Juxtaposition

warn; he simply had to fight.

Clef was aware that the werewolf had taken his remark about his skill at fencing to be vanity, for he was hardly the warrior type. However, he had spoken the truth. The rapier danced before him. In seven seconds he skewerd four harpies, while Serrilryan dropped the fifth, dead.

The remaining beast birds now developed some crude caution. They flapped and bustled, screeching epithets, but did not charge again. Their eyes were on the gleaming platinum weapon; they had suddenly learned respect.

Clef took a step toward them, and the foul creatures scattered, hurling back one-syllable words fully as filthy as their feathers. This threat had been abated.

'Thou art quite a hand with that instrument' Serrilryan remarked appreciatively. 'Never saw I a sword stab so swiftly.'

'I never used a rapier in anger before,' Clef said, feeling weak and revolted now that the brief action was over. 'But those horrible creatures-'

'Thou didst withhold thy strike until they clustered on me.'

'Well, I couldn't let them - those claws-' 'Aye,' she said, and went canine again. But there was something wrong. She had tried to conceal it, but his reaction to this combat had made him more perceptive to physical condition. 'Wait - thou hast been scratched!' Clef said. 'Thy shoulder's bleeding!'

'Wounds are nothing to wolves,' she said, phasing back. But it showed on her dame-form too, the blood now staining her shawl. 'How much less, a mere scratch.'

'But thou didst say-'

'Doubtless I exaggerated. Bleeding cleans it.' She changed back again and ran ahead, terminating the dialogue.

Clef realized that she did not want sympathy for her injury, at least not from the likes of him. Probably it was unwolflike to acknowledge discomfort. Yet shehad warned him about the poisonous nature of harpy scratches. He hoped nothing evil came of this.

That night they camped in a tree. Clef was now more accustomed to roughing it, and this was a hugely spreading yellow birch whose central nexus was almost like a house. Serrilryan curled up in bitch-form, and he curled up beside her, satisfied with the body warmth she radiated. The papery bark of the tree was slightly soft, and he was able to form a pillow of his bent arm. Yes, he was coming to like this life. 'This frame is just a little like Heaven,' he remarked as sleep drew nigh. 'My frame of Proton is more like Hell, outside the domes, where nothing grows.'

'Mayhap it is Proton-frame I am destined for,' she said, shifting just far enough to dame-form to speak, not bothering to uncurl.

'Proton? Dost thou plan to cross the curtain, despite thy loss of magic there?'

She growl-chuckled ruefully. 'Figuratively, man-person. When I die, it will be the real Hell I will see.'

'Hell? Thee? Surely thou wilt go to Heaven!' Clef did not believe in either region, but neither did he believe in magic.

'Surely would I wish to go to Heaven! There, belike, the Glory Hounds run free. But that is not the destiny of the likes of me. Many evils have I seen since I was a pup.' She shifted back to canine and slept.

Clef thought about that, disturbed. He did not believe this was an immediate issue, but feared that she did. He was bothered by her growing morbidity and her low estimate of self-worth. She might have seen evil, but that did not make her evil herself; sometimes evil was impossible to escape. It had been that way with the harpies. Yet what could he do to ease her depression?

Troubled, he slept.

'Strange dream,' Stile said. 'Every time he sleeps, I wake. But I'm dreaming in minutes what he experienced in days.'

'How much farther does he have to go?' Sheen asked.

'He should reach the Elven Demesnes in two more days.'

'Then you sleep two more times. I want to learn how this ends.' Her fingers stroked his eyes closed.

Serrilryan's wound was not healing. It was red and swollen, the blood refusing to coagulate properly. She limped now, when she thought he wasn't looking, and her pace was slower. She was suffering - and he couldn't comment for fear of embarrassing her.

The terrain became more hilly. Huge trees grew out of the slopes, some of their roots exposed by erosion. But the eager grass was covering every available patch of ground, and the turf was thick and spongy. Clef was soon breathless, ascending the steep, short slopes, drawing himself up by handholds on trees and branches and tangles of roots. Serrilryan followed, her familiarity with this region making up for her weakness, shifting back and forth between forms to take advantage of the best properties of each.

Something tugged at his hair. It was not the wind. Clef paused, fearing he had snagged it in a low branch - but there was no branch. He put his hand up, but there was nothing. Yet the tugging continued, and now there were little touches on his skin.

'Something's here!' he exclaimed, alarmed.

The bitch sniffed the air and cocked her ears. She phased into woman-form. 'Whistle,' she said.

Perplexed, he whistled. Oddly, the touchings abated. He whistled louder and with more intricacy, a medley of classical themes. He enhanced it with trills and double notes, warming to it, serenading the landscape.

Slowly, shapes appeared. They were little people, perching on branches and on the slope and even floating in air. All were listening raptly.

'Aye, the sidhe,' Serrilryan said, pronouncing itshee. 'The Faerie Folk. They cause no harm, just idle mischief.'

Discovered, the sidhe moved into a dance, whirling in air. Their little lasses were, in the archaic measurement of this frame, about four feet tall, the lads not much larger. They moved prettily and smiled often - happy folk.

But when Clef stopped whistling, they faded out of sight again. 'The sidhe associate not overmuch with other folk, but they do like music,' the werebitch said. 'I am destined to see them three times before I die.'

'How many times hast thou seen them so far?'

'This is the third time.'

'Then I should not have whistled them into sight!'

She made a gesture of unconcern. 'I am old; my pace is slowing. My teeth are no longer sharp. The Pack will not let me live much longer anyway. Glad am I to have seen the lovely Faerie Folk once more.'

'But this is barbaric! The other wolves have no right-'

'Question not the way of the Pack. I have killed others in my day; always I knew my turn would come. Perhaps it would have come ere now, had I not been fated to guide thee. I am content, Clef-man.'

Clef shook his head, not commenting further. Obviously there was violence along with the beauty and literal magic of this frame.

They marched on. Later another phenomenon occurred - a kind of sweeping of an unbreeze through the forest, dissipation of nonexistent clouds in the sky, and revivification of things that had not been dead. A hidden tension had been released, an obligation expiated. 'What is it?' Clef asked.

'The lifting of a geis,' Serrilryan said.

'I don't think I understand.'

'The abatement of an oath. It hung over the forest; now it is done.'

'What oath is this?'

'The Blue Adept swore vengeance against the Red Adept.'

'Um, yes. But I thought he was getting married. He is also moving through the Proton Tourney. Isn't this an awful lot of activity for such an occasion?'

'There is no comprehending the ways of Adepts.'

That seemed to be the case. The Blue Adept evidently had a lot more power, and was involved in more great events, than Clef had realized. It was mildly odd that so small a man had so large an impact on this frame.

By nightfall they reached the marker for the Platinum Demesnes, indicated by a sign saying PT 78 .

'The path within is treacherous,' the werebitch said. 'Morning is better for it.'