Juxtaposition

5. West Pole (F)

He was late, but the Lady Blue forgave him. "I had the news before thee. Thou art a Citizen now."

"It's anticlimactic," Stile complained. "Citizenship is the ultimate prize of Proton. Now that I have it, it's mainly a nuisance. Hidden forces decree that I must commence a new and chancy course, to be ready for even more tension. I wonder if this relates in any way to the promised mischief at the West Pole?"

"How can such complications arise now?" the Lady inquired rhetorically. "All we seek is a simple honey-moon."

"Somehow I don't think we're going to have it."

They attended the snow demons' banquet. It was magnificent, in its fashion. Candied icicles for aperitif, iceburgers, fried avalanche, sludge freeze as a beverage, and snow cones for dessert. The snow-demons pitched in with gusto; Stile and the Lady nibbled with imperfect enthusiasm, until Stile sneaked in a small spell and changed their morsels to items with food content concealed under snow frosting.

At night, side by side in a surprisingly comfortable snowbank, they talked. "I have a problem," Stile said quietly.

"I think it must needs wait till the snowmen sleep," she murmured. "They exhibit unseemly curiosity as to how flesh-mortals perform without melting from generated heat."

He patted her anatomy under the snow blanket, where the curious demons couldn't see. "A Proton problem."

"The Lady Sheen."

"The lovely self-willed robot lady Sheen, who will not

accept reprogramming. I must work closely with her, for I have agreed to help her machine friends. They helped me survive when times were hard in Proton, and I must help them achieve serf status now. And they warn me that more trouble is coming; that I must gamble to enhance my estate vastly and research to learn who sent Sheen in the first place. I fear it links in some way to events in Phaze, so I must follow through. Only I wish I didn't have to use Sheen — take that in what sense thou wilt. It isn't fair to her, and I feel guilty."

"As well thou might," she agreed. "I promised to consider her case, and so I have done. Now let me see if I have this right. The self-willed golems — machines — wish recognition as people?"

"Correct. Serfs are the lowest people, but are more than the highest machines. Serfs can play the Game, compete in the Tourney, win privileges or even Citizenship. When their tenure expires, they depart the planet with generous cumulative pay. Machines are permitted none of this; they are slaves until junked. Yet some are intelligent, conscious, feeling."

"And the Lady Sheen is one of these unrecognized machine creatures."

"She is. She is in every way a person, with very real emotions. They merely happen to be programmed, rather than natural."

"And is there a difference between program and na ture?"

"I doubt it. Different means to similar ends, perhaps."

"Then thou must marry the Lady Sheen."

Stile paused. "I don't believe I heard thee properly, Lady."

"It is the other frame. She can never cross the curtain. Thou canst do as thou wilt with her there."

Stile had been growing sleepy. Now he was awakening. "I am sure I am misunderstanding thee."

"If a Citizen marries a machine-"

"Nobody can marry a machine!"

"— then that machine must have-"

"Machines don't have-" Stile stopped. "I wonder. The

spouses of Citizens do not achieve Citizen status, but they do have certain prerogatives. They are considered to be employed — their employment being the marriage. And only serfs are employable."

"So a married machine would be a serf," the Lady concluded. "And if one machine were a serf-"

"The precedent-"

"Thinkest thou it would accomplish thy purpose?"

Stile considered, his head spinning. "If the marriage stuck, it would be one hell of a lever for legal machine recognition!"

"That was my notion," she said complacently.

"But I am married to thee!" he protested.

'In Phaze. Not in Proton."

"But thou canst cross over!"

"True. But I am of this frame, and never will I leave it for aught save emergency. I have no claim on the things of Proton, nor wish I any."

"But I love only thee! I could never-"

"Thou lovest more than thou knowest," she said with gentle assurance. "Neysa, Sheen-"

"Well, there are different types of-"

"And I spoke not of love. I spoke of marriage."

"A marriage of convenience? To a robot?"

"Dost thou hold the Lady Sheen beneath convenience, for that she be made of metal?"

"Nay! But-" He paused. "Nay, I must confess I do think less of her. Always since I learned she was not real, that-"

"Methinks thou hast some thinking to do," the Lady Blue said, and turned her back.

Stile felt the reproach keenly. He was prejudiced; he had great respect for Sheen, but love had been impossible because she was not flesh. Yet he reminded himself that he had come closer to loving her before encountering the Lady Blue. Had Sheen's nonliving nature become a pretext for his inevitable change of heart? He could not be sure, but he was unable to deny it.

How could he fight for the recognition of the sapient self-willed machines if he did not recognize them as

discrete individuals himself? How could he marry Sheen if he did not love her? If he came to think of her as a real person, wouldn't such a marriage make him a bigamist? There were two frames, certainly, but he was only one person. Yet since the Lady Blue had generously offered to accept half-status, confining herself to Phaze-

Think of the commotion the marriage of a Citizen to a robot would make in Proton! It would convulse the social order! That aspect appealed to him. Yet-

"Wouldst thou settle for a betrothal?" he asked at last.

"An honest one," she agreed sleepily.

"Say six months. Time enough to get the legal issues clarified, one way or the other. There would be formidable opposition from other Citizens. And of course Sheen herself might not agree."

"She will agree," the Lady Blue said confidently. "A betrothal is a commitment, and never wilt thou renege. She will have some joy of thee at last."

This was not a way he had ever expected the Lady Blue to speak, and Stile was uneasy. Yet perhaps she had some concern of her own, knowing she had taken him away from Sheen. Possibly the social mores of Phaze differed from those of Proton in this respect, and sharing was more permissible. Certainly his friend Kurrelgyre the werewolf had believed it, assigning his bitch to a friend while Kurrelgyre himself was in exile from his Pack. The Lady Blue had met Sheen, liked her, and accepted her immediately as a person; apparently that had not been any social artifice.

