Split Infinity

CHAPTER 14 - Yellow

It was afternoon on Phaze, and the air was wonderful. The sky was a deep and compelling blue, punctuated by several puffball clouds. The mountains to the northwest were lovely. Stile paused to look at the pretty little yellow flowers at his feet, and to inhale the spring-like freshness of it all.

How did this frame come to have such a pleasant natural environment, while Proton was so bleak? He was no longer certain that industrial pollution and withdrawal of oxygen could account for it all. What about water vapor? Obviously there was plenty of it here, and little in the Proton atmosphere. This was a mystery he must one day fathom.

But at the moment he had more urgent business.

Stile made a mental note of the location of the curtain; sometime he would have to trace its length, finding better places to cross. But this was also a matter for later attention.

The landscape was indeed the same. A narrowing plain, a nearby mountain range, a bright sun. Remove the cute clouds, and the verdant vegetation carpeting the ground, and the copses of trees, and this was identical to Proton. It was as if these were twin paintings, BEFORE and AFTER the artist had applied the color. Phaze was the world as it should be after God had made the final touches: primitive, natural, delightful, unspoiled. Garden of Eden.

True to his memory, the Oracle’s palace was in sight. Stile set out for it at a run. But before he had covered half the distance, Neysa came trotting out to meet him. She held her head high, as they came together, so there was no possibility of striking him with her bright horn.

Stile flung his arms around her neck and hugged her, burying his face in her glossy mane, feeling her equine warmth and firmness and strength. He did not need to thank her verbally for her sacrifice on his behalf; he knew she understood. He discovered her hair was wet, and realized that his own tears of reunion were the culprit.

Then he leaped to her back, still needing no words, and they galloped bareback in five-beat to the palace where Kurrelgyre waited in man-form.

Stile had spent his life on Proton, and only a week here in Phaze, but already Phaze seemed more like home. He had been gone only a night and day, but it seemed longer. Perhaps it was because he felt more like a person, here. Actually, the only other true human beings he had encountered in Phaze were the man at the curtain who had given him the demon-amulet, and the Black Adept; still—

Kurrelgyre shook hands gravely. “I am relieved to know thy escape was successful,” the werewolf said. “I reassured the mare, but feared privately thou mightst land between domes.”

“I did. But close enough to reach the nearest dome before I suffocated.” Stile took a deep breath, still reveling in it.

“I should have crossed with thee, to make sure; but Neysa was waiting outside, and I never thought of—“

“I understand exactly how it is. I never thought of it either. I could have walked a quarter-mile along the curtain and willed myself back through to you, outside the Black Castle. That never occurred to me until this moment.”

Kurrelgyre smiled. “We live; we leam. No confinement near the curtain shall again restrain us.” He squinted at Stile. “Thou lookest peaked; have a sniff of this.” He brought out a sprig with a few leaves and a dull yellow flower, dried.

Stile sniffed. Immediately he felt invigorated. Strength coursed through his body. “What is that stuff?”

“Wolfsbane.”

“Wolfsbane? Something that curses wolves? How canst thou carry—“

“I am not in my lupine form. I would not sniff it then.”

“Oh.” Stile couldn’t really make much sense of this, but could not argue with his sudden sense of well-being. “Something else,” he said. “Didst thou not tell me that most of the people were parallel, existing in both frames? There are about five thousand Proton Citizens, and ten times as many serfs, and countless robots, androids, cyborgs and animals—but I have not seen many people here on Phaze, and not many animals.”

“There are at least as many people here as on Pro-ton, plus the societies of werewolves, unicorns, vampires, demons and assorted monsters. But two things to note: first, we are not confined to domes. We have the entire planet to roam—many millions of square miles. So-“

“Miles?” Stile asked, trying to make a fast conversion in his head and failing.

“We use what thou wouldst call the archaic measurements. One square mile would be about two and a half square kilometers, so—“

“Oh, yes, I know. I just realized—archaic measurements—would that by any chance affect magic? I tried to do a spell using the metric scale, and it flubbed. Before I swore off magic.”

“That might be. Each spell must be correctly couched, and can only be employed once. That is why even Adepts perform sparingly. They hoard their spells for future need, as Citizens hoard wealth in Proton. May I now continue my original discourse?”

“Oh, of course,” Stile said, embarrassed, and Neysa made a musical snort of mirth. Stile squeezed her sides with his legs, a concealed hug. He tended to forget that she understood every word he spoke.

“So there are very few people for the habitable area, and many large regions are as yet uninhabited by men.

