"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 pa.s.sage 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."

Stile controlled his reaction. He still held the harmonica; he could summon his power rapidly. In a moment he placed the half-familiar voice: "Yes, at the Unolympics, Green Adept." He did not want trouble with another Adept -especially not when the Lady Blue was close enough to be hurt by the fallout. He was as yet unable to see the man; probably Green had employed a spell of invisibility, with related obfuscations. Otherwise he could not have gotten by the alert equines.

"I come in peace. Wilt thou grant truce for a dialogue?"

"Certainly." Stile was relieved. By custom verging on law. Adepts did not deceive each other in such matters. What in Phaze could this man want with him at this time? The Adept became visible. He was a pudgy man of middle age, garbed in green. He looked completely inoffensive-but was in fact one of the dozen most powerful people of Phaze.

"Thank thee. I will intrude not long." A hawk appeared silently behind the Adept. Stile gave no sign. He did not expect treachery, but if it came, there would suddenly be a unicorn's horn in action. If dip attacked the Green Adept, he risked getting transformed into a clod of dung, but Stile knew he would take that risk if necessary.

"Surely thou hast reason."

"It is this. Blue: my sources give thee warning. Go not to the West Pole. Great mischief lies there."

"There is no mischief there," the Lady Blue protested. "It is a sacred place, under truce, like the palace of the Oracle."

"Dost thou think no mischief lies with the Oracle?"

Stile chuckled. "Excellent point. Green. But the Lady and I are on our honeymoon, and our excursion to the West Pole has private significance. Canst thou be more explicit?"

"Why shouldst thou care if mischief comes to a rival Adept?" the Lady demanded. "Thou didst evince no concern. Green, when the life of Blue hung in peril before."

That was an understatement. No other Adept had lifted a finger or made a spell either to warn or to a.s.sist the Blue Adept in his severe crisis that had left two Adepts dead. This sudden concern was suspicious.

"Needs must I then elaborate," Green said heavily. "My Demesnes lie athwart thy route. I would let flee pa.s.s unscathed, knowing thy mission-but by that acquiescence I commit myself to thy fate. This is not my desire. I want no part of what befalls thee. Go not to the West Pole-but an thou must go, then go not through the Green Demesnes."

That made sense. The Green Adept had no personal interest in Stile; he merely wanted to make certain he was not implicated in what happened to Stile. If a prophecy decreed doom to all who might facilitate Stile's approach to the West Pole, this step exonerated the Green Adept.

"Now I seek no trouble with thee," Stile began. "But the Lady and I planned to follow the curtain to its terminus, and-"

"And we can bypa.s.s the Green Demesnes, in the interest of courtesy," the Lady Blue finished.

Stile shrugged. "The Lady has spoken. Set out warners at thy boundaries, and we shall there detour."

"I shall," Green agreed. "Since thou dost humor my preference, I offer one final word: my sources suggest that if thou dost go to the West Pole, thou wilt suffer grievously in the short term, and in the moderate term will incur the enmity of the most powerful forces of the frame. I urge thee once more to give up this quest. There are other suitable places to honeymoon. The Green Demesnes themselves will be opened to thee, shouldst thou care to tarry there instead."

"I thank thee for thy advice," Stile said. "Yet it seems the end of Phaze draws nigh, and powerful forces already dispose themselves in readiness. The Foreordained has appeared. What is fated, is fated, and I am ready if not eager to play my part."

"As thou dost choose." The Green Adept made a signal with the fingers of his left hand and disappeared.

"I mislike these omens," the Lady said. "Methought our troubles were over."

"Loose ends remain, it seems. I had hoped we could let them be for at least this fortnight."

"Surely we can," she agreed, opening her arms to him. The hawk flew quietly away. The weapon of the unicorn had not, after all, been needed.

Next day they resumed the ride north. Stile made a small spell to enhance Hinblue's velocity and let Clip run at full speed. They fairly flew across the rolling terrain. Fire jetted from the unicorn's nostrils, and his hooves grew hot enough to throw sparks. Unicorns, being magic, did not sweat; they ejected surplus heat at the extremities. After a time they slowed. Stile brought out his harmonica and played. Clip accompanied him on his saxophone-voiced horn, and the lady sang. The magic closed about them, seeming to thicken the air, but it had no force without Stile's verbal invocation.