"And if in six months it is legal, then shall I marry her," Stile continued. "In Proton. But I can not love her."

"Then love me," the Lady Blue said, turning to him.

That was reward enough. But already Stile had a glimpse of that controversy he was about to conjure, like a savage magic storm.

In the morning they resumed their tour of the curtain, recrossing the White Mountain range and bearing south-west. There were some deep crevices on the ground; when their steeds' hooves knocked sand into them, it fell down and away beyond the limit of perception, soundlessly. "Deep caves, mayhap," Stile remarked, a bit nervous about a possible collapse of the footing. But Clip tapped the ground with a forehoof, indicating that there was no danger of a fall as long as a unicorn picked the way.

Stile checked his contour map and discovered they were heading for the Black Demesnes. He did not like the Black Adept, and by mutual consent they spelled rapidly past the grim castle and well on toward the Purple Mountains.

Now the curtain bore directly south. Suddenly there was an explosion of fire before them. Stile squinted at the flame, trying to determine whether it was natural or magic.

"The warnersl" the Lady exclaimed. "The Green Adept!"

"It must be," Stile agreed. "I promised to bypass him."

They went around, rejoining the curtain southwest of Green's marked territory. The curtain was curving back westward, through the foothills of the southern mountains. The scenery was pleasant; waist-high bushes covered the rolling terrain, topped with faintly purple flowers. The steeds trotted through, finding firm footing beneath. The midafternoon sun slanted down.

Suddenly a creature jumped in front of Hinblue. The thing had the body of a powerful man and the head of a wolf. It bayed — and the horse spooked. The Lady Blue, an expert rider, was not in any trouble; she brought her steed about and calmed her.

Then a second creature appeared, this one with the head of a ram. It bleated.

Stile's mind formulated a spell while his hand went for his harmonica. But he withheld his magic, uncertain whether it was necessary. He had heard of the animal-heads, but understood they were not aggressive toward human beings. Was his information mistaken?

More animalheads appeared, making their assorted noises. Cats, goats, hawks, bears, turtles — none of them with the intelligence or verbal ability of a man, but each quite formidable in its fashion. They were all snarling, squawking, roaring, or growling aggressively. A pighead charged toward Stile, grunting.

"I fear they mean mischief," the Lady Blue said. "This is not like them. Something has angered them, methinks."

"Yes," Stile agreed. Clip's horn was holding the pighead at bay, but a crocodilehead was circling to the rear. "We had best avoid them till we know their motivation."

"Methinks we can outrun them," she said, concerned but not worried.

Their steeds took off. Hinblue was a fine mare, capable of a galloping velocity that shamed ordinary horses; she really did move like the wind. But Clip was a unicorn whose inherent magic made him swifter yet. By common consent they used no other magic, not revealing Stile's status; Adepts were not necessarily favored in the back reaches of Phaze.

The animalheads gave chase enthusiastically, baying, bellowing, and hooting. But their human bodies could not compare with the equine bodies, and they soon fell behind. Yet two things narrowed the gap; this was animalhead territory, more familiar to the beastmen than to the intruders; they could take the best paths and shortcuts, and kept popping up just ahead. Also, there were a number of them, so that a good many were already ranged along the route, and these formed living barricades. This made the chase close enough for discomfort.

Three catfaces rose up before them. Both steeds, well versed in this sort of thing, did not leap, for though they could have cleared the creatures, they would in the process have exposed their vulnerable underbellies to attack from below. Instead they put their heads down and charged low.

The catheads could have handled the horse, but not the deadly hom of the unicorn. That hom could skewer a standing creature instantly. The cats dropped down, giving way, and the party galloped on unscathed.

Half a dozen pigheads appeared, grunting urgently. This time the steeds leaped. The pigheads reached up, but their weapons were their tusks, not good for vertical goring. One got struck in the head by Hinblue's front hoof, and the others desisted.

A pack of wolfheads closed in, but the steeds dodged and galloped to the side and got around and through, then put on speed to leave the beasts behind. No more animalheads appeared, and Stile knew that his party had gotten away clean.

Unnoticed in the hurry, the vegetation had changed. They were now forging through a forest of huge old trees — oak, ash, elm, and beech, by the look. But it was not necessarily easy to tell them apart, for the trunks were gnarled and deeply corrugated, and the tops shaded the ground into gloom.

"I like not the look of this," the Lady Blue said.

Stile agreed. Their escape had led them away from the curtain, so that they now had to relocate. It would not be safe to return to their point of divergence from it; the animalheads were there. Stile still preferred to avoid the use of magic in the present situation; this was an annoyance, not a crisis.

All of which meant they would have to search for the curtain the tedious way — slowly, eyes squinting for the almost invisible shimmer. The curtain was easy to follow lengthwise, but difficult to intercept broadside unless one knew exactly where to look.

"Well, it's all part of the honeymoon," Stile said. The Lady smiled; she had known there would be this sort of interruption in the schedule.

They looked, riding slowly around the great old trees. The forest was so dense now that even indirect light hardly penetrated, yet there were an increasing number of small plants. They twined up around the bases of the tree trunks and spread across the forest floor. Some were a suspiciously verdant green; others were pallid white. Many were insidiously ugly.

Yet they were plants, not creatures. None of them sent questing tentacles for the intruders; none had poisonous thorns. They flourished in gloom; that seemed to be their only oddity.

There was no sign of the curtain. "It will take forever to find it this way," Stile said. "I want to be back on it by nightfall." He jumped down and walked. "We can make a better search on foot," he said.

Clip blew a warning note. Unicorns were naturally resistant to magic, and this protected the rider. The Blue Adept, Clip felt, needed protection, and should not be straying from his steed. As if Stile did not have ample magic of his own.