Thou needst not be surprised at seeing none. The second reason is that many of the people here are not precisely the form of their Proton selves. They are vampires, elves, dwarves—“ He broke off.

Stile wished he hadn’t. It had almost seemed his size was irrelevant in his frame. Foolish wish! “I never judged values in terms of size,” Stile said. “A dwarf is still a discrete individual, surely.”

“Of course,” Kurrelygyre agreed. It was his turn to be embarrassed.

They were now in the Oracle’s palace. “I have less than a day before I have to go back to Proton,” Stile said.

Neysa stiffened. “Go back?” Kurrelgyre demanded.

“I understood thou hadst no commitment there. It was only to escape the prison of the Black Demesnes that thou-“

“I have a woman there,” Stile said. “She covered for me during mine absence. I have agreed to enter this year’s Tourney, that she be not shamed. Thus it is likely that my tenure on Proton will be brief.”

“The Tourneyl Thou presumes thou canst win?”

“Doubtful,” Stile said seriously. “I had planned to enter in two years, when some top players would be gone and my strength would be at its peak—and even then the odds would have been against me. It is hard to win ten or twelve consecutive Games against top competition, and luck can turn either way. I would rate my chances at perhaps one in ten, for I could lose to a poorer player with one bad break.”

Neysa tooted questioningly. “Well, one chance in twelve, perhaps,” Stile amended. “I did not mean to brag.”

“The mare means to inquire what thou meanest to do if thou shouldst win the Tourney,” the werewolf said. “Since thou wouldst then be a Citizen, with permanent tenure—no need ever to depart Proton.”

Stile wondered in passing how the werewolf had come to know the unicorn well enough to translate her notes, in only one day. Maybe shape-changing creatures had natural avenues of comprehension. “A Citizen has virtually complete freedom and power. I would be under no onus to choose between frames. But I like Phaze; I think I would spend much of my time here anyway. Much depends on my situation here; if I should turn out to be a vicious person like the Black Adept, I think I’d prefer to vacate.” Yet the Citizen who was the Black Adept’s other self had not seemed to be a bad man; perhaps it was solely the absolute power that corrupted—power beyond that of any Citizen. What would an Adept be like, if he had residence in both frames and free access between them?

“It is a fair response,” Kurrelgyre said. “If thou must return for a Game within a day, only the Yellow Adept is within range to check, without the employ of magic. Would it not be better to yield this quest, being satisfied as thou art now?”

“Not while someone is trying to kill me here. That person must know who I am. If I can discover who I am in Phaze, I may know more about the nature of mine enemy. Then I can see about making this world safe for mine own existence. I gather mine other self failed to take such precaution.”

“Spoken like a werewolf,” Kurrelgyre said approvingly. Neysa sighed; she did not seem to agree completely, but neither did she disagree. Men will be men, her attitude said.

“Neysa, I want to be honest with thee,” Stile said, feeling the need to provide a better justification. “I like Phaze, I like thee—but this is not truly my world. Even if there were no threat to my welfare, I could not commit myself absolutely to stay here. I would need to know that my presence served in some way to benefit this world; that there was some suitable challenge to rise to. Something that needed doing, that perhaps only I could do. If there seems to be more of a need and challenge in the other frame—“

Neysa made another musical snort. “She inquires whether thou wouldst feel more positive if she released thee from thy vow of no magic,” the werewolf translated.

Stile considered. He understood that the acceptance of such a release would subtly or overtly alienate him from the unicorn. It was only his vow that made it possible for her to associate with him on their original basis. “No. I only want to know who I am. If I can’t survive without magic, maybe it’s best that I not remain here. I never want to be like the Black Adept. All I need is someone to spell me into the other frame in time for mine appointment there. Then I’ll return here for another look at another Adept. One way or another, I will settle my accounts in both frames. Only then will I be in a position to make a proper decision about residence.”

“I will spell thee through,” Kurrelgyre said. “In fact, rather than send thee pointlessly into new danger, I will investigate the Yellow Adept myself, and return with news. I think I can now recognize thy likeness, if I encounter it.”

“There is no call for thee to risk thyself on my account!” Stile protested.

“There is no call for me to impose my presence when the mare wishes to converse with thee alone.” And the man merged into the wolf, who bounded away to the north.

“Damn it, if I start sending others on my foolish quests, where will it end?” Stile demanded. “I’ve got to follow him, stop him—“

But the wolf was already beyond reach, traveling with the easy velocity of his kind. Probably Neysa could catch him, but only with difficulty. Stile knew Kurrelgyre thought he was doing Stile a favor, preserving him from risk, giving him time alone with Neysa—but this was not the sort of favor Stile cared to accept. It was not, he told himself, that Sheen had artfully depleted his sexual initiative immediately before sending him across the curtain. There was the principle of responsibility for one’s own actions.