"We can camp the night at the Yellow Demesnes," Stile said. "The curtain clips a comer of-"

"By no means!" the Lady snapped, and Clip snorted. Stile remembered. She didn't like other Adepts, and Yellow liked to take a potion to convert herself from an old crone to a luscious young maid-without otherwise changing her nature. Also, her business was the snaring and selling of animals, including unicorns. Stile had traded magical favors with Yellow in the past and had come to respect her, but he could understand why his wife and steed preferred not to socialize.

"Anything for thee," he agreed. "However, night approaches and the White Mountains lie beyond."

"Indulge thyself in a spell. Adept."

"How soon the honeymoon turns to dull marriage," he grumbled. Clip made a musical snort of mirth, and the lady smiled.

The ramshackle premises of Yellow appeared. Both animals sniffed the air and veered toward the enclosure. Hastily Stile sang a counterspell: "This will cure the witch's lure." That enabled them to ignore the hypnotic vapor that drew animals in to capture and confinement. Before long they had skirted those premises and moved well on toward the termination of the plain to the north. At dusk they came to the White Mountain range. Here the peaks rose straight out of the plain in defiance of normal geological principles; probably magic had been involved in their formation.

The curtain blithely traveled up the slope at a steep angle. It would have been difficult to navigate this route by daylight; at night the attempt would be foolhardy. "And there are snow-demons," the Lady said as an afterthought. Stile pondered, then conjured a floating ski lift. It contained a heated stall for two equines, complete with a trough filled with fine grain, and a projecting shelf with several mugs of nutri-cocoa similar to what was available from a Proton food machine. Clip could have converted to hawk-form and flown up, but the cold would have hindered him, and this was far more comfortable. Unicorn and horse stepped into the stalls and began feeding, while Stile and the Lady mounted for their repast. Eating and sleeping while mounted was no novelty; it was part of the joy of Phaze.

They rode serenely upward as if drawn by an invisible cable. "Yet I wonder where this magic power comes from?" Stile mused. "I realize that the mineral Phazite is the power source for magic, just as its other-frame self, Protonite, is the basis for that scientific, energy-processing society. But why should certain people, such as the Adepts, channel that power better than others? Why should music and doggerel verse implement it for me, while the Green Adept needs special gestures and the White Adept needs mystic symbols? There is a certain channelization here that cannot be coincidental. But if it is natural, what governs it? If it is artificial, who set it up?"

"Thou wert ever questioning the natural order," the Lady Blue said affectionately. "Asking whence came the Proton objects conjured to this frame, like the harmonica, and whether they were turning up missing from that frame, making us thieves."

So his other self had speculated similarly! "I wonder if I could conjure a source of information? Maybe a smart demon, like the one Yellow animates with a potion."

"Conjure not demons, lest they turn on thee," she warned, and Clip gave an affirmative blast on his horn.

"Yes, I suppose there are no shortcuts," Stile said. "But one way or another, I hope to find the answer."

"Mayhap that is why mischief lurks for thee at the West Pole," the Lady said, not facetiously. "Thou canst not let things rest, any more in this self than in thine other." That was quite possible, he thought. It was likely to be the curious child with a screwdriver who poked into a power outlet and got zapped, while the pa.s.sive child escaped harm. But man was a carious creature, and that insatiable appet.i.te for knowledge had led him to civilization and the stars. Progress had its dangers, yet was necessary- Something rattled against the side of the gondola stall, startling them. Clip shifted instantly to hawk-form, dropping Stile so suddenly to the floor that he stumbled face first into the food trough as if piggishly hungry. Hinblue eyed him as he lifted his corn- and barley-covered face, and made a snort that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.

"Et tu. Brute," Stile muttered, wiping off his face while the Lady t.i.ttered.

Soon Clip returned from his survey of the exterior situation, metamorphosing to man-form. "Snow-demons," he said. "Throwing icicles at us."

Stile made a modification spell, and the chamber drew farther out from the mountainside, beyond reach of icicles. So much for that. "Yet this will complicate our night's lodging," Stile commented.

"Nay, I know a snow-chief," the Lady said. "Once the demons were enemies of my Lord Blue, but we have healed many, and this one will host us graciously enough, methinks."

"Mayhap," Stile said dubiously. "But I shall set a warning spell against betrayal."

"Do thou that," she agreed. "One can never be quite certain with demons."

They crested the high peak and followed the curtain to an icebound hollow in a pa.s.s on the north side. "Here, belike, can we find my friend," the Lady said. Stile placed the warning spell, and another to keep warm-a warner and a warmer, as the Lady put it-and they rode out. There was a cave in the ice, descending into the mountain. They approached this, and the snow demons appeared.