Stile walked on, peering this way and that, searching for the curtain. It had to be somewhere near here; they had not gone all that far and they had not diverged from its path greatly. In this gloom the shimmer should be clear enough.

Clip's ears turned. He blew a low warning note. Stile paused to listen.

The animalheads were catching up. Stile's party had to move on before-

Too late. A pigface appeared in front of Stile. A dog-face came up behind the Lady. There was rustling in the bushes all around. Perhaps aided by some sort of stealth-spell, the animalheads had surrounded them.

The Lady called Hinblue, who charged toward her. Stile stepped toward Clip, but already the pighead was on him. Stile did not use magic. He drew his sword, threatening but not attacking the creature. Thеге was something odd about this, and he did not want to do anything irrevocable until he fathomed it.

The pighead halted its aggression — but three sheepheads were closing from the sides. A spell would freeze them, but Stile still didn't want to do it. Rather than shed blood, he dodged around the pighead, hurdled a fallen branch — and an offshoot moved up and intercepted his leading ankle, causing him to take a heavy spill into a flowering bush beyond.

There was a kind of zapl as the leaves were disturbed, and Stile felt the presence of magic. Quickly he jumped up, feeling about his body, but he seemed to have suffered no injury.

The animalheads had taken advantage of his fall to surround him. Clip had stopped a short distance away, perceiving that the animalheads could reach Stile before the unicorn could. No sense precipitating an attack by spooking them.

Stile decided to make an honest attempt at communication before resorting reluctantly to magic to freeze them temporarily in place. It wasn't natural for normally peaceful creatures to attack and pursue strangers like this. Maybe he could establish a yes-no dialogue with one of the more intelligent ones. He really wasn't looking for trouble on his honeymoon!

He opened his mouth to speak — and nothing but air emerged. He couldn't talk!

Stile tried again. There was no pain, no constriction in his throat — but he could not vocalize at all. The plant — it had zapped him with a spell of silence!

The animalheads did not know about his power of magic, so did not know what he had lost. They thought him an ordinary man — which he was now. They converged.

Stile quickly brought the harmonica to his mouth. He might not be able to speak or sing, but the instrument's music would summon some protective magic. He blew — and silence came out.

He stamped his foot on the ground and made no noise. He banged his sword against a root — silently. He whistled — without even a hiss of air.

The spell had rendered him totally quiet. Since he could nullify it only by using his own magic, and that required sound, he was trapped.

These tests had been performed rapidly, and the conclusion drawn in a few seconds, for the animalheads were on him. Still he did not use his sword. He had threatened with it, but remained unwilling actually to shed blood. The mystery of these creatures' attack bothered him as much as the threat to himself.

A cathead pounced. Stile ducked, reached up, and guided it into a turning fall. He might be silent, but he wasn't helpless!

But now a tremendously tusked boarhead came at him from the left and an alligatorhead from the right. There was no question of their intent. He could dodge these two — but how long could he hold out against the converging mob?

Meanwhile, Clip had resumed motion. Now the unicorn arrived. His horn caught the alligatorhead and impaled it.

A powerful heave sent the creature flying back over the equine's shoulder. Then a forehoof knocked the boarhead away.

Clip stood beside Stile, giving him a chance to mount. Then they were away in a great leap. Soon they joined Hinblue and the Lady Blue and galloped clear of the animalheads once again.

The Lady Blue realized what was wrong. "Thou art victim of a silence-spell!" she cried. "We must take thee back to the Blue Demesnes for a counterspell!"

But the animalheads were already catching up again, cutting off the return — and of course it would be a long ride all the way back to the Blue Demesnes, even cutting directly across to it. Their only avenue of escape at the moment was north, deeper into the jungle.

The steeds plunged on, but the vegetation thickened. Now grasping plants occurred, reaching thorny branches toward them, opening green jawlike processes. This jungle was coming alive — at the time when Stile had lost his power. A single spell could quell every plant — but he could not utter that spell.

The Lady Blue exclaimed as vines twined about her body. Her steed had to halt, lest she be drawn off. Then the vines attacked Hinblue's legs, seeking to anchor the horse to the ground.

Stile nudged Clip. Hie unicorn charged back. His horn touched the vines, and they writhed out of the way, repelled by the countermagic. Meanwhile, Stile used his sword to chop at the nether vines, freeing the horse. The weapon normally carried by men in Phaze was the rapier, but Stile felt more comfortable with the broadsword, and now the cutting edge was useful indeed.

There was a renewed baying of animalheads, catching np yet again. Stile's party moved forward once more.

The plants got worse. Tree branches dropped down to bar their way, dangling poisonous-looking moss. Stile cut the moss away with his sword, clearing the path for the Lady and steeds. Ichor from the moss soon covered the blade, turning it gray-green. The stuff reeked with a pungent odor, almost like dragon's blood. Stile did not like this at all. Yet he had to keep hacking the encroaching growth away, afraid to let any of the party get caught.

At last the sounds of pursuit diminished. The animal-heads had been foiled by this vicious jungle too.

But the trees, bushes, and brambles had closed in behind, forming a virtually impenetrable barrier. Stile's sword was already stained and pitted trader the ichor, and holes were appearing in his clothing where drops had spattered. He didn't want to hack through any more of this!

Clip blew a musical note. Stile dismounted, and the unicorn phased into the hawk and flew up. The sky was the one open route!

The Lady Blue also dismounted and came to him. "Mayhap I can help thee," she offered. She laid her hands on his throat, and their healing power warmed skin and muscle deep inside. But the silence was not any constriction in his throat, but a cloud of nonsound that surrounded him. He could not be healed because he wasn't ill; the spell itself had to be abated, somehow.

"Mayhap a potion?" the Lady mused, fishing in her purse. But none of the elixirs she had with her seemed promising, and she did not want to expend them uselessly. "Clip may find something," she said hopefully. "From the air, more can be seen."

