Juxtaposition (15 page)

When they emerged from the Orange Demesnes, Stile guided them southeast, back toward the region of the animalheads. The Lady glanced at him questioningly, but did not comment.

The animalheads appeared. “Know, 0 creatures, that I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “Guide me to your leader.” When they pressed forward menacingly, he resorted to magic. “Animalhead, be friend instead,” he sang. And the attitude of each one changed. Now they were willing to take him where he had asked.

Soon they encountered an elephanthead, with a giant fat body to support so large an extremity. The creature trumpeted in confusion.

“Each to each, intelligible speech,” Stile sang.
 
“To what do we owe the questionable pleasure of this visit?” the nasal trumpetings translated, now having the semblance of ordinary human speech.

“I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “This is my Lady Blue. We are on our honeymoon, touring the curtain with our steeds. We seek no quarrel and do not believe we provoked thy creatures. Why did they attack us?”

The elephanthead considered, his trunk twisting uncertainly. He was evidently loath to answer, but also wary of openly defying an Adept. “We sent a person to inquire of the Oracle, after the shaking of the mountains alarmed us.
 
Hard times may be coming to Phaze, and we are concerned about survival.”

“So are we,” Stile said. “But we understand we have a safe fortnight for our pleasure journey to the West Pole, and thereafter the Lady Blue will have time to bear my son. So the end of Phaze is not quite yet. But why should you interfere with us?”

“The Oracle advised us that if we permitted a man riding a unicorn to pass our demesnes, half our number would perish within the month.”

Suddenly the attitude of the animalheads made sense.
 
“The Oracle claims I am a threat to thy kind?” Stile asked incredulously. “I have had no intention of harming thy creatures!”

“The Oracle did not say thou hast intent; only the consequence of thy passage.”

“Let me meet the bearer of this message.” A snakehead came forward. Rendered intelligible by Stile’s spell, she repeated the message: “Let pass the man on ‘corn, and half will die within the month.”

The Lady Blue’s brow furrowed. “That is an either-or message, unusual. Can it be a true Oracle?”

“The Oracle is always true,” the elephanthead said.
 

“But just let me check the messenger,” Stile said, catching on to the Lady’s suspicion. He faced the snakehead, played his harmonica, and sang: “Lady Snakehead, tell me true: what the Oracle said to do.”

And she repeated: “Let pass the man on ‘corn, and half will die within the month. Prevent him, and in that period all will die.”

The elephanthead gave a trumpet of amazement. “Half the message! Why didst thou betray us so, snake?”

“I knew not—“ she faltered.

“She was enchanted,” the Lady Blue said. “By someone who bore ill will to us all.”

The elephanthead was chagrined. “Who would that be?”

“Ask first who could have done it,” Stile said.
 

“Only another Adept,” the elephanthead said. “We are enchanted creatures, resistant to ordinary magic, else we would change our forms. Only Adepts can play with our bodies or minds.”

“So I suspected,” Stile said. “I could not prevail against thy kind until I used my magic. Could this be the handiwork of the Orange Adept?”

“Nay. He dislikes us, as he dislikes all animate creatures, even himself. But he has no power over aught save plants.”

“Still, a plant can affect a person,” Stile said, thinldng of the silence-spell that had so inconvenienced him.
 
But when he used another spell to check what had happened to the snakehead, it showed her being intercepted by a weaselhead woman, seemingly her own kind, who drew a diagram in the dirt that made a flash of light.
 
“The White Adept!” Stile exclaimed. “I know her mode of magic and know she likes me not.”

“We also do not get along with her,” the elephanthead agreed. “We apologize to thee. Blue, for our misunderstanding. We shall not again attempt to do thee ill.”

“Accepted,” Stile said. “Let us part friends, and if we meet again, it shall be to help each other.”

“Thou art generous.”

“I like animals.” Stile did not see fit to remind the animalheads that they still stood to lose half their number soon. Real mischief was brewing, according to the prophecy.

“We like not Adepts, but to thee we shall be friend.”

And so they parted on a positive note.

Stile and the Lady proceeded north along the curtain.

But they were tired; they had not slept the past night.

When a suitable camping spot manifested, they camped.
 
There was a streamlet, a fine old apple tree, and a metal object lying on its side. It was about six feet in diameter, roughly cup-shaped, with a number of depressions on the outer surface, as if someone had dented it with small boulders. It seemed to be made entirely of silver; anywhere except Phaze, it would have been phenomenally valuable.
 
Here, of course, such artifacts could be conjured magically.
 
A storm was rising. “Would this be a good chamber in which to spend the day and night?” Stile inquired. “It seems watertight.”

Clip glanced up from his grazing, blowing a single negative note.

Stile shrugged. “The unicorn says no; who am I to argue with such authority?” And he conjured a suitable tent beside the metal structure.

They slept in the shade of the tent while the equines grazed and slept on their feet and stood guard simultaneously.
 
In the late afternoon. Stile woke to an awful shuddering of the ground. He leaped out of the tent.
 
Clip stood there in man-form. “If thou pleasest, Adept, make a flare above us in the sky that anyone can see.”

Stile obeyed. “Make a flare up there,” he sang, pointing upward. It was like a rocket exploding in brilliant colors.
 
The shuddering increased. A monstrous shape appeared, towering above the trees. “WHERE?” it bellowed.
 
It was a female human-form giant, so big Stile could not even estimate her height.

“Tell her there,” Clip said, indicating the metal structure.

Stile magicked a bright arrow in the sky, pointing toward the silver artifact. The giant saw this, followed the direction with her gaze, and leaned down to grasp the thing. Her near approach was harrowing; it seemed as if a building were falling on them, but the small party stood its ground.