"I seek Freezetooth," the Lady proclaimed. "Him have I befriended." And in an amazingly short time, they were in the cold hall of the snow-chief.

Freezetooth was largely made of snow and ice. His skin was translucent, and his hair and beard were ma.s.sed, tiny icicles. Freezing fog wafted out of his mouth as he spoke. But he was affable enough. Unlike most of his kind, he could talk. It seemed that most demons did not regard the human tongue as important enough to master, but a chief had to handle affairs of state and interrogate prisoners.

"Welcome, warm ones," he said with a trace of delicately suppressed aversion. "What favor do you offer for the privilege of nighting at my glorious palace?" Glorious palace? Stile glanced about the drear, ice shrouded cave. It was literally freezing here-otherwise the snow-demons would melt. Even protected by his spell, Stile felt cold.

'I have done thy people many favors in past years," the Lady reminded Freezetooth indignantly, small sparks flashing from her eyes. That was a trick of hers Stile always admired, but several snow-demons drew hastily back in alarm.

"Aye, and in appreciation, we consume thee not," the chief agreed. "What hast thou done far us lately, thou and thy cohorts?"

"This cohort is the Blue Adept," she said, indicating Stile.

There was a ripple through the cave, as of ice cracking under stress. Freezetooth squinted, his snowy brow crusting up in reflection.

"I do recall something about a white foal-" Stile placed the allusion. His alternate self, the former Blue Adept, had helped the Lady Blue rescue her white foal from the snow-demons, who did not now realize that the ident.i.ty of the Blue Adept had changed. It hardly mattered, really.

"That foal would have died with thy people, being no snow-mare, though she looked it. But there was an ava lanche-"

"An accident," Freezetooth said quickly.

"An accident," Stile agreed, though they both knew better. The demons had tried to kill the Blue Adept-and had received a harsh lesson. Surely they did not want another. But there was no need to antagonize them. "What favor didst thou crave?"

Now there was a canny glint in the demon's frozen eye.

'"Come converse privately. Adept, male to male." In a private chamber the demon confessed his desire: he loved a lovely, flowing, brilliantly hued fire-spirit. His "flame" was literally a flame.

The problem was immediately apparent. Freezetooth could not approach his love without melting. If she cooled to his temperature, her fire would extinguish and she would perish. Forbidden fruit, indeed!

Fortunately the remedy was within the means of Adept magic. Stile generated a spell to render Freezetooth invulnerable to heat. The flames would feel as deliciously cold as they were in fact hot.

The demon chief departed hastily to rendezvous with his love. Stile and his party were treated well by the remaining demons, who were no longer chilled by the wintry glare of their lord. The finest s...o...b..nks were provided for sleeping on, in the most frigid and windy of the chambers. Without Stile's warmth-spell, it would have been disaster. As it was, they started to melt down into the snow, and Stile had to modify his spell to prevent that. Once every thing had been adjusted, the facilities were quite comfort able.

In the morning Freezetooth was back, and his icicles positively scintillated. No need to ask how his evening had worked out! He insisted that his close friend the Adept stay for a proper feast that evening.

It occurred to Stile that this hospitality could be useful. "Do thou remain here while I perform a necessary ch.o.r.e in Proton," he told the Lady. "I must attend the final Round of the Tourney, but should be back by noon."

"I know, my love. Is it selfish of me to hope that thou dost lose that Game and find thyself confined to Phaze?"

He kissed her. "Yes, it is selfish. Sheen depends on me."

"Ah, yes-I forget the Lady Sheen. Methinks I shall consider her options whilst thou art gone." Stile wasn't certain what that would lead to. The Lady Blue could cross the curtain, but Sheen could not function in Phaze.

"Until noon," Stile said, then spelled himself to his usual curtain crossing.

CHAPTER 4 Poem.

Stile's opponent for the finals was a serf woman two years younger than he: Rue, a twenty-year-tenure veteran of the Game. Like himself, she had not qualified at the top of her age ladder; but also like himself, she was the best of her decade. She was one of the half-dozen serf players Stile was not eager to meet in the Tourney. He thought he could beat her, but he wasn't sure.