The unicorn caught his mood. She started moving north. “Thanks, Neysa,” he said. “I knew thou wouldst understand.” Then, as an afterthought: “How art thou getting along with the wolf?”

She blew a noncommittal note. “Glad to hear it,” Stile said. He reached down around her neck and hugged her again.

Neysa quickened her gait into a gallop. “I don’t know what finer life I could have than galloping across the wilderness with you,” Stile said. “The only thing I miss—“

She made a musical inquiry. “Well, that’s it,” he said. “I like music. But since we found that music connects with my magic, I don’t dare play.”

This time her note was comprehensible. “Play!”

“But then the magic gathers,” he protested. “I have no wish to abbreviate mine oath. I played a little when I was alone in the Black Castle, but I am not alone now, and I do not want thee angry with me.”

“Play,” she repeated emphatically.

“Very well. No spells, just music.” He brought out his harmonica and improvised a melody to the beat of her hooves. She played a harmony on her horn. The duet was lovely. The magic gathered, pacing them, but now that he understood it he was not alarmed. It was merely a potential, until he implemented it—which he would not do.

He played for an hour, developing his proficiency with the instrument. He was getting into the feel of the harmonica, and playing about as well as ever in his life. This was a unique joy!

Neysa lifted her head, sniffing the wind. She seemed disturbed.

“What is it?” Stile inquired, putting away his harmonica.

The unicorn shook her head, unsure. She slowed to a walk, turning this way and that as if casting for something. Then she oriented on whatever it was, and resumed her northward trek. But there was something disquieting about her motion; her gait seemed unnatural.

“Art thou all right?” Stile inquired, concerned.

Neysa did not respond, so he brought out his harmonica again and played. But she immediately blew a harsh note of negation. He desisted, concealing his hurt feelings.

Stile thought she would relax after a short while, but she did not. Instead her gait became more mechanical, quite unlike her normal mode.

“Neysa, I inquire again: art thou all right?”

She ignored him. She seemed to be in a trance.

Alarmed, Stile tugged sharply on her mane. “Something is wrong. I must insist—“

She threw down her head and bucked. The action was untelegraphed, but Stile was too experienced a rider to be caught. He stayed in place, then slid to the ground when she resumed her odd walk. “Neysa, something evidently compels thee. I don’t know what it is—but since we are approaching the locale of the Yellow Adept, I suspect it relates. For some reason the compulsion does not affect me. Give me thy socks, and I will walk with thee in disguise.”

She halted, swishing her tail in annoyance, and let him remove the white socks from her rear feet. Then she marched on.

Stile donned the socks and walked beside her, imitating her walk. If something were summoning unicorns, he wanted to resemble such a captive as closely as possible—until he understood the situation better. The wolfsbane he had sniffed still buoyed his strength; he was ready for anything, and felt no trace of the prior ravages of hunger and thirst. If Neysa had fallen into some spell cast by the Yellow Adept—

Soon the property of the Adept came into sight. It was of course yellow. The sands were yellow, rising into yellow dunes, and the sun sent yellow beams through a yellow fog that concealed the main operation from a distance. Neysa walked straight into that fog.

Soon the Adept’s castle loomed. It was most like a ramshackle haunted house, with a partially collapsing roof, broken windows, and weeds growing thickly against the walls. A few yellow flowers straggled at the fringe—buttercups, sunflowers, a bedraggled yellow rose. Behind the house was a tall wrought-iron palisade fence, rusting yellow, overgrown by morbid vines with yellowing leaves but still quite formidable. An odor rose from the premises: animal dung and decaying vegetation. Rustic, but hardly pleasant.

Neysa walked right on toward the house, and Stile necessarily followed. Already he did not like the Yellow Adept and hoped perversely that the magician was alive —so as to be assured this was not Stile’s own alternate identity. This time he would not be so foolish as to challenge the Adept overtly; he would just look and retreat quickly.

Except for two things. First, there was Neysa—she had somehow been mesmerized, surely for no good purpose, and had to be freed of this complication. Second, Kurrelgyre: the wolf had by now had plenty of time to lope in and out, but evidently had not, which suggested that he too had been trapped by the summoning spell. Stile would have to verify this, then act appropriately. It might not be easy.