The jungle was not being idle, however. Plants were visibly growing toward them. This time they were ugly, jointed things, with great brown thorns hooked at each juncture. These things were structured to engage a retreating form, and not to disengage, and they looked as if they had hollow points. Bloodsuckers, surely. Stile brought out his knife and sawed оff the nearest thorn stem, severing it with difficulty; the fiber was like cable. By the time he completed the cut, several other tendrils were approaching his boots. He had to draw his sword again, hacking the fibers apart by brute force, clearing a circle around the Lady and horse. He had almost forgotten how formidable nature could be for those who lacked the convenience of magic. It was a reminder in perspective — not that that helped much at the moment.

The hawk returned, changing into man-form. "There is a domicile ahead, and the land is clear around it," Clip reported. "An old man lives there, a hermit by his look; mayhap he will guide us out, can we but reach him. Or we can follow the curtain; it passes through that clearing. I have scouted the most direct approach to the curtain. I can not cross it, but if thou and the Lady and Hinblue can — the clearing is but a quarter mile from there."

Stile squeezed Clip's arm in thanks. The unicorn had really come through for them! They could hack their way to the curtain, cross to Proton, hurry forward, and recross to recover breath. It would not be fun, but it should be feasible.

They chopped through the undergrowth with renewed will. This time the plants were rigidly fan-shaped leaves on tough stems, the edges of the leaves as sharp as knives. They did not move to intercept people, but they were extraordinarily difficult to clear from the path because the stems were almost inaccessible behind the leaves. When Stile reached under to sever one stem, the leaves of another plant were in his way; if he sliced through anyway, he risked brushing the knife-edges along his wrist or forearm. Without magic to heal cuts, he found this nervous business, though he knew the Lady could help heal him. Progress was slow, and his sword arm grew tired.

Clip stepped in, using the tip of his horn to reach past the leaves to break the stems. This enabled them to go faster, and soon they intersected the curtain.

Stile could not even perform the simple curtain-crossing spell. The Lady did it for him and Hinblue — and suddenly the three of them were in Proton, on a barren plain, gasping for air. Clip changed to hawk-form and flew directly to their rendezvous in the clearing.

They were able to walk on the bare sands, but breathing was labored, and Hinblue, as the Lady had feared, did not understand at all. The horse's nostrils flared, and she was skittish, squandering energy better saved for forward progress. Hinblue was a very fine mare, who could have been a prizewinner in Proton, but she had had no experience with this. The Lady led her, though the Lady herself was gasping.

Stile heard, his own labored breathing — and realized what it meant. "I'm not silent any more — no magic in this frame!" he exclaimed.

"But when thou returnest-" the Lady responded.

When he crossed again, the spell would still be on him. He could not escape it this way, except by traveling in this frame back to the region of the Blue Demesnes, where he could cross to get the Lady's reserve spells. But no Proton dome was near, even if he wanted to risk entering one, the trip wasn't feasible.

The horse was in increasing trouble. "My Lord, I must take her back," the Lady gasped. "She does not understand."

Stile had handled a horse in these barrens before. He recognized the symptoms of the growing panic. "Take her across; maybe we're far enough."

They willed themselves across at what seemed to be a clearing. It was — but also turned out to be no safe resting place. The ground writhed with sucker leaves that sought to fasten to the flesh of human or equine. Hinblue stamped her hooves, trampling down the suckers, but already some were fastening on the sides of the hooves, trying to drink from the hard surface. Stile tried to cut off the plants, but they were too low to the ground, making his blade ineffective.

"We can not stay here," the Lady said, her feet moving in a dance of avoidance. "We must cross again."

Stile agreed. The horse had recovered her wind. They crossed back to Proton and made a dash for the better clearing ahead. This time they made it.

Now they were in sight of the hermit's hut. Clip rejoined them, remaining in hawk-form so as not to betray his nature before the watching hermit. They saw the old man's eyes peering from the dark window.

"He sees us," the Lady said. "We shall need his help, for we cannot go through more of this jungle or through Proton."

Stile could only nod. He didn't like this situation at all. Some honeymoon they were having!

The Lady went up to talk to the hermit. But the old man slammed the rickety door and refused to answer her call.

Stile began to get angry. The hawk made a warning cry, and Stile stayed back. Clip had caught on to something important, by his attitude.

The Lady Blue gave it up. "Surely the hermit knows our predicament, but he will help us not," she said. The touch of a flush on her cheeks betrayed her irritation.

The hawk spoke again, then flew to the ground and scratched a place bare. In that spot he gouged out a word: ORANGE.

The Lady was first to catch on. "The Orange Adept! No wonder he is such a curmudgeon!"

Stile signaled, pointing to himself and raising an eye-brow questioningly. He wanted to know whether the Orange Adept was aware of the identity of his visitors.

Clip thought not. This was merely the way the Adept treated all strangers. Few Adepts cared what happened to those who intruded on their Demesnes, and those Adepts who did care, generally were malignant. Stile had encountered the syndrome before, but he did not like it any better with repetition.

They walked to the far side of the clearing, while the beady eyes of Orange peered from the window of his hut. Here the curtain plunged into the thickest of the bramble tangles. Hinblue tried to trample them down, but they wrapped around her foreleg, making her squeal in pain as the thorns dug in. There was a snicker from the hut.

Stile slashed at the mass with his sword, but no matter how many stems he severed, the mass held its form, like a pile of brush. It would be necessary to draw each severed stem out and set it in the clearing — and each stem seemed to interlink with others, so that the entire mass tended to come loose, falling about his bare arms and scratching. The hermit sniggered, enjoying this.

