Juxtaposition (7 page)

Then they passed the cliffside nest of a griffin. Three cubs poked their beaks up to peer at the weird 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-hom, 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 dally 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.
 

“Oh, play, my Lord, play,” she begged.

Obediently Stile found his harmonica and brought it to his mouth. But something stayed him—an ominous though not unpleasant feeling. He concentrated and placed it. “It was not far from here that I first found this instrument, or thought I found it. Here in the open, riding with Neysa. I conjured it without knowing.”

“It is all that remains of my former Lord,” she said.

“His music and power have since found lodging in thee.
 
Great was my grief at his loss, yet greater is my joy in thee.”

“Still it bothers me how he died. Surely he could have saved himself, had he tried.”

She stiffened. “I told thee how the demon amulet choked him, so that he could make neither music nor spell.”

“Aye. But was not this harmonica always with him?”

“Always. But he could not play it, either, if—“

“And the golem did not remove it?”

“Nay. It was gone ere the golem came.”

“Then how did it get out here in the fields for me to conjure? Or, if it were not here, how did it get wherever it hid? It remained not at the Blue Demesnes.”

“True,” she agreed thoughtfully. “Long and long I searched for it, but it was not with his body.”

“Which is strange,” Stile said. “He might have conjured it away from him in the instant he knew he would die—but why then did he not use his magic to protect himself?
 
And why did he deny thee the inheritance of his prize possession? Such malice was not his nature, I am sure.” For Stile himself would not have done that. Not without excellent reason.

“He could not have conjured it!” she said, disturbed.
 

“Then he must have placed it in the field, or hidden it elsewhere, before he died. And that suggests—“

“That he knew he was slated to die!” she exclaimed, shocked. “He deprived himself of his most valued possession. But even without it, no one could have lulled him, were he on guard!”

“Unless he intended to permit it,” Stile said.
 

Her shock turned to honor. “No! Nothing I did, no will of mine should have caused him—“

“Of course not,” Stile agreed quickly. “He would never have done it because of thee.”

“Then what is thine import?”

“That perhaps he knew something, received an omen, that caused him to accept what was coming.”

She considered that for some time, her hand clenching and unclenching in his. “Yet what could possibly justify—what was fated?”

“I wish I knew.” For Stile’s own passage across the curtain had been enabled by that demise of his alternate self. If the Blue Adept had sought to eliminate his brand of magic from the frame, he had acted in vain, for Stile performed it now.

That night they did not make love. They lay and watched the blue moon, and Stile played gently on the mysterious harmonica, and it was enough. Slowly sleep overtook them.

“Be at ease,” a man’s voice came from nearby. “We have met before. Adept.”