Unicorn Point

1 - Stile

Stile took the Lady Blue in his arms. “Thou dost know what we are about,” he said.

The Lady was fifty years old now, and her face was lined, but she remained beautiful to him. Her hair still fell to her waist, fair but seeming tinted with blue because of her blue gown and slippers. She stood slightly taller than he, because of his diminutive stature; it had never been an issue between them.

After a pause, she murmured, “I know, my love.”

“I will return in a few days,” he continued gravely. “Thou shallst have company.”

“True.” But there was a tear on her cheek. He kissed her, then went outside the castle. There was Neysa, her head turning white, her socks falling down about her hooves but her hide glossy black between, and her muscles still firm. She remained a fine figure of a unicorn; as her kind put it, her horn retained its point. Stile mounted her bareback, and she trotted across the drawbridge over the moat. Neysa paused without being asked, so that Stile could turn and wave to the castle. A blue kerchief waved back from the window. Stile felt a pang, because all three of them knew that much more was afoot than this simple excursion. Then Neysa turned away, and trotted from the Blue Demesnes. They were on their way.

“We have time,” Stile remarked, reverting to the dialect of his origin, as he tended to do when alone with her. “Let’s take the scenic route.”

Neysa played an affirmative note on her horn, and bore west. Stile, reminded by the sound, which resembled that of a harmonica, brought out his own harmonica and began to play. In a moment Neysa joined in, and they played a duet, as they had in the old days when both were young. The music was pretty, and there was an enhancement around them, be cause music summoned Stile’s magic. He seldom used it these days, because a given spell could be invoked only once, and he preferred not to waste any. Magic, even for an Adept, was often the last resort. But it was all right to summon die ambience without drawing on it.

After a while Stile paused in his playing. “I remember when you protested my power, old friend,” he said. She played a laughing bit of melody. She had forgiven him his power a quarter century before, at the time he made his Oath of Friendship to her. From that time on, all the unicorns of her Herd, and all the werewolves of Kurrelgyre’s Pack, had been her friends too, charmed by the peripheral power of that Oath. There had been no war between Herd and Pack, despite significant changes in their compositions as members grew and bred and migrated, and the Oath had become a minor legend. It had been the proof of his status as the Blue Adept, for only Adept magic could affect unicorns against their will.

“Aye, I remember well,” he continued, experiencing the nostalgia of old times. “I was an injured jockey from the frame of Proton, discovering the strange new world of Phaze. I decided I needed a steed, and you were there, you beautiful animal, the finest of your kind I had seen, and small like me. I loved you that moment, but you did not love me.” Neysa played a note of agreement. Her horn was musical, but she could talk with it in her fashion, and he understood her well. All the advanced animals of Phaze could communicate well in other than the human mode, though not as well as they could by using it, because the conventions of notes or growls or high sonics were less versatile than the completely developed human languages.

“So then did I challenge thee, and mount thee and ride thee, and thou didst try to throw me off, and we careered all over Phaze!” he continued, playfully switching back to Phaze dialect. “I think I kept my place chiefly by luck—“ Here she snorted derisively. “But then thou didst get set to leap from the high point, and I thought we both would die, and I let thee go—and won thee after all.” And she agreed. “Then there came to me a woman, young and fair and small, and lo! it was thee in human guise, and I learned what it meant to befriend a unicorn,” he continued. “And now we be old, and I have my son Bane and thou thy filly Fleta, and they both be grown and have offspring in their fashion. Were we wrong to oppose their unions? How much mischief might we have avoided, had we accepted their pleas!”

Neysa did not comment. She, with her unicorn stubbornness, had not yet changed her mind about her position. They proceeded a while in silence. Stile mulling it over. His son Bane had managed to exchange identities with his opposite number in Proton, who happened to be a robot: the manufactured son of the humanoid robot Sheen, once Stile’s lover. The robot youth, called Mach, had occupied a living human body for the first time, and fallen in love with the human form of Fleta before properly appreciating her nature. Across the frames, the robot and the unicorn—the impossibility of this relationship had been evident to all except the protagonists. Only the conniving Adverse Adepts, who sought to use the boys for their own purposes, had supported the union. Bane, in the robot body in Proton, had developed a similarly difficult relationship with an alien creature.