After a time, scratched and sweaty and tired, they gave it up. They could not get through this way. But meanwhile, the clearing had diminished; new plants were encroaching, and they looked just as ugly as the brambles. The Orange Adept's mode of magic evidently related to plants. Indeed, it must have been one of his creatures that silenced Stile. Now the old man was enjoying watching the flies struggle in the web.

"Mayhap the other side of the curtain, again. " the Lady said. But at her words Hinblue's ears went back, her nostrils distended, and the whites showed around her eyes. She did not want to brave the oxygen-poor, polluted air of Proton again!

Yet they couldn't remain here. By nightfall the advanc ing plants would leave them no opening, and they would have to fight for their lives while the Orange Adept laughed. Stile was furious with frustration, but unable to oppose this magic with his own.

Still, he could act directly against the malignant Adept. He put his hand on his sword, facing the hut.

"Nay, my love," the Lady cautioned. "There are worse plants than these, and surely they protect him. We must not approach him."

She was right. Stile had to contain his rage.

Clip flew up and away, searching for some way out. The lady calmed Hinblue. One thing about the Lady Blue — she did not lose her nerve in a crisis. She was in all respects an admirable woman, his ideal and his beloved. Before Stile let her suffer, he would charge the hut and menace the Adept with his sword, heedless of whatever plants might make their hideous presence known. But first he would wait for Clip, hoping the unicorn would be able to help.

The sun descended inexorably, and the plants continued to close in. Some were like giant vines, with flowers that resembled the orifices of carnivorous worms. Transparent sap beaded in those throats, and drooled from the nether petals like saliva. The sword should stop these — but what would happen when darkness closed? Stile did not want to fight these plants at night.

Clip returned. He landed behind the Lady, so that he could not be seen from the hut, and changed to man-form. “I may have found help," he reported, but he seemed dubious.

"Out with it, 'corn," the Lady snapped.

"I saw no way out of this garden of tortures; it is miles thick. So I searched for other creatures who might assist, but found only a lone-traveling troll."

"A troll!" the Lady cried, distraught. "No help there!"

She was tolerant of many creatures, but hated trolls, for a tribe of them had once tried to ravish her. Stile knew that his alternate self, the former Blue Adept, had had a bad altercation with trolls who had massacred his whole home village and been in turn massacred by him.

"Yet this one seems different," Clip continued. "He travels by day, which is unusual; he was voluminously swathed in black cloth, so that no sunlight might touch him, but I knew his nature by his outline." He wrinkled his nose. "And by his smell." Trolls tended to have a dank-earth ambience.

"Why should a troll travel by day?" the Lady asked, intrigued despite her revulsion. "They are horrors of the night, turning to stone in sunlight."

"Precisely. So I inquired, expecting an insult. But he said he was in quest of the Blue Adept, to whom he owes a favor." Clip shrugged in seeming wonder.

Stile looked askance at this. He had had no commerce with trolls!

"That's what he said," Clip continued. "I was skeptical, fearing more mischief, but, mindful of thy plight, I investigated. 'What favor canst thine ilk do for the likes of the Adept?' I inquired politely. And quoth he, 'I am to bring him to a plant this night.' And quoth I, 'How can the Adept trust a monster like thee?' and quoth he, 'He spared me in my youth, and him I owe the favor of a life — mine or his. He may kill me if he wishes, or follow me to the plant. Only then will part of mine onus be acquitted.' And I said, 'He can not be reached at the moment,' and he said, 'Needs must I go to him now, for only tonight can the first part of my debt be abated,' and I said-"

"Enough!" The lady cried in exasperation. "I know him now. That is the troll my Lord spared a score of years ago. Perhaps that one, of all his ilk, can be trusted. But how can he get here?"

"I was just telling thee," the unicorn replied, hurt. "I said, 'How canst thou pass an impassable barrier of thorns?' and he said he was a troll, skilled at tunneling, like all his kind."

"Tunneling!" the Lady exclaimed, her face illuminating.

"It will take time, for rode is hard, but he promised to be here by midnight."

By midnight. Could they hold out against the encroaching plants until then? They would have to!

It was a mean, harrowing interim, but they held out. At the crack of midnight the ground shuddered and the grotesque head of the troll emerged into the wan moonlight, casting two shadows. The big eyes blinked. "The night is painfully bright," the creature complained.

"This is Trool the troll," Clip introduced. "And this is the Blue Adept, who does not deign to address thee at this time. Lead him to thy plant."

The troll sank back into the earth. Stile followed, finding a fresh tunnel large enough for hands and knees. The Lady came last. Clip shifted back to his natural form and stood with Hinblue, defending against the plants. If Stile did not recover his power and return in time to help them, only the unicorn would survive.

The tunnel continued interminably, winding about to avoid the giant roots of trees and buried boulders. Stripped of his magic, Stile began to feel claustrophobic. If there were a cave-in, what spell could he make? But he had to trust the troll — the one his other self had spared, long before Stile came to Phaze. For this creature felt he had a debt to the Blue Adept, and Stile now held that office. He could try to explain the distinction between himself and his dead other self to the troll, but doubted this would matter. What use to inform Trool that he had come too late, that the one who had spared him was already gone? Better to let the troll discharge his debt and be free.

At last they emerged beyond the Orange Adept's garden. Stile straightened up with relief. They continued on until the troll halted beside a nondescript bush. "This is the plant," Trool said. His voice was guttural and harsh, in the manner of his kind. What made it unusual was the fact that it was intelligible. He must have practiced hard on human speech.

The Lady leaned forward to peer at the growth in the waning light of the blue moon. Her face was somewhat gaunt, and Stile knew she feared betrayal; certainly the troll's appearance was somewhat too providential. "This is the herb I need!" she exclaimed in gratified wonder. "It will cancel half the spell!"

Half? What else was needed?

"The touch of the horn of a unicorn," she said, understanding his thought.

So he could not be cured until they returned to Clip. His magic would have to wait; he could not use it to facilitate things now.