Neysa moved right on up to the front door, which was sagging open on rusty hinges. She entered, Stile close behind. They passed through a dusty hall, turned a corner—and bars dropped from the ceiling, separating them.

Oh, no! Not again! Stile backed up—but another set of bars fell behind him. This section of hall had become a cage.

There was an ear-discomfiting shriek of laughter. “Hee-hee! Two! Two fine unicorns, so soon after the wolf! What an excellent day! Haul them out, Darlin’ Corey! Let us view our prizes!”

Something huge bulked at the far end of the hall, beyond the comer. Neysa’s cage slid forward. Some-thing was drawing it onward with easy power.

After a time the thing came for Stile’s cage. It was the rear end of a pink elephant. The little tail hooked into the forward bars; then the creature walked, drawing the cage after it.

Stile considered poking his sword through the bars and puncturing the fat pink rear, or cutting off the tail with his knife. But this would not release him from the cage, and could make the elephant quite angry without really incapacitating it. Better to hold off.

In a moment they emerged into the stockaded area.

There were cages all around. It resembled an archaic zoo. Stile identified a griffin, with the body of a lion and head and wings of an eagle, in the cage most directly across from his. This was no glorious heraldic monster, but a sad, bedraggled, dirty creature whose wings drooped and whose eyes seemed glazed. And no wonder: the cage was too small for it to stretch its wings, and there was no place for its refuse except right next to the cage where the creature had scraped it out. No wonder its feathers and fur were soiled; no wonder it stank!

Now Stile’s attention was taken by the proprietress: an old woman garbed in a faded yellow robe, with stringy yellow hair and yellowish complexion. A hag, in every sense of the word.

“What a lovely little specimen!” the hag cackled, mincing around Neysa’s cage. Neysa seemed to be coming out of her daze; her ears perked up, then laid back in revulsion as the crone approached.

“And this one,” the Adept continued, examining Stile. “A white stallion, yet! What a pretty penny thou wilt fetch, my sweet!” She circled the cage, appraising his apparent form with an indecently calculating eye. “Yes indeed, my precious! White is in the market for the likes of thee! Needs must I send Crow’s-foot with the news.” She hobbled into the house.

Now Stile resumed his survey of the enclave. Beyond Neysa was Kurrelgyre, whose eye was already on him; the wolf nodded slowly. They were in trouble!

The other cages contained a small sphinx, a three-headed dog, a wyvern, and several creatures Stile couldn’t classify. All were bedraggled and filthy; the witch did not bother to care for them properly, or to clean their cages. She did feed them, as there were dishes of food and water at every cage—but several of these dishes had been overturned and kicked out, un-eaten.

Stile examined his own cage. The bars were yellow-ish, like the rest of this place, and somewhat slick. It was as if some sort of grease had been smeared on the metal in a vain attempt to make it seem like gold. He tried to push a bar out of position, but it was like welded steel. The door was firmly locked.

Still, the bars were fairly widely spaced, and he was small. Just a little bowing should enable him to squeeze between two. Stile located the longest, widest section of the cage roof, then drew his sword and used it cautiously as a lever. He did not want to break the weapon, and did not know how strong it was. But he really could not gain purchase, and had to put away the sword. Instead he jumped up, put his feet against one bar, his hands on the next, and hauled as if lifting a heavy weight. Slowly, unwillingly, the bars separated as he strove and panted. When his muscles balked, he had widened the aperture only slightly—but perhaps it was enough.

He dropped down to the cage floor—and discovered that he had become the object of considerable attention. He was still disguised as a unicorn; that must have been quite a sight, a horselike creature clinging to the upper bars!

But he couldn’t allow such cynosure to stop him. The witch should soon be back. He had to do whatever he could do, rapidly.

Stile drew himself up, put his feet between the widened bars, and squeezed his body up and through. Last was his head; his ears got mashed, but he scraped by. He was out.

He climbed silently down, while the captive animals watched the contortions of this astonishing unicorn. They were not about to betray him to the witch! The conspiracy of silence was the only weapon they possessed.

Stile went to Kurrelgyre’s cage. “I must have a rapid update,” he said. “How can I free thee and Neysa and the others? The large bars are too strong for me.”

The werewolf transformed into his human form, too large to squeeze between the bars. “Thou art fortunate in thy size,” he said. “Only Neysa might do what thou hast done—and the potion hath dulled her wit so she can not transform her shape. My wolfsbane might help steady her—but we dare not administer it to her animal form. We are at impasse. Save thyself; thou canst not free us.”

“If I go, it will be only to help thee—as thou didst for me before. Can I overcome the witch?”

