Juxtaposition Page 5

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

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

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

  “What occasion?” Stile asked with growing frustration.

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

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

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

  “I don’t recall thy staying cooped long—”

  “Let’s ride, my Lord.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “The curtain is straight,” the Lady said.

  “Straight? It meanders all over the frame!”

  “Nay, Lord, it is the frame that meanders,” she assured him. “When we follow the curtain, we bear due west.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “The curtain is straight,” she repeated.

  “Humor me, beloved. Then on until we reach the West Pole, somewhere over here. The whole trip should take a week, which will leave us—”

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

  “That’s why I’m exploring it,” he agreed. “Thou art wife of a fool, fool.”

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

  “Now let’s move,” Stile said as the kiss ended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What of Hinblue?” the Lady asked.

  “Um, yes. Maybe she can cross the curtain too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why, that’s no dragon,” the Lady said.

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

  “I don’t have a specific spell for thunderbirds,” Stile said dubiously. “I’ll have to go to a general one.”

  “No need,” the Lady said. “The bird is full of sound and fury—”

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

  “Signifying rain,” Clip finished, as the drenchpour commenced.

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

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

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

  “Desist thy stalling,” she said, and opened her arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Though it take but a fortnight,” she murmured, smiling.

  “The curtain—” Stile began, but cut that off. He kept forgetting Hinblue!

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

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

  “Oh?” Stile asked, not entirely pleased. “How?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “This is fun,” Stile murmured, contemplating her body in the clear water. “Shall we dall
y a bit?”

  “Until the dragon joins the party?” she inquired sweetly.

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

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

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

  The Lady looked down at herself, frowning. “It doesn’t?”

  “It sees the most delicious morsel in two frames. I see—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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