The Lady took the leaves she needed and thanked the troll a bit diffidently. Trool, perhaps unaware of the cause of her mixed feelings, shrugged and departed, his deed done. They started the trip back to the Orange Demesnes.

It was no more pleasant traversing the tunnel the second time, but at least the route was familiar. Dawn was approaching as Stile finally felt the end and poked his head up through the surface of the ground — only to find it overgrown with vines. Were they too late?

He wrestled his broadsword out and around and began slashing and sawing. The plants, attacked from below, capitulated quickly, and soon Stile and the Lady stood in their own little hacked-out clearing.

He heard grunts and thumps in the direction of the hermit's hut. The yellow moon was now out, showing two equine figures backed against the hut wall, still fighting off the encroaching foliage. Perhaps the plants were less active at night, unable to grow as fast without sunlight; or maybe the Orange Adept was saving the finale for morning, when he could see better. At any rate, the end was not quite yet.

Stile hacked a path across the writhing mass of vegetation, the Lady following and tidying things up with her knife. As the sun broke across the eastern horizon, they reached the equines.

Hinblue was sweating and bleeding from numerous scratches, and was so tired she hardly seemed able to stay on her feet. Clip was better off, but obviously worn; his horn swung in short vicious arcs to intercept each reaching tendril. There was very little room left for the two of them; soon the press of plants and their own fatigue would overwhelm them.

And the Orange Adept peered out of his window, grinning as if at an exhibition. This was his private arena, his personal entertainment, and he was enjoying it immensely. Stile experienced a flare of primal rage.

Now it was the Lady's turn to act. "Take these leaves," she told Stile, giving him the branch she had taken from the troll's bush. "Clip — thy horn, please." The unicorn paused in his combat with the foliage. Guided by the Lady, he touched his horn to the leaves in Stile's hands.

Stile felt something ease, as if he had been released from an ugly threat. He heard his own breathing. "I thank thee," he said.

Then he did a double take. "Hey, I can speak!"

"Do thou speak some suitable spell," the Lady suggested, nipping off a reaching tendril with her small knife.

Quickly Stile summoned a general-purpose spell from his repertoire. "All save me, in stasis be," he sang.

He had not taken time to coalesce his magic force with preliminary music, so the spell was not fully effective, but its impact was nevertheless considerable. The aggressive plants stopped advancing, and Stile's three companions stood stunned.

Only the Orange Adept proved immune. His head swiveled to cover Stile. "What's this?" the man demanded querulously. "Foreign magic in my Demesnes?"

Now Stile let out his long-accumulating wrath. "Oaf, didst know not against whom thou didst practice thy foul enchantment?"

"I know not and care not, peasant!" Orange snapped, sneering.

"Then learn, thou arrogant lout!" Stile cried. He took his harmonica, played a few savage bars to summon his power, then sang: "Let every single spellbound plant, against its master rave and rant!"

Instantly there was chaos. The magic plants rotated on their stems, reorienting on the Orange Adept. Now the tendrils reached toward the hut, ignoring the visiting party.

"Hey!" Orange screamed, outraged. But a thorny tendril twined about his hand, causing him to divert his attention to immediacies.

Stile made a subspell nullifying the remaining stasis-spell, and equines and Lady returned to animation. Stile and the Lady mounted their steeds, and Stile made a spell to heal and invigorate them. Then they rode out through the vicious plants, which ignored this party in their eagerness to close on the hut.

"That was not nice, my Lord Blue," the Lady murmured somewhat smugly.

"Aye," Stile agreed without remorse. "The plants can't really hurt Orange. He will find a way to neutralize them. But I dare say it will be long before every plant is back the way it was. And longer before he bothers passing strangers again."

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, О 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, thinking 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 clear 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. "Yet needs must we slip this net," he grumbled.

Clip blew a note. "There is that," Stile agreed. "I will watch and guard thee until thou dost clear this vicinity."

The unicorn converted to hawk-form, then squeezed through the net where Stile parted the strands for him. The hawk flew swiftly upward while Stile watched, defensive spells ready.

Now a man walked up. He was ordinary in physical appearance, but wore a robe of translucent material that distorted the light and made him seem one with the water. "Thy friend can not help thee from outside, either," he said. "Thou wilt never escape my Demesnes, Blue."

Stile nodded. "Thou must be the Translucent Adept. I have read of thee, but knew not thy residence."

"No one knows my residence," Translucent said. "Who intrudes, pays the price of silence."

"Why shouldst thou harbor evil against me, who has done thee no ill?"

"Thine ill lies in the future, Blue. An thou dost reach the West Pole, the final battle shall be upon us, and no augur knows what will then befall."

"Dost thou mean to say thou hast had a hand in the mischief I have suffered?" Stile inquired. These might be the Translucent Demesnes, but Stile could strike out if he had reason.

"This net is mine, useful to snare intruders. I have not otherwise wrought ill on thee. Dost thou know the nature of thine adversary?"

"I dispatched the Red Adept," Stile said shortly.

"Red was but an instrument, deluded by a false interpretation of an Oracle — as were the beastheads. Another trap was laid for thee near the Green Demesnes, but Green wished not to be implicated, so he nullified it. Adepts bother not Adepts without cause."

This man was surprisingly informed about Stile's business. "Thou dost consider I gave thee cause for this?" Stile indicated the net.

"By intruding on these my Demesnes thou hast given me cause. I tolerate that not. The net was not set for thee, but for intruders. Never have I let an intruder go, and I need make no exception for thee. This does not implicate me in the conspiracy."

"Conspiracy? Since thou art not involved, not implicated, tell me who is."

"Obviously it is the Oracle itself."

Stile was stunned. "The Oracle? But the Oracle has always helped me and spoken true!"

"Has it?" Translucent's lip curled in a practiced sneer.