Thus Stile had lost his son to the enemy. He had recognized his mistake, in retrospect, too late; the boys were working for the enemy, and Stile and his allies were suffering. “Yet now there be Flach,” he said, vocalizing again, knowing that Neysa would have no trouble following. He pronounced the name “Flash”; it was the merger of Fleta and Mach, with the hard ch become soft. “The first man-unicorn crossbreed, and a delight to us both. Perhaps in time he will develop abilities drawn from both our stocks. And little Nepe, in Proton—“ Neysa’s ears perked. She was listening to something. Stile paused, so as to give her a better chance; her ears were better than his. It was probably nothing significant; still, it was always best to be alert, because there were more monsters than in the past, and not all of them had learned proper respect for either unicorns or Adepts.

Neysa elevated her nose to sniff the breeze. She made a musical snort of perplexity. Evidently this was not routine. “Do you wish me to intercede?” Stile asked. As an Adept, he could handle just about any threat from anything less than another Adept, and at present the Adepts were not harrying each other despite their enmities.

But the unicorn was independent, true to the nature of her species. She preferred to handle this herself. She broke into a trot, and then into a gallop, moving at the velocity only her kind could manage. Stile crouched low, hanging on to her mane, enjoying this run as much as he had her easy walk. They broke into open country, much as they had a quarter century before, covering ground at a rate beyond the powers of any horse. The magic of the unicorn was not merely in her horn! This time she was trying not to throw him off, but to outdistance something. What could it be, that caused her to react this way?

Stile looked around, craning his head to see the ground behind them. But their pursuer was not on the ground. It was in the air, flying strongly. A small dragon? No, the shape was wrong, and the mode of flight; it seemed to have birdlike wings and a running body.

He ran through his mental repertoire of monsters, but could not find a match. This one seemed alien to Phaze. What could it be? No wonder Neysa was concerned; she did not trust anything unfamiliar.

He continued his effort to place the creature. It had to be something^. It had a body like that of a panther or lion, and a head like that of a bird of prey. It reminded him of the old heraldic devices in the history texts—

“Griffin!” he exclaimed. “That’s a griffin! Head and wings of an eagle, body of a lion!”

Neysa made a musical toot of agreement and continued running at speed. She had known it by the sound and smell. “But there are no griffins in Phaze!” he exclaimed after a moment.

Yet there it was, and gaining on them. A classic heraldic monster. Obviously it did exist here.

Stile’s brain was now racing at almost Neysa’s pace. Sparks were flying up from her heating hooves, and figurative sparks were emanating from his head. There were only a few ways that such a creature could be in Phaze. Was it possible that all the surveys of the wildlife of the frame had been wrong, and had overlooked this creature? He doubted that; those surveys had been competent and conducted magically. The griffin might be an illusion, crafted by another Adept. But he doubted that too, because Neysa had heard it and scented it; it would require an extremely thorough illusion to cover sound, smell and sight in a manner that would convince a unicorn. So it was probably a form assumed by some other creature.

A number of Phaze creatures could change their forms. There were the unicorns, each typically having two forms in addition to the equine one. The werewolves, who changed from wolf to man and back. The vampires, who were bats and men. And the Adepts, who could do almost anything they chose. But though the animals could change forms as many times as they wished, they were limited to those few they had mastered, and Stile knew of none who had elected a non Phaze form. The Adepts could take any form, but only once. Thus it would be necessary to find new variants of the spell to achieve the same alternate form, which seemed like too much trouble.