Rue had luck as well as skill, for she had lost no Rounds. That meant that a single victory for her would bring her the prize, while one for Stile would merely bring him even. To beat Rue twice in succession-that would be difficult. They played the grid. Stile got the letters. Rue was good at all manner of tool and machine games, being in superb health; he was well skilled in these areas, too, and could take her in most tool games, but would be at a disadvantage in machine-a.s.sisted games. She would expect him to go for TOOL or ANIMAL, so instead he went for A. NAKED. If she went for 4. ARTS, as he expected, this would foul her up.

But she had done the unexpected too, going for 3. CHANCE. With two chances to his one, the advantage would be with her on the straight gamble-if that was the way she wanted to play it. As evidently she did. They played the subgrid, and finished with a very simple guessing game; each had to pick a number, and if the total of the two numbers was even. Stile won. Even, in this coding, was male; odd was female. This game was so simple it would be played on the grid. Each would enter his/her number, the total flashing on both screens only when both were entered.

Would she choose her own code, an odd number? People tended to, unconsciously, feeling more at home with their own. If she chose odd and he chose even, she would win. Obviously he should choose odd, to cancel her odd. But, as obviously, she would antic.i.p.ate that and choose even. Then the result would be. odd, and she would still win. It seemed she stood to win regardless.

It came back to the subjective. Given no advantage between alternatives, a person normally selected what pleased him emotionally. Rue, in doubt, should go for odd. Therefore Stile overruled his preference for even and chose the number of letters in his name: five. He entered this on the grid and locked it; no way to change his mind now Rue had not yet made up her mind. Now the onus was hers, and they both knew it, and the broadcast audience knew it. She could win or lose by her decision; Stile was pa.s.sive. The pressure was on her.

"Ten seconds until forfeit," the voice of the Game Computer announced.

Rue grimaced and punched in her number. She was pretty enough, with auburn hair, an extremely fit body, and only a few age creases forming on face and neck. She was thirty-three years old, her youth waning. If she won this one, she would be eligible for rejuvenation, and Stile suspected she desired that more than the actual wealth of Citizenship.

The total showed eight. Rue had chosen the letters of her own name. Even-and Stile had won.

Stile kept his face impa.s.sive. He had been lucky-but was keenly aware of the fickleness of that mistress. Rue blanched a little, but knew her chances remained even. Now they were tied, with thirteen victories and one loss each.

There was no break between Rounds this time, since there were no complexities about scheduling. They played the grid again immediately.

This time Stile got the numbers. He certainly was not going for CHANCE, though it had just salvaged his drive. It had not won him anything beyond that, for as a finalist he had already achieved the prize of life tenure as a serf. The only real step forward he could make was to Citizen ship, and now at last it was within his means. One single win- He selected 4. ARTS, knowing that she would be playing to avoid his strong points elsewhere. The arts cut across other skills, and Rue was noted for her intellectual velocity and proficiency with machine-a.s.sisted games. Ma chine art would be a tossup, but he was willing to fight it out there.

But she surprised him again, choosing A. NAKED. So it was 1A, Naked Arts. Stile did not like this; he had had a very bad time in this box in his critical match with the Red Adept, and had pulled it out only by means of a desperation ploy.

They played the subgrids, and finished, to his abrupt delight, with EXTEMPORANEOUS POETRY. Stile had always fancied himself a poet; he had a ready flair for rhyme and meter that had served him in excellent stead in Phaze. But true poetry was more than this-and now he would be able to do something significant when and where it counted.

The Game Computer printed a random list of a dozen words. "Thirty minutes to incorporate these terms into poems," it announced. "Highest point scores given for the use of one key word per line, in order, in the terminal position, rhymed. Technical facility fifty percent; content fifty percent. A panel of judges, including one male Citizen, one female Citizen, male serf, female serf, and the Game Computer, will decide the rating of each effort on the basis of zero to one hundred. The higher composite score prevails. Proceed."

This was more restrictive than Stile liked, but he remained well satisfied. It was not that he thought he had an easy victory, he knew that Rue, too, had facility with words, perhaps greater than his own. She was an extremely quick-witted woman-which was of course one reason she had made it to the Tourney finals. She could cobble together a poem as readily as he could. But at least this particular contest would be decided on skill, not luck. This was a fair encounter. If he won or if he lost, it would be because he had established his level. That was all he could ask.