And Stile had to wonder. The root of many of his problems did seem to lie with the Oracle. He had assumed that mistakes in interpretation or delivery caused the mischief — but why did the Oracle couch its messages in language that so readily lent itself to confusion? The Oracle knew the future; it must therefore also know the effect of its own words. In some cases, a ready understanding of a prediction might cause a person to change his course of action, making the Oracle's message invalid. Since the Oracle was always correct, some obfuscation became necessary to avoid paradox. Or the message could be couched as an either-or situation, as in the case of the animalheads. But why set it up to cause trouble? The animalheads could have been told, "Let the man on the unicorn pass," and done as well for themselves as possible. It did seem that the message had been couched to discriminate against Stile.

"Why would the Oracle seek to do thee mischief?" the Lady asked.

"I shall leave thee to ponder that at leisure," the Translucent Adept said, and departed.

"At leisure — until we starve?" the Lady asked.

"Maybe I'd better transform us," Stile said.

"Nay," the Lady said. "We are not in immediate danger. Thou canst conjure in food while we await the unicorn's return."

Stile did not feel easy. For one thing, he could not afford to wait indefinitely; he had promised to return to Proton at a specified time, and that time was near. For another, he did not trust the Translucent Adept to let things be; the man knew he could not long keep another Adept captive. He might even now be preparing some more threatening measure. It would be no easier for him to devise a way to destroy Stile than it was for Stile to find a safe escape; they were at an impasse at the moment. How long would that last?

But he hardly had time to worry before the move came. Monstrous pincers forged down from above, closing inexorably on the net. Each section was six feet in diameter, rounded, with a homy surface on one side. No physical way to resist that mass! Stile readied his transformation-spell.

"Wait!" the Lady cried. "That is the giantess!"

Of course! How could he have failed to recognize her colossal fingers? Clip had brought the one creature capable of lifting the net!

The giantess' fingers closed on the net, while Stile and the Lady herded Hinblue as far to one side as possible, avoiding the central pinch. The tremendous rocky finger-nails caught in the ropes. The hand lifted — and the net came up. They were hauled up with it, through the water to the surface, and swung across to land.

Now, too late, it occurred to Stile that he could have done this himself, conjuring a sky hook to lift them all free. Or he might have summoned superpowerful cutting pincers to sever individual strands. Under the pressures of the moment, he had not been thinking well. He would have to school himself to perform better under magical pressure.

Here, beyond the Translucent Demesnes, Stile's magic could overcome the enchantment of the net directly. The strands melted and flowed into the sand, freeing them at last.

"I thank the giantess," Stile said, his voice booming through a conjured megaphone.

"I owe thee for my thimble," she boomed back. "Thank thy friend for showing me the way." She turned and strode northeast, toward the demesnes of the giants. She hummed as she went, making a sound like distant thunder.

Clip was there in natural form, having arrived unobtrusively. "I do thank thee, unicorn," Stile said sincerely. "Again thou hast gotten me out of mischief. I would do thee some return favor."

Clip shifted to man-form. "My sister Neysa bid me look after thee in her stead. She loves thee, and I love her. Say no more, Adept." He shifted back.

Stile said no more. Clip was certainly fulfilling his commission! Most unicorns would not tolerate a human rider at all and had little use for Adepts. Stile had won the respect of the Herd Stallion, so was permitted to ride a unicorn — yet Clip's service was more than that of a mere steed. No friend could have done more. There would have to be a repayment of some sort. He would continue to

language that so readily lent itself to confusion? The Oracle knew the future; it must therefore also know the effect of its own words. In some cases, a ready understanding of a prediction might cause a person to change his course of action, making the Oracle's message invalid. Since the Oracle was always correct, some obfuscation became necessary to avoid paradox. Or the message could be couched as an either-or situation, as in the case of the animalheads. But why set it up to cause trouble? The animalheads could have been told, "Let the man on the unicorn pass," and done as well for themselves as possible. It did seem that the message had been couched to discriminate against Stile.

"Why would the Oracle seek to do thee mischief?" the Lady asked.

"I shall leave thee to ponder that at leisure," the Translucent Adept said, and departed.

"At leisure — until we starve?" the Lady asked.

"Maybe I'd better transform us," Stile said.

"Nay," the Lady said. "We are not in immediate danger. Thou canst conjure in food while we await the unicorn's return."

Stile did not feel easy. For one thing, he could not afford to wait indefinitely; he had promised to return to Proton at a specified time, and that time was near. For another, he did not trust the Translucent Adept to let things be; the man knew he could not long keep another Adept captive. He might even now be preparing some more threatening measure. It would be no easier for him to devise a way to destroy Stile than it was for Stile to find a safe escape; they were at an impasse at the moment. How long would that last?

But he hardly had time to worry before the move came. Monstrous pincers forged down from above, closing inexorably on the net. Each section was six feet in diameter, rounded, with a horny surface on one side. No physical way to resist that mass! Stile readied his transformation-spell.

"Wait!" the Lady cried. "That is the giantess!"

Of course! How could he have failed to recognize her colossal fingers? Clip had brought the one creature capable of lifting the net!

The giantess' fingers closed on the net, while Stile and the Lady herded Hinblue as far to one side as possible, avoiding the central pinch. The tremendous rocky fingernails caught in the ropes. The hand lifted-and the net came up. They were hauled up with it, through the water to the surface, and swung across to land.

Now, too late, it occurred to Stile that he could have done this himself, conjuring a sky hook to lift them all free. Or he might have summoned superpowerful cutting pincers to sever individual strands. Under the pressures of the moment, he had not been thinking well. He would have to school himself to perform better under magical pressure.

Here, beyond the Translucent Demesnes, Stile's magic could overcome the enchantment of the net directly. The strands melted and flowed into the sand, freeing them at last.