However, a single appearance in this form might be enough, depending on its purpose. Why should an Adept assume the form of a griffin to chase another Adept? Was one of the Adverse Adepts breaking the truce? Trying to take him out anonymously, using this shape in case Stile escaped and tried to identify the perpetrator? That was possible, for some Adepts had few ethical scruples, but unlikely, because the Adverse Adepts already had the upper hand and were likely to win the complete power they sought, in time. They had succeeded in tilting the balance of power in their favor when they had given Mach and Fleta sanctuary. Now Mach and Bane were both working for them, and their facility with magic in this frame, and with science in the other, was inevitably growing. Stile and his allies were waging little more than a holding action at this point, staving off the reckoning. Why should the enemy try to kill him, when this would only stir up his allies to desperate measures, and change nothing? Yet there was the griffin, closing the gap between them.

“Neysa, I believe I should intercede,” he said. But she remained stubborn; she wanted to pull this out herself. She was angling toward the Lattice, that dread, demon-infested pattern of cracks in the ground. She had done that during their first encounter, trying to shake him loose; could she shake loose a flying predator? Since he wasn’t sure how to proceed, he let her try; if the griffin actually caught them, he would invoke a spell that would set back even an Adept. The truth was that a single Adept could seldom really harm another Adept; their magic tended to cancel out. That was another reason it was easier to abide by the truce; violation was not likely to be effective.

The shadow of the monster was coming close, and the griffin itself was descending, its front talons reaching down. Stile readied his spell, but withheld it; he did not want to affront Neysa by demonstrating a lack of faith in her effort. Now she had reached the Lattice, and her hot hooves were clattering on its pattern of little cracks. Those cracks were widening into crevices, and the crevices to deep clefts, as they penetrated to the center of the region.

Soon Neysa was stepping across enlarging gaps, and then jumping over them. The gaps were now broader than the landing places, and the ratio continued to shift. That was the devastating thing about the Lattice; the farther it went, the worse it got. There was a way across it, but that way was devious, like a route through a maze, and could not be navigated blindly. The griffin hovered above as if uncertain how to proceed; perhaps it was not familiar with this network. Then it folded its wings and dropped down toward them. Neysa leaped down into a channel, surprising Stile. Now the walls of it rose up on either side. In a moment the two of them were below the level of the surface, and the griffin could not follow, because its wingspan was far too broad. Neysa had succeeded in avoiding it!

But at a price. Now the demons of this domain showed, and they were not friendly to man or unicorn. They ducked into cross-passages to avoid the spearing unicorn point, but only just far enough to let Neysa pass; then they closed in behind. She could of course run on through and up and out the far side of the Lattice—but the griffin hovered above, evidently waiting for that. Had they played into its trap? “Maybe if we go on through, I can throw a spell at the griffin as we come out,” Stile suggested. “There has to be Adept involvement, so—“ She sounded a note of agreement. They both knew that they could not afford to dally long here in the Lattice, for the demons would surround them and set up a barrier to stop the plunging unicorn. Then they would have to deal with the demons, and it would be messy, because this was the demons’ home territory. But this intrusion had caught the demons by surprise, so they had not yet massed or organized sufficiently, and would not be able to do so before Neysa galloped on out. They passed the nadir of the Lattice, and began the gradual incline toward the escape at the far side. Stile watched the griffin above, ready to time his spell so as to stun it as their heads came out of the chasm.

Suddenly Neysa faltered. Her stride broke, and she ground to a painful halt. Stile was almost thrown from her back, because he had been watching the sky rather than the Lattice, and had not seen the obstruction. Now his eyes wrenched down—and there was no obstruction.

The demons were advancing, appearing from all the inter locking crevices of the demon warren. This was evidently no surprise to them!

“Neysa—what happened?” he cried, dismounting. He could see that she was in pain.

She changed form, becoming a woman of about his own age, petite and fit and attractive, but graying in the forehead, exactly as in her mare form. “Founder,” she breathed in anguish.

Now he saw that her hands were held awkwardly, the fingers gnarling, the joints swelling. Her feet, also, were swollen. She was in serious trouble. “Change to firefly form,” he urged her. “That will take the weight off your feet.” But demons were closing in, and some had nets; they were prepared for this also.

