Blue Adept (33 page)

 
“Know? We know nothing,” the werewolf said. “We but came to visit our oath-friend the mare.”

“But Neysa and I are leaving,” Stile protested.
 

“Then we shall be forced to take advantage of the hospitality of thy Demesnes to await her return. Can a pack do less, for an oath-friend?”

Stile understood. Neysa had somehow summoned the pack, all of whose members had sworn an oath of friend-ship with her, and they would guard the Blue Demesnes during his absence. An Adept enemy could get around such a defense, but not easily; who would voluntarily tackle a full pack of werewolves? The Lady Blue would be as safe as she reasonably could be, for the duration.
 
“Methinks true friends appear when needed most,” Stile said gratefully.

The White Adept was female, so Stile rode Neysa toward the White Demesnes. White did not resemble the woman he had seen in the Hulk holo-tape, but of course she had been in disguise at the Unolympics. So he would go and defy her to show him her true form, establishing at one stroke her guilt or innocence. Armed with the Platinum Flute, he felt he could successfully brace the Adept in her own Demesnes.

Neysa knew the way. Stile slept on her back, refreshing his strength. He knew she would protect him well, and this approach would be less obvious than the use of magic. It was also a salient principle in Phaze: do not waste magic.
 
He would use one of his rehearsed spells to travel away from the White Demesnes, if hard-pressed, instead of expending it unnecessarily now.

It was good to be with Neysa for another reason. Stile was sick at heart, angry about his ludicrous loss of a Game in the Tourney, guilty for Hulk’s brutal demise, and disturbed by the Lady Blue’s attempt to seduce him away from his purpose. He needed to sort out his feelings and get them settled, and he needed the solid support of an understanding person. Neysa was that person. She did not have to say a word or play a note; she settled him by her presence. She had been right about the importance of her assistance to him; he needed her for more than physical Blue Adept
                   
213 reasons. With her he felt secure, emotionally as well as physically.

They traveled northeast, angling toward the great White Mountain range. At dawn they arrived at a narrow pass.
 
Now Neysa threw herself into a slow gallop, forging up into the snows, while Stile hunched within his cloak. Such was the energy she expended that thin fire shot from her nostrils, and her hot hooves melted indentations into the packed snow. Her body heat warmed Stile’s own body, and soon he leaned forward and hugged her about the neck, burying his face in her sweet black mane. She was his best friend in the frame of Phaze, the one he most depended on.
 
It was joy to be afield with her again like this.

At the height of the pass a cruel wind sliced through.
 
Beyond, the terrain opened out into a bleak frozen lake many miles across. The ice was not flat; it pushed up in cracked mounds, where the stresses of expansion had prevailed.

And in the center of that ragged surface rose the icy castle of the White Demesnes, formed of ice bricks partially melted together and refrozen. Flying buttresses of ice braced the walls. It was pretty in its fashion, but rather squat and solid to be truly esthetic artistically.
 
Neysa walked down to the lake’s edge. The ice was a problem for her, as her hot hooves were not suitable for skating. She would have trouble crossing this! “I can conjure skates for thee—“ Stile offered dubiously.
 
She blew a note of negation. Then she shifted into her firefly form.

“But it’s too cold for that form here,” Stile protested.
 
“Thou mayest be fireproof, but not freezeproof. Thou wilt fly only minutes before thy little insect body stalls out.” She flew to his shoulder and lighted there, already cold.

 
“Oh,” Stile said. “I’m to carry thee. Of course! Then I shall put thee in my jacket where it is warm.” He did so. Neysa made one flash of thanks and settled down in comfort.
 
Then he conjured a good pair of skates for himself. Stile was an excellent skater; he had developed power and artistry for use in the Proton Game.

He moved out. The ice was firm, and the curvatures of its surface did not bother him. He skated smoothly yet swiftly toward the ice castle, not even bothering to use an invisibility spell. He was here for a challenge, not a sneak attack. He had only to discover the true appearance or mode of the White Adept’s magic. If it did not relate to amulets or golems, she was not the one he wanted. A demon amulet had almost killed him when he first crossed the curtain into the frame of Phaze; four goons had been set on his trail by his use of a healing amulet later. Now he was wary of amulets—but at least it gave him the most promising hint about the identity of his enemy.
 