Stile considered the words. They were: b.i.t.c.h, CUBE, FLAME, SIR, SILENCE, LOVE, HORN, CHEAT, ROACH, CIVIL, FLUTE, EARTH. An anomalous bunch indeed! None of them rhymed with each other, so there were no free rides there. The only way to get a key term at the end of a rhyming line was to alternate with filler lines. "My female dog is a wonderful b.i.t.c.h; whenever she scratches she has an itch." That sort of thing would hardly win the Tourney; it was literal doggerel. It might be better to alternate terminal key words with mid-line key words, sacrificing the preferred terminal spot for the sake of the also-preferred, one-key-word-per-line arrangement. The Computer had not made it easy; the contestants had to choose between sacrifices. "My female dog is a wonderful b.i.t.c.h; she stands on a cube and does a twitch." That would gamer a better technical score, but nothing extra on content.

He glanced at Rue. She was frowning, evidently displeased by the first term. Stile half smiled; he would have been similarly put out if the term had been RUNT. He was a runt and she was a b.i.t.c.h-but that was the kind of mischief random selection could do.

Because this was Naked Arts, they could use no implements, make no written notes. No rhyming dictionaries. They had to do it all in their heads, punching only the finished poems into the grid for judgment. If either had trouble with memory, he or she could place individual lines as they were worked out. But then those lines would be final, no changes allowed. Since both Stile and Rue were experienced Game players, both could hold the developing poems in memory until the time for presentation. No, the only problem was wrestling these awkward words into the most artistic and meaningful whole. Stile wrestled a while, but was not satisfied. He could make rhymes and meter, certainly-but where was the meaning? One ignored the content portion of the poem at one's peril. Yet it seemed impossible to fit these unruly words into anything serious; the problem of rhyming and positioning turned his efforts to frivolous tangents, as with the antics of his female dog. What could a person do seriously with words like b.i.t.c.h, cube, and flame? Time was pa.s.sing. Rue was hard at work; her expression and concentration suggested she had developed a strategy of creation and was happily ironing out the wrinkles. She would probably come up with something very clever. He had to come up with something even more clever-or more significant. Sir, silence, love-what a headache!

He brought himself back to basics. There were really two types of poetry: the ornamental and the consequential. Ornaments were rhyme, meter, alliteration, pattern, humor, a.s.sonance, and technical cleverness. They were stressed in light verse, parody, the libretto for popular music, and such. Serious poetry de-emphasized such things, or dispensed with them altogether. Thus some people were unable even to recognize serious poetry, because it didn't necessarily rhyme. But ultimately any poetic appeal was to the deeper emotions, and the use of symbolism enabled it to evoke complex ramifications in the most compact presentation. As with Kipling's Recessional: "Far called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nine veh and Tyre!" Presented to Queen Victoria some centuries back, this poem did not find instant favor, for it signaled the decline of the Earth-wide British Empire. But what imagery was evoked by the names of those two ancient cities, foremost in their times, finally brought to ruin by the armies of Babylonia and Alexander the Great, drunkard though the latter might have been. Kipling's verse was superficially pretty; it rhymed nicely. But its real impact was its content, the somber warning for an over extended empire. All too soon it had been London-town under the siege of weapons unknown in the time of Tyre, as the Germans sent their bombers and rockets over. How well Kipling had understood!

With that memory. Stile saw his way. Rhyme, meter, and the rest of the prettiness were enc.u.mbrances; he had to dispense with them all and concentrate on meaning and emotion. He would lose some technical points, but gain where it counted. Win or lose, he would do his best, his way.

Stile considered the first word-b.i.t.c.h. He knew of a n.o.ble b.i.t.c.h-the old female werewolf who had guided Clef to the Platinum Demesnes, sacrificing her life in the process. Stile could do worse than remember her in this poem! Cube-there was one cube that was fresh in his experience, and that was the doubling cube of his recent back gammon game, which had enabled him to pull out a last moment win.

Flame-well, it wasn't the most serious thing, but he had just enabled the chief snow-demon to have a liaison with his literal flame. That might not have any meaning to the Tourney judges, but this poem was not really for them but for Stile himself-his evocation of himself. The frame of Phaze was vitally important to him, and the flame related to that and to the notion of romance, which brought him to the Lady Blue. Ah, yes.

Sir-that was easy. This very poem was Stile's final effort to be called sir: to become a Citizen of Proton, and have similar stature and power in Proton as he did in Phaze as the Blue Adept.

But the remaining terms-they did not seem to relate. Now he was emotionally committed to this course, and had to use them in it-which meant he would have to improvise. That would be troublesome.