding with Neysa. I conjured it without knowing."

"It is all that remains of my former Lord," she said. "His music and power have since found lodging in thee. Great was my grief at his loss, yet greater is my joy in thee."

"Still it bothers me how he died. Surely he could have saved himself, had he tried."

She stiffened. "I told thee how the demon amulet choked him, so that he could make neither music nor spell."

"Aye. But was not this harmonica always with him?"

"Always. But he could not play it, either, if-"

"And the golem did not remove it?"

"Nay. It was gone ere the golem came."

"Then how did it get out here in the fields for me to conjure? Or, if it were not here, how did it get wherever it hid? It remained not at the Blue Demesnes."

'True," she agreed thoughtfully. "Long and long I searched for it, but it was not with his body."

"Which is strange," Stile said. "He might have conjured it away from him in the instant he knew he would die — but why then did he not use his magic to protect himself? And why did he deny thee the inheritance of his prize possession? Such malice was not his nature, I am sure."

For Stile himself would not have done that. Not without excellent reason.

"He could not have conjured it!" she said, disturbed.

"Then he must have placed it in the field, or hidden it elsewhere, before he died. And that suggests-"

"That he knew he was slated to die!" she exclaimed, shocked. "He deprived himself of his most valued possession. But even without it, no one could have killed him, were he on guard!"

"Unless he intended to permit it," Stile said.

Her shock turned to horror. "No! Nothing I did, no will of mine should have caused him-"

"Of course not," Stile agreed quickly. "He would never have done it because of thee."

"Then what is thine import?"

"That perhaps he knew something, received an omen, that caused him to accept what was coming."

She considered that for some time, her hand clenching and unclenching in his. "Yet what could possibly justify — what was fated?"

"I wish I knew." For Stile's own passage across the curtain had been enabled by that demise of his alternate self. If the Blue Adept had sought to eliminate his brand of magic from the frame, he had acted in vain, for Stile performed it now.

That night they did not make love. They lay and watched the blue moon, and Stile played gently on the mysterious harmonica, and it was enough. Slowly sleep overtook them.

"Be at ease," a man's voice came from nearby. "We have met before, Adept."

Stile controlled his reaction. He still held the harmonica; he could summon his power rapidly. In a moment he placed the half-familiar voice: "Yes, at the Unolympics, Green Adept." He did not want trouble with another Adept — especially not when the Lady Blue was close enough to be hurt by the fallout. He was as yet unable to see the man; probably Green had employed a spell of invisibility, with related obfuscations. Otherwise he could not have gotten by the alert equines.

"I come in peace. Wilt thou grant truce for a dialogue?"

"Certainly." Stile was relieved. By custom verging on law, Adepts did not deceive each other in such matters. What in Phaze could this man want with him at this time?

The Adept became visible. He was a pudgy man of middle age, garbed in green. He looked completely inoffensive — but was in fact one of the dozen most powerful people of Phaze. "Thank thee. I will intrude not long."

A hawk appeared silently behind the Adept. Stile gave no sign. He did not expect treachery, but if it came, there would suddenly be a unicorn's horn in action. If Clip attacked the Green Adept, he risked getting transformed into a clod of dung, but Stile knew he would take that risk if necessary. "Surely thou hast reason."

"It is this, Blue: my sources give thee warning. Go not to the West Pole. Great mischief lies there."

"There is no mischief there," the Lady Blue protested. "It is a sacred place, under truce, like the palace of the Oracle."

"Dost thou think no mischief lies with the Oracle?"

Stile chuckled. "Excellent point, Green. But the Lady and I are on our honeymoon, and our excursion to the West Pole has private significance. Canst thou be more explicit?"

"Why shouldst thou care if mischief comes to a rival Adept?" the Lady demanded. "Thou didst evince no concern, Green, when the life of Blue hung in peril before."

That was an understatement. No other Adept had lifted a finger or made a spell either to warn or to assist the Blue Adept in his severe crisis that had left two Adepts dead or ruined. This sudden concern was suspicious.

"Needs must I then elaborate," Green said heavily. "My Demesnes lie athwart thy route. I would let thee pass unscathed, knowing thy mission — but by that acquiescence I commit myself to thy fate. This is not my desire. I want no part of what befalls thee. Go not to the West Pole — but an thou must go, then go not through the Green Demesnes."

That made sense. The Green Adept had no personal interest in Stile; he merely wanted to make certain he was not implicated in what happened to Stile. If a prophecy decreed doom to all who might facilitate Stile's approach to the West Pole, this step exonerated the Green Adept.

"Now I seek no trouble with thee," Stile began. "But the Lady and I planned to follow the curtain to its terminus, and-"

"And we can bypass the Green Demesnes, in the interest of courtesy," the Lady Blue finished.

Stile shrugged. "The Lady has spoken. Set out warners at thy boundaries, and we shall there detour."

