close until we emerge from the sea.'
Now the three swam for shore. It took them some time, for the sea remained choppy and they were tired, but no other creatures bothered them. Apparently no lesser predators intruded on the fishing territory of the sea monster. An understandable attitude-but probably within hours a host of aggressive forms would converge if the sea monster did not return. As Trent had remarked, there was always a balance of nature.
The phosphorescence became stronger in the shallows. Some of it was from glowing fish, flashing in colors to communicate with their respective kinds; most of it was from the water itself. Washes of pale green, yellow, orange-magic, of course, but for what purpose? There was so much Bink saw, wherever he went, that he did not understand. At the bottom he saw shells, some lighted around the fringes, some glowing in patterns. A few vanished as he passed over them; whether they had become truly invisible or merely doused their lights he could not tell. Regardless, they were magic, and that was familiar. Belatedly he realized that he was glad to be back among the familiar threats of Xanth!
Dawn was coming as they reached the beach. The sun pushed up behind the clouds over the jungle and finally burst through to bounce its shafts off the water. It was a thing of marvelous beauty. Bink clung to that concept, because his body was numb with fatigue, his brain locked onto the torture of moving limbs, over and over, on and on.
At last he crawled upon the beach. Fanchon crawled beside him. 'Don't stop yet,' she said. 'We must seek cover, lest other monsters come, from the beach or jungle?'
But Trent stood knee-deep in the surf, his sword dangling from his handsome body. He was obviously not as tired as they were. 'Return, friend,' he said, flicking something into the sea. The sea monster reappeared, its serpentine convolutions much more impressive in the shallow water. Trent had to lift his feet and splash back out of the way, lest he be crushed by a hugely swinging coil.
But the monster was not looking for trouble now. It was extremely disgruntled. It gave a single honk of rage or of anguish or of mere amazement and thrashed its way toward deeper pastures.
Trent walked up the beach. 'It is not fun to be a defenseless love bug when you are accustomed to being the king of the sea,' he said. 'I hope the creature does not suffer a nervous breakdown.'
He was not smiling. There was something funny, Bink thought, about a man who liked monsters that well. But of course Trent was the Evil Magician of the contemporary scene. The man was strangely handsome, mannerly, and erudite, possessed of strength, skill, and courage-but his affinities were to the monsters more than to the men. It would be disastrous ever to forget that.
Odd that Humfrey, the Good Magician, was an ugly little gnome in a forbidding castle, selfishly using his magic to enrich himself, while Trent was the epitome of hero material. The Sorceress Iris had seemed lovely and-sexy, but was in fact nondescript; Humfrey's good qualifies were manifest in his actions, once a person really got to know him. But Trent, so far, had seemed good in both appearance and deed, at least on the purely personal level. If Bink had met him for the first time in the kraken's cave and hadn't known the man's evil nature, he would never have guessed it.
Now Trent strode across the beach, seeming hardly tired despite the grueling swim. The nascent sunlight touched his hair, turning it bright yellow. He looked in that instant like a god, all that was perfect in man. Again Bink suffered fatigued confusion, trying to reconcile the man's appearance and recent actions with what he knew to be the man's actual nature, and again finding it so challenging as to be virtually impossible. Some things just had to be taken on faith.
'I've got to rest, to sleep,' Bink muttered. 'I can't tell evil from good right now.'
Fanchon looked toward Trent. 'I know what you mean,' she said, shaking her head so that her ratty hair shifted its wet tangles. 'Evil has an insidious way about it, and there is some evil in all of us that seeks to dominate. We have to fight it, no matter how tempting it becomes.'
Trent arrived. 'We seem to have made it,' he said cheerfully. 'It certainly is good to be back in Xanth, by whatever freak of fortune. Ironic that you, who sought so ardently to prevent my access, instead facilitated it!'
'Ironic,' Fanchon agreed dully.
'I believe this is the coast of the central wilderness region, bounded on the north by the great Gap. I had not realized we had drifted so far south, but the contour of the land seems definitive. That means we are not yet out of trouble.'
'Bink's an exile, you're banished, and I'm ugly,' Fanchon muttered. 'We'll never be out of trouble.'
'Nevertheless, I believe it would be expedient to extend our truce until we are free of the wilderness,' the Magician said.
Did Trent know something Bink didn't? Bink had no magic, so he would be prey to all the sinister spells of the deep jungle. Fanchon had no apparent magic-strange, she claimed her exile had been voluntary, not forced, yet if she really had no magic she should have been banished too; anyway, she would have a similar problem. But Trent-with his skills with sword and spell, he should have no reason to fear this region.
Fanchon had similar doubts. 'As long as you're with us, we're in constant danger of being transformed into toads. I can't see that the wilderness is worse.'
Trent spread his hands. 'I realize you do not trust me, and perhaps you have reason. I believe your security and mine would be enhanced if we cooperated a little longer, but I shall not force my company on you.' He walked south along the beach.
'He knows something,' Bink said. 'He must be leaving us to die. So he can be rid of us without breaking his word.'
'Why should he care about his word?' Fanchon asked. 'That would imply he is a man of honor.'
Bink had no answer. He crawled to the shade and concealment of the nearest tree and collapsed in the downy sward. He had been unconscious during part of the last night, but that was not the same as sleep; he needed genuine rest.
When he woke it was high noon-and he was fixed in place. There was no pain, only some itching- but he couldn't lift his head or hands. They were fastened to the ground by myriad threads, as if the very lawn had-