“Only if thou canst kill her by surprise, instantly with thy sword. She will else throw a potion on thee, and destroy thee.”

“I don’t want to kill her,” Stile said. “Murder is not the proper solution to problems. I only want to neutralize her and free these poor captives.”

Kurrelgyre shook his head. “Thou canst not defeat an Adept fairly save by magic.”

“No. Mine oath-“

“Yes. When thou didst not break thine oath to save thyself from the Black Demesnes, I knew thy word was constant. I expect no different of thee here in the Yellow Demesnes. But now it is not thy life at stake, but Neysa’s. The witch will sell her to another Adept—“

“Why don’t Adepts conjure their own creatures, in-stead of buying them?”

“Because some spells are more complex than others. An Adept may conjure a dozen monsters via a single summoning spell with less effort than a single one by creation. So they store captive creatures in cells, and prepare spells to bring them upon need—“

“I get the picture. To be an Adept is to maintain dungeons where others languish—and the Yellow Adept caters to this need by trapping the necessary animals. I dare say she traps wild fowl and sells the eggs to the Black Adept, too; he has to get his food from somewhere. Maybe he pays her off by making strong cages from black line-bars, that she paints yellow. How does she summon the hapless victims? Neysa seemed to go into a trance.”

“Yellow’s magic is exerted through potions, I now have learned. She boils a cauldron whose vapors mesmerize animals, bringing them here to be caged. She could summon men similarly, but does not, lest men unite against her and destroy her. Had I been in my man-form, or Neysa in her girl-form—“

“Yes.” Stile moved across to Neysa. “Wilt thou release me from mine oath, that I may cast a spell to free thee? I fear thy fate at the hands of the witch.”

Neysa, dulled by the summoning potion, was not dull enough to forget her antipathy to Adept-class magic. She shook her head no. She would not condone such sorcery to free herself.

“Say,” Stile said, trying again. “Thou canst also change into a firefly, and these bars would not hold—“

But Neysa’s eyes were half lidded and her head hung low. The effort of will that such transformation required was beyond her present capacity.

“Or if thou couldst assume thy human form, the potion would not affect thee—“

There was a growl from another cage. Kurrelgyre looked up nervously. “Hark! The witch comes!”

Stile jumped to the werewolfs cage, on inspiration drawing off his socks. “Don these!” he whispered, shoving them through Kurrelgyre’s cage bars. “And this.” He put the sword through, with its harness. “She will assume—“

“Right.” In a moment the white unicorn image formed. The sword was concealed by the illusion.

“Remember: thou darest not eat nor drink aught she offers thee, for her potions—“

“Uh-oh! Did Neysa drink?”

But the Yellow Adept appeared before the werewolf could answer. Still, Stile hardly needed it. Neysa, like most equines, drank deeply when she had opportunity, and could have done so automatically while still under the influence of the summoning vapor. That would explain why she hadn’t made any real effort to save herself. That also explained why the smarter animals here refused to eat. Kurrelgyre had avoided this trap, and was alert. But the situation of all these animals remained bleak, for evidently none of them had the strength to break out of the strong cages. Eventually they would have either to eat or to starve. Not a plea-ant choice; Stile’s memory of his confinement in the Black Castle remained fresh.

Stile was not idle during these realizations; he ducked behind the werewolfs cage, trying to hide. He knew it was foolish of him to hesitate about dealing with the witch; obviously she had little to recommend her, and would happily wipe him out. But he could not murder a human being heartlessly. Just as he was bound by an oath of no magic, he was bound by civilized restraints. Demons and monsters he could slay, not people.

“Eeeek!” Yellow cried, pronouncing the word exactly as it was spelled. “The cage is empty! The valuable white ‘corn stallion!” But then she inspected the situation more carefully. “No, the stallion remains. It is the wolf who is gone. I could have sworn his cage was—“ She glared across the compound. “Darlin’ Corey!” she screamed. “Didst thou move the cages about?”

Stile watched the pink elephant. The creature had seen what happened; which side was it on? If it told the truth—

The elephant waddled past the cages toward the witch. Suddenly it flung its trunk to the side, catching Stile by the nape of his shirt and hauling him into view. It trumpeted.

“Well, now, dearest!” the crone cried, scratching idly at a wart on her nose. “So it was a werewolf! Changed to its man-form and squeezed out of its cage.”

The elephant squealed, trying to correct her misimpression.