"I shall," Green agreed. "Since thou dost humor my preference, I offer one final word: my sources suggest that if thou dost go to the West Pole, thou wilt suffer grievously in the short term, and in the moderate term will incur the enmity of the most powerful forces of the frame. I urge thee once more to give up this quest. There are other suitable places to honeymoon. The Green Demesnes themselves will be opened to thee, shouldst thou care to tarry there instead."

"I thank thee for thy advice," Stile said. "Yet it seems the end of Phaze draws nigh, and powerful forces already dispose themselves in readiness. The Foreordained has appeared. What is fated, is fated, and I am ready if not eager to play my part."

"As thou dost choose." The Green Adept made a signal with the fingers of his left hand and disappeared.

"I mislike these omens," the Lady said. "Methought our troubles were over."

"Loose ends remain, it seems. I had hoped we could let them be for at least this fortnight."

"Surely we can," she agreed, opening her arms to him. The hawk flew quietly away. The weapon of the unicorn had not, after all, been needed.

Next day they resumed the ride north. Stile made a small spell to enhance Hinblue's velocity and let Clip run at full speed. They fairly flew across the rolling terrain. Fire jetted from the unicorn's nostrils, and his hooves grew hot enough to throw sparks. Unicorns, being magic, did not sweat; they ejected surplus heat at the extremities.

After a time they slowed. Stile brought out his harmonica and played, Clip accompanied him on his saxophone-voiced horn, and the lady sang. The magic closed about them, seeming to thicken the air, but it had no force without Stile's verbal invocation.

"We can camp the night at the Yellow Demesnes," Stile said. "The curtain clips a corner of-"

"By no means!" the Lady snapped, and Clip snorted.

Stile remembered. She didn't like other Adepts, and Yellow liked to take a potion to convert herself from an old crone to a luscious young maid — without otherwise changing her nature. Also, her business was the snaring and selling of animals, including unicorns. Stile had traded magical favors with Yellow in the past and had come to respect her, but he could understand why his wife and steed preferred not to socialize.

"Anything for thee," he agreed. "However, night approaches and the White Mountains lie beyond."

"Indulge thyself in a spell, Adept."

"How soon the honeymoon turns to dull marriage," he grumbled. Clip made a musical snort of mirth, and the lady smiled.

The ramshackle premises of Yellow appeared. Both animals sniffed the air and veered toward the enclosure. Hastily Stile sang a counterspell: "This will cure the witch's lure." That enabled them to ignore the hypnotic vapor that drew animals in to capture and confinement. Before long they had skirted those premises and moved well on toward the termination of the plain to the north.

At dusk they came to the White Mountain range. Here the peaks rose straight out of the plain in defiance of normal geological principles; probably magic had been involved in their formation.

The curtain blithely traveled up the slope at a steep angle. It would have been difficult to navigate this route by daylight; at night the attempt would be foolhardy. "And there are snow-demons," the Lady said as an afterthought.

Stile pondered, then conjured a floating ski lift. It contained a heated stall for two equines, complete with a trough filled with fine grain, and a projecting shelf with several mugs of nutri-cocoa similar to what was available from a Proton food machine. Clip could have converted to hawk-form and flown up, but the cold would have hin dered him, and this was far more comfortable. Unicorn and horse stepped into the stalls and began feeding, while Stile and the lady mounted for their repast. Eating and sleep ing while mounted was no novelty it was part of the joy of Phaze.

They rode serenely upward as if drawn by an invisible cable. "Yet I wonder where this magic power comes from?" Stile mused. "I realize that the mineral Phazite is the power source for magic, just as its other-frame self, Protonite, is the basis for that scientific, energy-processing society. But why should certain people, such as the Adepts, channel that power better than others? Why should music and doggerel verse implement it for me, while the Green Adept needs special gestures and the White Adept needs mystic symbols? There is a certain channelization here that can not be coincidental. But if it is natural, what governs it? If it is artificial, who set it up?"

"Thou wert ever questioning the natural order," the Lady Blue said affectionately. "Asking whence came the Proton objects conjured to this frame, like the harmonica, and whether they were turning up missing from that frame, making us thieves."

So his other self had speculated similarly! "I wonder if I could conjure a source of information? Maybe a smart demon, like the one Yellow animates with a potion."

"Conjure not demons, lest they turn on thee," she warned, and Clip gave an affirmative blast on his horn.

"Yes, I suppose there are no shortcuts," Stile said. "But one way or another, I hope to find the answer."

"Mayhap that is why mischief lurks for thee at the West Pole," the Lady said, not facetiously. "Thou canst not let things rest, any more in this self than in thine other."

That was quite possible, he thought. It was likely to be the curious child with a screwdriver who poked into a power outlet and got zapped, while the passive child es caped harm. But man was a curious creature, and that insatiable appetite for knowledge had led him to civiliza tion and the stars. Progress had its dangers, yet was neces sary-

Something rattled against the side of the gondola stall, startling them. Clip shifted instantly to hawk-form, dropping Stile so suddenly to the floor that he stumbled face-first into the food trough as if piggishly hungry. Hinblue eyed him as he lifted his corn- and barley-covered face, and made a snort that sounded suspiciously like a snicker. "Et tu, Brute," Stile muttered, wiping off his face while the Lady tittered.