One strange thing—the woman who had sprung the trap in Proton had suggested that the Blue Adept had attacked her, rather than the other way around. Why? Surely his other self had been innocent. He would not have attacked another Adept without reason, especially not a woman. So she had to be wrong. Yet it bothered him, for the woman had not known she was being recorded; she had been speaking from her cold heart, not for an audience.
 
He skated on, drawing near the ice castle. Now it was time to go into his act. He singsonged a spell: “Garb this one in a suit of fun.” His clothing changed, becoming a brightly colored clown-suit that was, not incidentally, a good deal warmer than his prior garb.

The thing was, the average Adept had all he or she needed or wanted, materially. The Adept could conjure food, and use magic to build a castle or other residence to his liking, and could make deals for other necessities. But he was liable to get lonely and bored in his guarded fast-ness. That was why so many Adepts elected to participate as judges and spectators in functions like the Unolympics.
 
It gave them something to do in a public but protected situation. Yellow had obviously thrived on her job as head judge for the Adept pavilion, being all dressed up with her finest youth potion for the occasion. It followed, then, that Adepts could use entertainment at home, too. An Adept’s own magic would not amuse himself, even if he chose to waste it that way. So now Stile looked the part of an entertainer—and should be admitted to the White Demes-nes with no more than the usual suspicion.
 
So he leaped and looped and whirled into occasional spins. He did a cartwheel and took a fancy, deliberate spill.

He was a clown, a joker, a fool. Until he had his chance to brace the White Adept and discover the nature of her magic.

He skated close to the castle. So far so good. No hostile spell had been hurled at him.

There was a moat of ice-free water surrounding the castle: an effective barrier to a skater. Stile drew up. “Ho!” he called. “Grant ye access for a fool?”

A human guard appeared. It seemed there was modest employment for a number of villagers in the various Adept castles. “Why come ye?”

“To entertain—for a fair fee. To glean what information I can.”

“A spy?”

“Naturally.”

The guard lowered his voice. “Fool art thou indeed, if thou wouldst enter these Demesnes. The Adept is ill of humor. Depart, lest thou losest thy gizzard.”

“I thank thee for thy warning,” Stile said. “But I have come far, and must complete my mission. Do thou announce me to the Adept and let me take my chance.”

“On thy insecure head be it. I tried to warn thee.” The guard retreated inside the castle.

In due course he returned to crank down the draw-bridge, which seemed to be formed of a huge slab of ice.
 
Stile skated blithely across and on into the central court-yard, admiring the way the daylight refracted through the ice walls. And the floor abruptly converted to stone. Stile tripped on it and took a genuine tumble; he had not been paying attention to his feet. He adapted his fall to an acrobatic roll in what he hoped was comical fashion, then removed his skates.

Neysa did not reappear. She remained as a firefly, hiding in his hat. Stile knew why; her conversion back to equine-form would attract attention to him. Who but the Blue Adept, as the Platinum Elves had pointed out, rode a unicorn? But she would change in a hurry if it became necessary. He felt much more secure with her along.

There were no special preliminaries. The White Adept walked out, looking much as she had at the Unolympics, but older and fatter. She had evidently used her magic only to improve her image moderately. “What hast thou got, churl?” she demanded irritably. “What dost thou want?”

“I have a rare show of antics and prestidigitation,” Stile said, making his voice comical too. “’Twill lighten thy spirit and make thee laugh. All I ask in return is the smallest of favors.”

“What smallest favor?” She was evidently used to panhandlers.

Stile brought out a silver medal he had conjured in preparation for this moment. “This amulet—it is expended. I want it restored to provide me heat from the cold.”

“Amulets are not my business,” she snapped. “Thou shouldst apply to her who makes them.”