Stile sighed. He knew better than to try to reason with this type of demon. He would have to back them off with magic. He took a breath.

Abruptly the demons froze in place. Stile gaped; he hadn’t done it! This was very powerful magic; who had interceded? The griffin landed just above. It changed form. Suddenly a young man stood there, hair tousled, handsome. “Bane!” Stile cried, surprised and relieved.

“No, Mach,” the man replied. “I am sorry; I did not mean to drive you into the Lattice. I see Neysa ran afoul of the demons’ founder spell. My fault; I will abate it,”

“Mach!” Stile said. Normally he could tell them apart, though they used the same body; their manners differed. His distraction of the moment had dulled his perception. “Why were you pursuing us?”

“You can be hard to locate, Adept,” Mach said with a smile. “The other Adepts watch you, of course, but I never bothered to spy on you. I prefer to search you out at need. So I assumed a form I knew you would recognize as alien to Phaze. But then you wanted to make a game of it, so I played that game. I did not realize that would put Neysa in the way of the founder spell.”

A game! Stile realized that he had been dull; he should have realized that. Had he just taken the trouble to sing an identification spell, instead of letting Neysa run—

“Dam Neysa, if I may ...” Mach said. Abruptly the woman straightened, her pain gone, her hands and feet unkinking. The Robot Adept had freed her without showing any sign of magic; no sung spell, no gesture. It was a power Stile could only envy. Originally Mach had been clumsy with magic, his attempted spells going awry, but after the Red Adept had trained him with the Book of Magic he had be come the most powerful of all the Adepts, Bane included. He should have been on Stile’s side—had Stile not blundered calamitously.

Neysa resumed her unicorn form, and Stile mounted. They moved out of the Lattice. Mach awaited them at the edge. “I thought we weren’t associating,” Stile said with a smile as they emerged. “Aren’t you on the other side?”

“Would I be, if we had the past five years to live over?”

“No.” Indeed, the major reason for Stile’s opposition to Mach’s union with Fleta had been nullified by events. He had needed an heir who was Adept, and offspring by that heir who would also be Adept, so as to have the continuing power to hold off the Adverse Adepts. He had thought that there could be no offspring of man and unicorn, and that a robot could not become Adept. Had he known what was to happen, he would have welcomed Mach as a savior, instead of opposing him as an interference.

“I gave my word, and Bane gave his,” Mach said. “We would have chosen otherwise, and still our sympathies lie with you, but our word is sacred, so we work for the other side. Because the Adepts know we can be trusted, we have complete freedom.”

“I would not have it otherwise,” Stile said sadly.

“But there are advantages for you also,” Mach continued. “Because of this, the Adepts are bound to take no action against you personally, and the children are free to visit you and Citizen Blue. We are also working to make the shift in power more compatible; the status of the unicorns, were wolves and vampires is being safeguarded. There will not be the disaster there might otherwise have been.”

“But once the Adepts achieve power, will their guarantees be honored?” Stile asked grimly.

“Translucent’s will.”

“But how long will he retain power, once the others see no further need for his leadership?”

“That is not our business,” Mach said, frowning. “But it is mine. We all know the nature of the leadership I represent; none know the nature of the leadership that will emerge from the Adverse Adepts once their present constraints are gone, but it will surely be inimical to Phaze.”

“My word binds me,” Mach said tightly. “I would not use my power directly against you, and do not use it for the Adepts, but to the extent they can profit from my contact with Bane, they are entitled. I think it is fair to say that this profit is significant.”

“It is overwhelming,” Stile admitted. “If I can not stop it soon, I will lose hope of ever doing so.”

“I have no comment.”

Of course he didn’t. He knew that what he was doing was shifting the balance to favor the Adverse Adepts in Phaze, and the Contrary Citizens in Proton, but he was bound by his word. Surely he hoped that Stile would somehow prevail, but doubted that this was possible. Thus had events mocked their preferences. “Why did you seek me?” Stile asked. “It is personal. In three days Flach will visit you for a week, as he has been doing every month. We are concerned about him, and hope you can help.”