Soon Clip returned from his survey of the exterior situation, metamorphosing to man-form. "Snow-demons," he said. "Throwing icicles at us."

Stile made a modification spell, and the chamber drew farther out from the mountainside, beyond reach of icicles. So much for that. "Yet this will complicate our night's lodging," Stile commented.

"Nay, I know a snow-chief," the Lady said. "Once the demons were enemies of my Lord Blue, but we have healed many, and this one will host us graciously enough, methinks."

"Mayhap," Stile said dubiously. "But I shall set a warning spell against betrayal."

"Do thou that," she agreed. "One can never be quite certain with demons."

They crested the high peak and followed the curtain to an icebound hollow in a pass on the north side. "Here, belike, can we find my friend," the Lady said.

Stile placed the warning spell, and another to keep warm — a warmer and a warmer, as the Lady put it — and they rode out. There was a cave in the ice, descending into the mountain. They approached this, and the snow demons appeared.

"I seek Freezetooth," the Lady proclaimed. "Him have I befriended." And in an amazingly short time, they were in the cold hall of the snow-chief.

Freezetooth was largely made of snow and ice. His skin was translucent, and his hair and beard were massed, tiny icicles. Freezing fog wafted out of his mouth as he spoke. But he was affable enough. Unlike most of his kind, he could talk. It seemed that most demons did not regard the human tongue as important enough to master, but a chief had to handle affairs of state and interrogate prisoners. "Welcome, warm ones," he said with a trace of delicately suppressed aversion. "What favor do you offer for the privilege of nighting at my glorious palace?"

Glorious palace? Stile glanced about the drear, ice-shrouded cave. It was literally freezing here — otherwise the snow-demons would melt. Even protected by his spell, Stile felt cold.

"I have done thy people many favors in past years," the Lady reminded Freezetooth indignantly, small sparks flashing from her eyes. That was a trick of hers Stile always admired, but several snow-demons drew hastily back in alarm.

"Aye, and in appreciation, we consume thee not," the chief agreed. "What hast thou done for us lately, thou and thy cohorts?"

"This cohort is the Blue Adept," she said, indicating Stile.

There was a ripple through the cave, as of ice cracking under stress. Freezetooth squinted, his snowy brow crusting up in reflection. "I do recall something about a white foal-"

Stile placed the allusion. His alternate self, the former Blue Adept, had helped the Lady Blue rescue her white foal from the snow-demons, who did not now realize that the identity of the Blue Adept had changed. It hardly mattered, really.

"That foal would have died with thy people, being no snow-mare, though she looked it. But there was an avalanche-"

"An accident," Freezetooth said quickly.

"An accident," Stile agreed, though they both knew better. The demons had tried to kill the Blue Adept — and had received a harsh lesson. Surely they did not want another. But there was no need to antagonize them. "What favor didst thou crave?"

Now there was a canny glint in the demon's frozen eye. "Come converse privately, Adept, male to male."

In a private chamber the demon confessed his desire: he loved a lovely, flowing, brilliantly hued fire-spirit. His "flame" was literally a flame.

The problem was immediately apparent. Freezetooth could not approach his love without melting. If she cooled to his temperature, her fire would extinguish and she would perish. Forbidden fruit, indeed!

Fortunately the remedy was within the means of Adept magic. Stile generated a spell to render Freezetooth invulnerable to heat. The flames would feel as deliciously cold as they were in fact hot.

The demon chief departed hastily to rendezvous with his love. Stile and his party were treated well by the remaining demons, who were no longer chilled by the wintry glare of their lord. The finest snowbanks were provided for sleeping on, in the most frigid and windy of the chambers. Without Stile's warmth-spell, it would have been disaster. As it was, they started to melt down into the snow, and Stile had to modify his spell to prevent that. Once everything had been adjusted, the facilities were quite comfortable.

In the morning Freezetooth was back, and his icicles positively scintillated. No need to ask how his evening had worked out! He insisted that his close friend the Adept stay for a proper feast that evening.

It occurred to Stile that this hospitality could be useful. "Do thou remain here while I perform a necessary chore in Proton," he told the Lady. "I must attend the final Round of the Tourney, but should be back by noon."

"I know, my love. Is it selfish of me to hope that thou dost lose that Game and find thyself confined to Phaze?"

He kissed her. "Yes, it is selfish. Sheen depends on me."

"Ah, yes — I forget the Lady Sheen. Methinks I shall consider her options whilst thou art gone."

Stile wasn't certain what that would lead to. The Lady Blue could cross the curtain, but Sheen could not function in Phaze. "Until noon," Stile said, then spelled himself to his usual curtain crossing.