'On another planet,' Clef said, surprised. 'I signed for Proton serf tenure as a young man-'
'Then thy roots are not here. Thou hast no other self here, so art not barred from crossing.'
'Oh. Fortunate for me, I suppose. Dost thou also have another self in Proton?'
'Nay. But if I crossed, I would be but a cur, unable to were-change. And the hunting is not good there.'
Clef had to laugh agreement. 'All too true! Proton, beyond the force-field domes, is a desert. Nothing but pollution.'
'Aye,' she agreed, wrinkling her nose. 'When men overrun a planet, they destroy it.'
'Yet Stile - the Blue Adept - he is also a serf in Proton, like me.'
'He was whelped on Proton. His root is here.'
Clef watched the dissipating grotesqueries of the cloud of smoke. 'I'm glad I'm not his enemy!' He resumed slogging forward. At this rate he would be lucky to travel ten miles by dusk.
Actually, he realized, it might be just as well to take several days before reaching the Little Folk. There was a tremendous amount to learn about Phaze, and this slow trek was an excellent introduction. When he finally did arrive, he would have a much better comprehension of the frame, and know how to deport himself. With all the pitfalls of magic, he needed that experience.
The werebitch paced him uncomplainingly. She shifted from form to form at need, conversing when he wished, scouting when there was anything suspicious in the vicinity. Finally he asked her: 'Is this not an imposition, Serrilryan, for thee, shepherding a novice while thy Pack is active elsewhere?'
'I am oath-friend to Neysa the unicorn,' she replied. 'For her would I shepherd a snow-demon halfway to Hell.'
'Halfway?'
'At that point, the demon would melt.' She smiled tolerantly. 'Besides which, this is easy duty for an old bitch. I am sure the Blue Adept has excellent reasons to convey thee to the Mound Demesnes.' She considered. 'If I may inquire-?'
'I am to play the Platinum Flute for the Mound Folk, to enable them to ascertain whether I am the one they call the Foreordained. That is all I know - except that my life will have little purpose if I can not keep this ultimate instrument'
'The Foreordained!' she exclaimed. 'Then is the end of Phaze near!'
'Why? I consider it to be a pretentious, perhaps nonsensical title, to say the least, and of course there is no certainty that I am the one they seek. I am merely a fine musician and a rather good fencer. What have I to do with the fate of a land of magic?'
'That is all I know,' she admitted. 'Be not affronted, Clef-man, if I hope thou art not he.'
'I take no affront from thee, bitch.' He had long since realized that the term he had considered to be uncomplimentary was the opposite here.
'Thou dost play the flute well?'
'Very well.'
'Better than Blue?'
'Aye. But I decline to play this particular instrument in the frame of Phaze until I meet the Mound Folk. It is said the mountain may tremble if-'
'Aye, wait,' she agreed. 'No fool's errand, this.'
'Dost thou like music, Serrilryan?'
'Some. Baying, belike, at full moon.'
'Baying is not my specialty. I could whistle, though.'
'That is music?' she asked, amused.
'It can be, properly executed. There are many types of whistles. Hand-whistling can resemble a woodwind.'
'Aye, with magic.'
'No magic, bitch. Like this.' He rubbed his hands together, convoluted his long fingers into the appropriate configuration, and blew. A fine, clear pipe note emerged. He adjusted his fingers as if tuning the instrument and blew again, making a different pitch. Then he essayed a minor melody.
The sound was beautiful. Clef had not exaggerated when he claimed to play well; he was probably the finest and most versatile musician on the planet. His crude hands produced prettier music than that of most other people using fine instruments.
Serrilryan listened, entranced, phasing back and forth between her forms to appreciate it in each. 'That is not magic?' she asked dubiously when he paused.
'I know no magic. This is straight physical dexterity.'
'Never have I heard the like!' she exclaimed. 'The Blue Adept played the Flute at the Unolympics, and methought that was the most perfect melody ever made. Now I think thou mightest eclipse it, as thou sayest. Canst thou do real whistling too?'
Clef smiled at her naivete. He pursed his lips and whistled a few bars of classical music eloquently. She was delighted.
So they continued, and in the evening he serenaded her with a whistle concert. Squirrels and sparrows appeared in nearby trees, listening raptly. Clef had discovered how to relate to the wild creatures of this lovely wilderness world.
This night the werebitch had located a serviceable cave to sleep in. They piled straw and fern for a bed, and she curled up by the entrance. It was a good night. He was getting to like Phaze.
Stile woke again. 'Time to go for the Game,' he mumbled.
'Not yet. Sleep,' Sheen said. She was a machine, indefatigable; she could sit up and hold him indefinitely and was ready to do so. She was his best and perhaps his only personal friend in this frame. She had saved his life on several occasions. He trusted her. He slept.
The third day Clef found his muscles acclimatizing, and he traveled better. But the world of Phaze seemed restless. There was the sound of horse or unicorn hooves pounding to the east, and a lone wolf passed nearby. 'What's going on?'
'The Red Adept has sprung a trap on the Blue Adept,' Serrilryan said, having somehow picked up this news from the pattern of baying and the musical notes of the distant unicorns. 'He is badly injured but can not cross the curtain for magic healing, for that a basilisk has hold of him. It is very bad.' Indeed, she was worried and, when she returned to bitch-form, her hackles were ruffled. Clef, too, was concerned; he had known Stile only a few hours before their parting, but liked him well and wished him well. There seemed to be nothing he could do, however.
But later the situation eased. 'They have saved him,' Serrilryan reported. 'He is weak, but survives.'
Clefs own tension abated. 'I am exceedingly glad to hear that. He lent me the Platinum Flute, and for this marvelous instrument I would lay down my life. It was the sight of it that brought me here, though I am wary of the office it portends.'
'Aye.'
In the afternoon they heard a sudden clamor. Something was fluttering, squawking, and screeching. The sounds were hideous, in sharp contrast to the pleasure of the terrain.
Serrilryan's canine lip curled. Quickly she shifted to human form. 'Beast birds! Needs must we hide.'
But it was not to be. The creatures had winded them, and the pursuit was on. 'Let not their filthy claws touch thee,' the werebitch warned. 'The scratches will fester into gangrene.' She changed back to canine form and stood guarding him, teeth bared.
The horde burst upon them. They seemed to be large birds - but their faces were those of ferocious women. Clef's platinum rapier was in his hand, but he hesitated to use it against these part-human creatures. Harpies - that was what they were.
They gave him little opportunity to consider. Three of them flew at his head, discolored talons extended. 'Kill! Kill!' they screamed. The smell was appalling.
Serrilryan leaped, her teeth catching the grimy underbelly of one bird. Greasy feathers fell out as the creature emitted a shriek of amazing ugliness. Immediately the other two pounced on the wolf, and two more swooped down from above.
Clefs misgivings were abruptly submerged by the need to act. There seemed to be no chance to reason or