“Oh shut up, Darlin’ Corey,” she snapped. “What shall we do with the werewolf? I don’t have a cage small enough at the moment. He’s pretty shrimpy.” She peered at Stile more closely, as he hung in midair. “But healthy and handsome enough, my lovely. Maybe he would do for my daughter. Hold him there a moment, my tasty; I will send the wench out.”

The pink elephant chuckled. The monsters in cages exchanged glances, bewildered. Obviously this was the first they had heard of Yellow’s daughter. What kind of a slut was she? Meanwhile, the hag limped rapidly to the house.

Stile thought of doing an acrobatic flip and climbing the elephant’s trunk. But the creature was quite big and strong, and not stupid; it might bash him against a tree. Had he retained his sword—but that would have been highly visible, forcing him to use it to defend himself. It was better to appear more or less helpless, lest he get doused by a potion.

He looked around, able to see more clearly from this height. Beyond the palisades the yellow fog obliterated everything. It was as if the rest of the world did not exist. No doubt this was the way the Adept liked it. She had a little mist-shrouded world of her own, that no man dared intrude upon. Did she get lonely? Probably no more lonely than a person with her appearance would get in the midst of the most convivial society. Who would want to associate with her? Stile, as a person who all his life had felt the inherent discrimination of size, could not entirely condemn the witch for reacting to the discrimination of appearance. Yet he could not allow her to abuse his friends, or to continue mistreating innocent animals.

His eye caught something—a glimmer in the fog out-side the compound. A faint curtain of—

The curtain! Could it be here? The thing seemed to wander all over Phaze like a tremendous serpent. Might it be used to facilitate escape, as it had before?

No, there were two problems. The curtain, close as it was, was out of reach, since it was beyond the palisades. And Neysa could not use it. Or would not; he wasn’t sure which. So this was a mere tantalization, no real help. Best to wait and see what the witch’s daughter had in mind. She was probably a homely girl upon whom her crazy mother forced the attentions of any likely-seeming male.

She emerged. She was stunning. Her yellow hair flowed luxuriously to her waist, her hands and feet were tiny, and her complexion was gold-bronze vibrant, not sallow. She had a figure that would have made an artist gape, with prominent secondary sexual characteristics. Her eyes were so large she seemed almost like a doll—but what a doll!

Young witches, it seemed, had other assets than magic.

“Darlin’ Corey, put that man down this instant!” the girl cried, spying Stile. Her voice, despite its vehemence, was dulcet. Everything about her was as nice as it was nasty about her mother.

Darlin’ Corey lowered Stile to the ground, but remained near, on guard. Stile straightened his clothing and rolled his shoulders; it had not been entirely comfortable, hanging all that time in midair. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said.

She giggled jigglesomely. “Tee-hee. I’m Yellowette. My, thou’rt a handsome wolf.”

“I’m a man,” Stile said.

She looked down at him. That was the only fault he could perceive in her: she was a few centimeters—a couple of this frame’s inches—taller than he. “That, too. Kiss me, my cute.”

Neysa, in the cage, recovered enough to make a mu-ical snort of recognition. Suddenly Stile had a suspicion why the pink elephant had found the notion of this encounter humorous, and why the caged beasts had never known of the witch’s daughter. What would a lonely old hag do with a handsome-if-small man, if she had a potion for every purpose? Drug him—or take a very special potion herself? “Not in front of these monsters,” he said.

“What do they matter, my delight? They can not escape.”

“I like my privacy,” he said. “Let’s take a walk outside—and return later, as before.” He glanced meaningfully at Neysa, hoping the drug had worn off enough to uncloud her mind. “As before.”

Yellowette’s fair brow wrinkled. “Thou knowest that unicorn, werewolf?”

“I’m not a werewolf,” he said, aware that she would not believe him. “I do know her. She’s a jealous mare.”

“So? Well, she’ll be gone in a few days. There’s a fair market in unicorns, for they are hard to catch. Their horns and hooves are valuable for musical instruments and for striking fire, their dung is excellent fertilizer for magic plants, and their hides have anti-magic proper-ties.”

Stile experienced an ugly chill. “These animals are for slaughter?”

“Some are, my pleasure. Some aren’t even good for that. The black mare would be excellent as a courtyard showpiece, except that she lacks proper coloration and is small. The white stallion, in contrast, is a prize; the White Adept will probably use him to battle dragons in his arena.”

Good thing she didn’t know the white unicorn was a fake! “What happens to the completely useless animals?”