“Flach is a fine lad,” Stile said. “A joy to Neysa as much as to me, despite our foolishness in opposing his generation. He thrives as both man and unicorn, and we always look forward to his presence.”

“But we expect more of him,” Mach said. “By this time he should be developing his third form, and perhaps progressing to others, as well as learning magic. But he shows no sign of this, and has become increasingly withdrawn. Fleta fears he is retarded.”

Neysa made a musical snort of negation. “He is not retarded,” Stile said.

“But four-year-old unicorn colts generally have mastered their third forms,” Mach said. “And they are open, expressive, inquiring. Flach is not. We fear that something is bothering him, or that he is coming to recognize his inadequacy compared to the unicorns, so is withdrawing. Will you explore this?”

“I hardly need to,” Stile said. “I know the lad is advanced rather than retarded, and is developing powers we hardly anticipate. Your concern is groundless.”

Mach shook his head grimly, not wanting to contradict his elder, but certain he knew better. “Fleta and I know you will do what you can for him,” he said.

“Always,” Stile agreed gruffly. “I assure you that your son will surprise you.”

“I hope so,” Mach said. He glanced at Neysa. “Fleta asks your forgiveness.”

Neysa faced away. This had become almost routine: Fleta had alienated her dam by marrying Mach and joining the cause of the Adverse Adepts, and that remained unforgiven. Neysa well understood and respected Fleta’s reason, but felt she should not have surrendered principle for love. Neysa herself had not. Thus Neysa did not associate with Fleta any more than the barest minimum necessary to fetch Flach and return him. Fleta longed for a change, but it never came. Unicorns of the old school were unyielding.

“Then we part,” Mach said regretfully. “I shall return to Proton; Bane will be in touch.” He became the griffin, spread his wings, and launched into the air. Soon he was gone. “I know you want to restore relations with Fleta,” Stile said as they resumed their journey. “Perhaps some day some thing will enable it.”

Neysa did not answer, but that was answer enough. Her nature prevented her from forgiving her offspring, but she loved Fleta, and hoped that some legitimate avenue of forgiveness would develop. Just as Stile hoped that he would somehow be able to prevail over the Adverse Adepts. Perhaps both hopes were futile—but perhaps not. For there was much that was not spoken. All of them knew that the Adverse Adepts kept constant watch on Stile and Neysa and the Lady Blue, so as to block any action they might initiate against the Adepts. Anything spoken was over heard and analyzed. Perhaps the Adepts were foolish enough to believe that there were no unspoken plans, but Stile doubted that.

So he said nothing truly private aloud. This had become automatic these past five years. But he spoke freely of other things, so as to maintain the semblance of carelessness, and also to fatigue the snoopers with trivia. That way if some thing private slipped out, it just might be overlooked. After all, constant surveillance was also a constant drain on their magic.

“Mach’s power is greater than I had thought,” he said. “He cured your founder without seeming effort. I could have done it, but not nearly so readily.”

She made a musical agreement. Unicorns were resistive to incidental magic, but Adept magic was hardly incidental. The demons must have plotted for a long time to obtain and place that founder spell, and it had been devastatingly effective. Yet Mach had nullified both the demons and spell as if such magic was child’s play—which perhaps it was, now, to him. Stile was glad that the Robot Adept was not his enemy, even if he was not his ally.

They traveled north, now, not running but not dawdling. Stile had an appointment to meet Icebeard, the snow demon leader who was also a chess master. They had played several correspondence games since getting started when the demon agreed to train Mach in chess; the demon had wanted to play Stile to determine who was the ultimate chess master of Phaze. Since Stile preferred a fair game, even though Mach was on the other side, he agreed, and had played the demon, and it had been an excellent game. But it had concluded in a draw, and so had the following ones. Finally the demon had suggested that they play a “live” game, with time limits, and another, and another, until they had one that did not draw, and that would determine who was champion. Of course there were variants of chess that prohibited draws, but both of them were conservatives in this respect: for the championship they preferred the classic game. So Stile was on his way to play, though Icebeard was of the enemy camp; this was another advantage of the truce. But there was more to it than chess, as Neysa knew.