So it was a female Adept who made the amulets! This was a valuable confirmation. “Once an amulet attacked me,” he said. “Now must I take them secondhand.”

“Attacked thee?” She chortled. “Surely served thee right! Very well—if thou dost perform amusingly, I will reward thee appropriately.”

“I thank thee,” Stile said humbly. He was fully aware that she had made no significant commitment. That was not what he needed. Once she showed the form of her magic—

“Get on with it, clown,” White snapped, her mouth set-ting into solidified sourness. “Make me laugh.” Stile went into his act. He had developed a joker-ritual as part of his Proton-Game expertise, and he had considerable manual dexterity. He put on his “stupid midget” pantomime, trying to eat a potato that kept wriggling out of his hands, looking for a comfortable place to sleep, finding none, and getting tangled up in his own limbs, drawing scarves out of his ears, taking spills, and in general making a funny fool of himself. He was good at it, using no real magic, only stage magic, before a person who well knew the difference. Though the White Adept tried to maintain a sour face, slowly it weathered and cracked. She evidently did not like peasants, and had deep satisfaction seeing one so aptly parodied. Also she, like many people, thought there was something excruciatingly funny about mishaps happening to a midget. In the end she was laughing whole-heartedly.

Stile completed his show. White sobered quickly. “I like thee, fool. I believe I shall keep thee here for future entertainments.”

“Honored Adept, I cannot stay,” Stile said quickly, though he had expected something like this. “All I want is mine amulet recharged.”

She frowned. “Very well, fool. Give it here.” She was up to something. Stile passed over the medal, braced for action.

The White Adept laid the medal on the floor. She brought out a long-handled charcoal marker and drew a mystic symbol around it. When the figure was complete, she tapped it five times: tap-tap. Tap-tap, TAP.
 
The medal exploded into a dozen huge shapes. Ice monsters, translucent, with snowy fur and icicle teeth and blank iceball eyeballs. The small fragments of metal seemed to adhere only to their formidable claws: nails that were literal nails.

“Cool this arrogant peasant in the cooler, coolies,” she ordered, pointing at Stile.

The monsters advanced on him. Stile tried to run out of the courtyard, but they leaped out to encircle him. Grinning coldly, they drew their noose tight. There would be no gentle handling here.

Suddenly Neysa flew out and changed to her unicorn-form. She charged forward, spearing a monster on her horn, lifting her head, and hurling the thing away to the side. It crashed into its neighbor, and both went down in a tangle of shattering ice.

“Ho! A unicorn!” White screamed, outraged. “Think ye to ‘scape my power in mine own Demesnes, animal?” She started to draw another symbol on the floor.
 
That meant trouble. Obviously she could conjure anything with the right symbol. Stile launched himself at the White Adept—and was caught in a polar-bear hug by an intervening ice monster and lifted from the floor. Fool! he chided himself. He should have sung a spell. But no—White did not yet know his identity, apparently not con-necting the unicorn directly to him. He preferred to keep it secret if he could. He would try to handle this without magic.

He had better! The monster had a frigid hand over Stile’s mouth, half suffocating him and preventing him from speaking.

Stile tried to get his hand on the Platinum Flute. That would become a suitable weapon! But, jammed up against the freezing demon, he could not reach the Flute.
 
He elbowed the monster. Ouch! That ice was hard! He kicked, but the monster seemed to have no feeling in its body. Stile could not throw the creature, because he had no footing. Meanwhile, that terrible cold was penetrating his flesh.

Neysa was busy routing the other monsters. One monster might be too much for Stile to handle, but one unicorn was too much for the whole horde of them. She bucked, her hind hooves flinging out to shatter two monsters; she plunged forward to impale another on her horn. With every motion she demolished a monster. Stile could have had no better ally.

But Stile was held silent, and the White Adept was completing her new symbol figure. This surely meant mischief.
 
Stile bit the hand over his mouth. This helped; the icy fingers crunched under his teeth. The monster might feel no pain, but it couldn’t gag Stile with no fingers. Stile chewed and chewed, breaking off and spitting out the huge hand piecemeal.