“I have Darlin’ Corey take the worthless ones outside and put them through the curtain.” The witch was no longer bothering to conceal her identity, since he seemed to accept it. Her female view of man was that he was interested only in the external appearance—and Stile suspected there was some merit in that view. He had already had relations with a machine that looked like a woman, and with a unicorn that also looked like a woman. What of an old woman who looked like a young woman? Yellow was certainly much more pleasing to deal with in this form than in the other.

“Thou knowest about the curtain?” he asked after a moment, surprised.

“Thou dost not? There is another world beyond it, a desert. The potion puts the creatures through; they never return. I have not the heart to kill them outright, and dare not let them go free in this world lest they summon hordes of their kind to wreak vengeance on these my demesnes, and if they survive in the other world I begrudge it not.”

So she was not heartless, just a victim of circumstance. To an extent. Yet it seemed a safe assumption that she was as yet only partially corrupted by power.

How much should he say? Stile detested lies even by indirection. “I am of that world.”

“Thou’rt a frame traveler? A true man?” She was alarmed.

“I am. Thou didst merely assume I was a werewolf.”

“I do not deal in true men!” she said nervously. “This leads to great mischief!”

“I came merely to discover thine identity. Now I seek only to free thy captives and to depart with my friends. I have no inherent quarrel with thee, but if thou threatenest my life or those of my friends—“

She turned to him in the hallway. She was absolutely beautiful. “I proffer no threat to thee, my handsome bantam. Dally with a lonely woman a time, and thy friends shall go free with thee.”

Stile considered. “I don’t regard myself to be at liberty to do that.”

She frowned. “Thou hast only limited leeway for bargaining, sweets.”

“Perhaps. My friend urged me to slay thee without warning, but I did not wish to do that either.”

“Oh? We shall put that to the proof.” She led him into the main room of the house. Shelves lined the walls, containing bottles of fluid: rows and rows of them, coated with dust. In the center a huge cauldron bubbled, its vapors drifting out through a broken windowpane. This was obviously the source of the summoning scent: a continously brewing mix.

“All these bottles—potions for different spells?” he inquired, impressed.

“All. I must brew one potion at a time, and can use it only once, so I save each carefully. It is not easy, being Adept; it requires much imagination and application. I must develop a new formula for every invisibility elixir I mix—and for every rejuvenation drink.”

Stile eyed her figure again. What a potion she must have taken! “Thou didst really look like this in thy youth?”

“I really did, my honey. Or as close as makes no nevermind. Hair and flesh tints differ from mix to mix, and sometimes one brews too strong, and I become as a child. But my youth was a very long time ago, my lamb, and even the best potion lasts no more than an hour. See—I have only three of these mixes left.” She gestured to a half-empty shelf, where three bottles sat. “I expended one quarter of my stock, for a mere hour with thee. Take that as what flattery thou mayst.”

“Flattering indeed,” Stile said. “I did see thee in thy natural state. But this is not what restrains me. I have other commitments.” He pondered briefly. “Thou didst believe me to be a werewolf, before. The true werewolf might be interested in the remainder of thy hour, if thou wert to free him thereafter.”

Yellow took down a bottle. “Thou art most facile, lovely man. I hardly trust thee. If thou provest a liar, it will go hard indeed with thee—and thy friends.” She drew the stopper out. Stile stepped back, alarmed, but she sprinkled the liquid on a statuette, not on him.

The figurine grew rapidly into a demon monster. “Thou summonest me, hag?” it roared, its small red eyes fairly glowing as they glared about. Then it did a double take. Its lips pursed appreciatively. “I have not seen the like in six hundred years! But thou didst not need to prettify thyself for me, witch.”

“ ‘Twas not for thee I did it,” she snapped. “Speak me the truth, Zebub. Why came this man here, and who is he?”

The demon glared in Stile’s direction. “This time thou’rt victim to thine own paranoia, crone. He is innocuous, with respect to thee. Not with respect to certain others, though.” The demon smiled privately.

“He really sought not to kill me?”

“True. He but seeks his own identity, so comes with werewolf and unicorn to learn if thou art it.”

Yellow burst into a cackle of laughter. “Me! What kind of fool is he?”

“No fool, he. He lacks information on the nature of the Adepts. The Oracle advised him to know himself, so he seeks to learn if he is one of you. He was trapped by Black, and only escaped via the curtain. He is of that other world.”

Stile felt another chill. This monster really did have information!

“What gives him the notion he is Adept?” Yellow demanded.

“He is Adept, 0 senile one.”

Yellow backed against a wall, almost jarring loose several bottles. “Not only a man, but Adept to boot! Oh, what a foul pickle I have hatched! Who is he?”