“My silver thimble!” the giantess exclaimed, lifting the tiny object into the sky. “My lost thimble! Who found it for me?”

Stile made sky writing: BLUE ADEPT, with an arrow pointing to himself.

She squinted down from above the clouds. “I thank thee. Blue Adept,” she boomed. “What favor may I return thee?”

ONLY THY GOOD WILL, Stile skywrote, daunted.
 
One small misstep and the giantess could crush this entire region flat.

“Granted,” she said, and departed with her prize.
 

“Thou knewest!” Stile accused Clip. “A giantess’ silver thimble, six feet across!”

“Giants are good people,” Clip agreed smugly. “They have long memories too. Best to be on the right side of a giant.”

“I should think so,” Stile agreed. “And best not to sleep in a giant thimble.”

He conjured a modest repast for himself and the Lady, and some grain to supplement the diet of the equines, since they had used so much of their strength the prior night. Then he and the Lady returned to the tent for the night. As he drifted off to sleep the second time, it occurred to Stile that Clip had been giving excellent service.
 
Stile’s favorite was Neysa, his oath-friend, but Clip was certainly a worthy substitute. He would have to ponder some favor to do for the unicorn after this was over, as a suitable reward for such things as helping to save Stile’s life and dignity. It was hard to do favors for unicorns, because all of them were subject to their Herd Stallions.
 
But perhaps Stile could dear something with the unicorn hierarchy.

In the morning, refreshed, they resumed the journey.
 
The assorted interruptions had put them behind Stile’s schedule; now they had to move along to reach the West Pole before he had to return to Proton.
 
The curtain curved west through the land of the giants.
 
To Stile’s relief they encountered no more of the gigantic people. At noon they came to the ocean.
 
“But the curtain goes right into the water,” Stile protested.

“Of course. The West Pole is on an island,” the Lady said. “Conjure a boat.”

“But I want to follow the curtain where it touches land.” Stile had no special reason for this; he had merely envisioned walking along the curtain, not sailing.

“Then conjure away the ocean,” she said gaily.
 
Instead, Stile enchanted them so that the water became like air to them. They walked down into the ocean as if passing through mist, the steeds stepping over the green coated rocks of the bottom. Fish swam by, seemingly in midair. Seaweed waved in breezelike currents, always surprising Stile since they seemed to lack sufficient support.
 
Deep down, the light faded, so Stile sang a spell of night vision, making things seem bright. Interesting, how he could use his underwater speaking ability, which was the result of one spell, to make a new spell; magic could be cumulative. Thus it was possible to get around certain limitations in stages. It helped explain how one Adept could kill another, indirectly, by modifying a message so that it caused animalheads to attack an Adept and drive him into the Demesnes of a hostile Adept. Perhaps there were no real limits, only techniques of procedure.
 
At the deepest level of the sea there was a stirring, and a merman appeared.

“Lost thy way?” he inquired of Stile.
 
“We see not many fork-limbed creatures here.” He was evidently possessed of the type of enchantment Stile had employed to penetrate the water. It seemed there were natural principles of magic that came into play, whether by spell or by endowment. Stile’s understanding of Phaze was constantly expanding.

“I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “This is my Lady, and these our steeds. We merely pass through, following the curtain, seeking no quarrel.”

“Then permit us to guide thee, for there are traps for the unwary.” The merman pointed ahead. “Not far from here a hungry sea serpent straddles the curtain. It cares not for the peaceful intent of travelers.”

“I thank thee for thy concern. But we are on our honeymoon, and promised ourselves to travel the length of the curtain where possible, seeking the West Pole. We are late on our schedule and prefer not to detour.”

“That serpent is fearsome,” the merman warned. “None of us dare go near it. Yet if that is thy will, we will not hinder thee.” He swam off.

“See thou hast an apt spell ready,” the Lady advised, smiling, making the water brighten in her vicinity.
 
Stile reviewed the spells in his mind, and they rode on.
 
He enjoyed the scenery here, so different from the normal land vistas. Clams of all sizes were waving their feeding nets in the water, and coral-like growths were spreading everywhere. A small yellow octopus eyed them, then noted the menacing unicorn horn and scurried hastily away on all tentacles, leaving a purple ink cloud behind. Stile smiled; this was exactly the kind of honeymoon he liked! Then they arrived at the lair of the serpent. It was not impressive—merely a tunnel under piled stones. In a moment the ugly snout of the serpent poked out. This creature was not large, as such monsters went; probably one man would represent a sufficient meal for it. But there was no sense taking chances. “Please freeze,” Stile sang, and the serpent went still. The freezing was not literal, for Stile had willed only a temporary cessation of motions; his mind controlled the interpretation.

They moved on past. A large, heavy net rose up about them and twined itself together overhead. Stile reacted immediately, whipping out his sword and slashing at the strands—but the blade could not penetrate this net.
 
Clip ran his horn through it, but again the material held. “This net is magic,” the Lady said. ‘The fibers are enchanted to be strong.”

So it seemed. The net itself was magically weighted, so that they could not lift it free of the sea floor, and it was impossible to cut or break.

Stile worked out a spell: “Pesky net, begone yet!” he sang. But though color shimmered across the net’s surface, the net remained intact.

‘This is the handiwork of another Adept,” the Lady said darkly. ‘Thy power cancels out. In this Adept’s Demesnes, thou canst not prevail.”

“Maybe not directly,” Stile said. He was getting tired of running afoul of other Adepts! “But I can change us into little fishes, and swim through the mesh and escape.”

“Me thou canst change,” she agreed. “But thyself thou couldst not change back, since fish can neither speak nor sing. And the hostile Adept might have a monster lurking to pounce on such little fish. Risk it not, my Lord.” It was the voice of common sense. In his present form, Stile could guard them against further evil; anything else was too much of a risk.