"I thank the giantess," Stile said, his voice booming through a conjured megaphone.

"I owe thee for my thimble," she boomed back. "Thank thy friend for showing me the way." She turned and strode northeast, toward the demesnes of the giants. She hummed as she went, making a sound like distant thunder.

Clip was there in natural form, having arrived unobtrusively. "I do thank thee, unicorn," Stile said sincerely. "Again thou hast gotten me out of mischief. I would do thee some return favor."

Clip shifted to man-form. "My sister Neysa bid me look after thee in her stead. She loves thee, and I love her. Say no more, Adept." He shifted back.

Stile said no more. Clip was certainly fulfilling his commission! Most unicorns would not tolerate a human rider at all and had little use for Adepts. Stile had won the respect of the Herd Stallion, so was permitted to ride a unicorn-yet Clip's service was more than that of a mere steed. No friend could have done more. There would have to be a repayment of some sort. He would continue to ponder the matter in off moments, seeking what was suitable.

There was now the matter of the Translucent Adept. Stile decided, with a certain inner regret, to let that be. He had intruded on the Translucent Demesnes, and the Adept had not discriminated against him. Stile had won sufficient victory by escaping the net. To attack another Adept at this point would be to initiate trouble, rather than reacting to it.

He looked ahead. They were on the island of the West Pole. It was pleasant enough, with deciduous trees scattered across gently rolling pasture. Small flowers bloomed randomly, and a number of shrubs bore fruit. A person could live fairly comfortably here without much labor.

The curtain continued west. They followed it — and suddenly, three miles in from the beach, they were at the West Pole. It was marked by a big X on the ground.

Stile looked down at it. "That's it?" he asked, disappointed.

"Didst thou expect perchance a palace?" the Lady inquired with a smile.

"Well, yes, or something spectacular. This X on the ground — how do we know this is really the spot?"

"Because the curtains intersect here, my love." She stood on the X and pointed north-south with her arms. "Here is the other curtain. It proceeds at right angles."

Stile looked carefully. There it was — another curtain, like the first, crossing at the X. He spelled himself across, and found himself on a barren elevation of Proton. Holding his breath, he strode to the east-west curtain and willed himself across. He was back in Phaze. The two curtains were similar, except for orientation.

"And from here thou canst sight along them, to see that they are straight," the Lady said.

Stile stood on the Pole and sighted east. The line was absolutely straight; all the meanderings they had traveled now seemed to be distortions of the land of Phaze and the land of Proton. Interesting perspective!

Curious as to how far this went, he conjured a powerful telescope, one based on the macron principle, and oriented on the line again. It went straight for what might be thousands of miles, until the focus found the backside of a standing man. That man was holding an object to his eye.

"Oh, no!" Stile exclaimed. "That's me!" And he kicked up one foot, verifying it. "This line does not even acknowledge the curvature of the planet!"

"Of course not," the Lady said. "Phaze is flat."

"But Phaze has the same geography as Proton — and Proton is a sphere. How can that be?"

"Phaze is magic; Proton is scientific."

Stile decided to let that wait for further thought. Another problem had occurred. "This is a telescope I'm using — I didn't think — I mean it's a scientific instrument. It shouldn't work here in the magic frame."

"Methought thou didst know," the Lady said. "The West Pole is the juxtaposition of frames. Magic and science both work, on this spot. That is what makes it worth visiting."

"Juxtaposition," Stile repeated, intrigued. "Could both selves of a person meet here, then?"

"Methinks they would merge here, and separate again when they moved away from the Pole, but I know not for sure."

"Science and magic merging at this particular juncture! I wonder if this is the way the universe began, with everything working both ways, and somehow the frames began separating, like cells dividing or surfaces pulling apart, so that people had to choose one or the other, never both? Like matter and anti-matter. Except for a few anchorages like this. This is special!"

"Aye," she agreed. "Methought thou wouldst like it. Many impossible tricks of science are possible here."

Stile sighed. "Now we have reached our destination. Our time is up, our honeymoon over, and I must return to Proton for a stint of Citizenship."

"Our time is not up," she said. "Merely held in abeyance. Our honeymoon will endure as long as we permit. Conjure me a small residence here, and I will await thy return."

"But the hostile signals, the dire warnings — suppose something should happen during mine absence?"

"Methinks the hostility was directed more at thee than at me. I should be safe enough. But with Clip and Hinblue to guard me, I shall surely not want for protection."

"Still, I want to be sure," Stile said, pacing a small circle about the Pole. "Too much has threatened, and thou art too great a treasure to risk." He pondered. "If the West Pole permits science, could I set up a holographic pickup and broadcast unit, to reach me in Proton-frame? Would it transmit thine image successfully?"

"We can find out," she said.

Stile worked out a spell and conjured a standard Proton unit of the type used for projections originating outside the domes. He set it up and got it running; it could handle all that was visible from this point. Then he conjured an oxygen mask and crossed into barren Proton farther east, carrying a conjured receiver. It worked well enough; a globe formed in air and he looked into it to see the view of whatever direction he faced. He spun its orientation and caught the circular panorama as if turning in place at the West Pole. He halted it in place when he spied the Lady Blue standing beside the grazing Hinblue.

"I see thee," Stile said, activating the voice-return. This hand-held unit could not transmit his picture, but that wasn't necessary.

"I love thee," she returned, smiling. "Thee, thee, thee."

"Thee, thee, thee," he repeated, in the Phaze convention of unqualified love, feeling warm all over. Then he stepped back across the curtain and conjured a tent for privacy. Clip snorted musically, not looking up from his grazing.

"But thou knowest what thou must do in the other frame," the Lady reminded him sternly.

Stile sighed. He knew. But for another hour he could put it from his mind.

And in due course he conjured himself back to his usual curtain-crossing place and returned to his duties in Proton.