For Stile had spoken accurately when he said that his grandson (and Neysa’s) was advanced rather than retarded, and would surprise his father. Mach had dismissed that as optimism or encouragement, but it was neither. Stile had been training the lad, and soon the extent of Flach’s progress would become known. But that revelation had to be coordinated with action in the frame of Proton relating to Nepe, the child of Bane and Agape, because the moment one child’s abilities were revealed, the other would be suspect. Flach was only four years old, and indeed he could change freely between his human and unicorn forms. But he could also assume other forms, unknown to his parents.

Stile had cautioned the lad as soon as he learned to speak, and Flach had responded beautifully. His seeming slowness was a two year act, masking his true progress. But Stile had known that this could not be concealed indefinitely; eventually the Adverse Adepts would catch on, and then they would act to eliminate the threat. The boy’s great progress had been possible without attracting the notice of the Adepts because they were not watching him; they assumed he was too young to practice great magic. That was their colossal error. The key was this: Flach could communicate with Nepe across the frames. Just as Mach and Bane could. That meant that Stile and Citizen Blue could develop similar information to that which the enemy had from Mach and Bane. Had both been male, they might even have had the potential to ex change, for they were parallels, perhaps alternate selves. This represented a possible shift in the balance of power, turning it back to Stile’s side.

Stile had been holding off action as long as possible, so as to enable the children of both frames to mature. But there was too much at risk; the action had to be now. This was the real reason for his chess trip: it provided him the opportunity to do what he had to do, without giving his motive away.

Because he had to escape the surveillance of the Adepts while he told Neysa what to do. A few seconds would suffice; then it would be out of his hands. He hoped he was doing the right thing.

Neysa picked up her pace, so as to arrive at the White Mountain Range at dusk. That would make direct visual observation trickier. She knew the importance of timing; every thing had to be right. If they did not achieve their dialogue without suspicion, all might be lost.

As the light waned, they approached the base of the range.

The snow demons spied them, of course; they were expected. They entered the track that led to the pass that opened on the demon chiefs cold caves. Stile waved, then singsonged a spell, while Neysa played a theme to help intensify the magic.

Make us warm despite the cold;

Make us private till it is told.

Immediately the chill of the mountain dissipated; the snow remained, yet they felt warm. But it was the second part of the spell that counted more: the privacy. This was masked by the larger spell the demon chief had arranged to prevent any information being exchanged magically while the chess match was in progress; he wanted to be sure that nothing but the two great minds was operating. There was a certain vague ness at the fringe of the region, because the boundary of the demon’s spell could not be precise. Stile had researched this well. Thus his own spell of privacy should not be detected, and the spying Adepts should not realize that they were being excluded. They would assume that Stile and Neysa were passing through a region of interference, that would clarify as they reached the center and the demon’s spell took full hold. He could have made his privacy spell back at the Blue Demesnes, but that would have attracted the notice of the spying Adepts, and they would have doubled their watch, making Neysa’s action impossible.

“Neysa,” Stile said now. “It is time. Fetch Flach, take him on the circuit of allies, and take no note when he leaves you. Bring the golem to me.”

She made a querying note.