“He is Stile, a serf of Proton, in the other frame, freed to cross the curtain by the death of his Phaze-self.”

“Idiot! I meant which Adept is he?”

The demon scowled. “That is formidable information.”

“Don’t stall, hellborn one!” Yellow screeched. “Else I will apply a pain potion.”

Zebub blanched. “Blue,” he muttered.

Yellow’s eyes went round. “This midget is the Blue Adept?”

“His alternate, yes.”

“I can’t afford trouble with another Adept!” she ex-claimed, wrenching at her own hair in distraction. “Not one of such power as Blue! If I free him, will he seek to destroy me? Why does he withhold his magic now?”

“This calls for conclusions on the part of the witness,” the demon said smugly.

Yellow took a step toward a shelf of small bottles.

“Question him,” Zebub said quickly. “I will verify his word.”

“Stile, a.k.a. Blue Adept!” she cried, her eyes round and wild, yet still lovely. “Answer me, in the presence of Zebub.”

“If thou shouldst free me, I will still seek to release my friends and the other captives,” Stile said. “I will not seek to destroy thee gratuitously.”

“He speaks truth,” Zebub said. “As for his magic, he made an oath to the unicorn to practice it not save by her leave.”

“So only his oath makes him subject to my power?” she demanded.

“That is so,” Zebub agreed. “Thou art the luckiest of harridans.”

Yellow’s beautiful brow furrowed. “If I release the unicorn, she could then release Blue from his oath, and there would be war between Adepts. I dare not risk it.”

“Thou darest not risk harming the unicorn either, beldame,” Zebub pointed out maliciously. “If the Blue Adept is moved by ire to break his oath—“

“I know! I know!” she screeched, distracted. “If I kill him, another Adept might seek to kill me, for that I violated our convention. If I let him go, Blue may seek my life for that I caged him. If I try to hold him—“

“My time is up,” Zebub said. “Please deposit another potion, scold.”

“O, begone with thee!” Yellow snapped.

The demon shrank into figurine size and froze: a dead image.

Yellow looked at Stile. “If thou keepest thine oath to the unicorn, wilt thou honor it for me? I wish I could be sure. I want no quarrel with another Adept.”

“Release all the animals in your compound, and thou wilt have no quarrel with me,” Stile said.

“I can not! I have commitments, I have accepted magic favors in payment. I must deliver.”

Stile, quite prepared to hate this Adept, found him-self moved. She was, for the moment, lovely, but that was not it. She honored her commitments. She did not like killing. Her surroundings and mechanisms reflected a certain humor, as if she did not take herself too seriously. She was old and lonely. It should be possible to make a deal with her.

“I want no quarrel with thee, either,” he said. “Thou knowest me not, therefore trust must be tempered with caution. I make thee this offer: send me through the curtain, and I will not return. I will seek to free my friends and the animals from a distance.”

“How canst thou act from a distance? My magic is stronger than thine, near me in my demesnes—as thine would be stronger than mine in thine own demesnes.”

“Without magic,” Stile said.

“Very well,” she decided. “I will put thee through the curtain with a potion, and set a powerful curse I got from Green to ward thee off thereafter. If thou canst free the animals from a distance, without magic—“ She shrugged. “I have never liked this business; if I am foiled through no agency of mine own, perhaps I will not be held in default.” She glanced at him, her mood visibly lightening. “I never did business with Blue, else would I have known thee. How is it that Blue, alone of Adepts, needs no monsters in storage?”

“I intend to find out,” Stile said. He was highly gratified to have this information. Now he knew who he was, and that the Blue Adept had not practiced at least one of the atrocities that seemed to be standard in this genre. This excursion into the Yellow Demesnes had been mistaken, but serendipitously worthwhile.

Yellow took down another bottle, then led him out of the house and around the palisades to the curtain. Stile hoped he could trust her to use the correct potion. But it seemed reasonable; if Adepts avoided trouble with Adepts, and if she feared his violation of his oath were he to be betrayed, she would play it straight. She seemed to be, basically, an honest witch.

At the curtain, she hesitated, hand on the stopper of the bottle. “I do not wish to murder thee. Blue Stile,” she said. “Art thou sure thou canst survive in that bleak realm beyond the curtain? If thou preferest to dally here-“

“My thanks. Yellow. I can survive. I have a prior engagement, and must pass through now.”

“And thou thinkest the werewolf might be interested—for half an hour? It is not a difficult thing I ask—“

“Won’t hurt to ask him,” Stile agreed, stepping through the curtain as she sprinkled the liquid on him.