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 can not 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 passive child es caped harm. But man was a curious creature, and that insatiable appetite for knowledge had led him to civiliza tion and the stars. Progress had its dangers, yet was neces sary-
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.
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 pass 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 warmer 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 massed, 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 for 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 identity 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 avalanche-'
'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 snowbanks 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 everything had been adjusted, the facilities were quite comfortable.
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 chore 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.
?4. Poem (SF)
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