“He will ask you,” Stile replied. “Signal yes, then cooperate with anything he asks. His life will be at stake. He will be afraid; support him. This is the crisis.” She blew an affirmative note. Stile said no more. The spell of privacy depended on his intent as much as on his invocation; now it dissipated. The music summoned his magic; the intent interpreted it; the words denned it, approximately. Another person might sing as he did, and speak similiar words, and wish the same effect, but would not be able to achieve the same result because only the Adepts had the necessary underlying talent. Any person could do some magic, but most could perform only poorly unless gifted with the talent and willing to train carefully. Some tried, but the established Adepts were quick to detect such effort and to act against it; they did not desire competition. So successful Adepts were few; usually the only new ones were those protected by existing Adepts. Thus Stile’s son Bane had been training to assume the status of Blue Adept, and the Tan Adept’s twin offspring had trained to become the Tan Adept. Sometimes an Adept died without a successor; then there could be a certain free-for-all, unless some accommodation was achieved with the other Adepts. As a general rule, those who became Adept were not nice people; rather, they were the most talented and unscrupulous. That was why the majority of them opposed Stile; they preferred to operate without ethical hindrance. Only Red, who owed his position to Stile, and Brown, in her time somewhat smitten by him, were on his side. But now they were coming up to the pass, and the snow demons were waiting. They were about to suffer the hospitality of Icebeard.

Stile had been to these mountains before, a generation ago, but had encountered a different chieftain: Freezetooth, who had had a passion for a lovely fire spirit whose proximity would have melted him. Stile had enchanted the snow demon to make him invulnerable to fire, and a heated romance had followed. Relations with that tribe had been amicable for twenty years, until the communication between Mach and Bane had polarized the Adepts and tribes of Phaze and forced new alignments. It was possible that Icebeard remembered that, and that the chess challenge was his way of maintaining relations despite their status as enemies. There were as many tribes of demon folk as there were human folk, and demons differed as much from each other as did human beings, and were subject to similar constraints.

Neysa had not been along on that trip. Instead Stile had ridden her brother Clip, now a Herd Stallion. Neysa was not partial to any demons, no matter what their heat or color, and was hard put to avoid an impolite snort as the white creatures closed in. This was however no attack, but an honorary escort. Icebeard wanted very much to play chess with Stile, and would do nothing to interfere with that. They were ushered into the palatial ice caverns that were the demon’s throneroom. Icebeard tried to maintain his chill reserve, but could not. He jumped down and approached Stile with an attitude that in any other creature would have been positive, but with him was merely less threatening. “Now we play!” he exclaimed. “Thou and I alone!”

“Aye,” Stile agreed. Then he glanced at Neysa. “The mare liketh not these Demesnes; if thou willst grant her safe passage out, she will depart and return for me when the issue be settled.”

Icebeard looked at Neysa. “Be this not Fleta’s dam?”

Neysa made an affirmative note.

“And she play not chess? Fleta be a better player than Mach; comes she oft here to challenge my minions.” Stile had not realized this. But of course Fleta had come with Mach when he trained here, so had had opportunity to pick it up if she wanted to. Of course there was no reason a unicorn could not play chess if she wished, but Stile had not heard of it happening before.

“Interesting,” he remarked.

“Methinks the filly be a better gamescreature than Mach overall,” the demon confided. “My affinity to unicorns be not great, but that one dost have charm.” Neysa stood awkwardly. Naturally she was pleased to hear her offspring praised, but she was not speaking to Fleta, as perhaps Icebeard knew. Demons had ways of teasing. Stile did not comment.

“She it was, methinks, made him what he be,” the demon concluded. “A filly worthy o’ any male, like her dam.” Neysa did not react visibly, but the snow around her was beginning to melt. At last the demon had mercy, and directed his minions to escort her out and to keep lookout for her safe return perhaps a week hence.

It occurred to Stile that he could get to like Icebeard. As Neysa departed, they walked to the chessboard with its pieces crafted from ice. He did not care to admit it, but he had looked forward to this game as much as had the demon, be cause Icebeard was indeed the best other player in Phaze. And, with luck, the Adverse Adepts would relax, believing that Stile could not make any initiative against them while locked in a chess game in the cold White Mountains. He was counting on that. Chess was not the only game he was playing at the moment.

“Let’s get on with it, pretender,” Stile said. “I expect to wipe the floor with thy king before the hour be out.”

Icebeard swelled up like an advancing glacier. ‘ ‘Thou dost call me pretender? Thy king shall be meltwater, and thy queen ravished ere mine be threatened!”

Stile smiled grimly. They both knew this was going to be great fun.