He heard the clop-clop of someone approaching. He had to wrap this up quickly, or suffer the embarrassment of being rescued. His talent didn't care about his pride, just his body.
Bink found himself backed up against a tree-a real one. The hedge-maze had been superimposed on existing vegetation, so that everything became part of that puzzle. This was a gluebark tree: anything that penetrated the bark was magically stuck to it. Then the tree slowly grew around the object, absorbing it. Harmless, so long as the bark was intact; children could safely climb the trunk and play in its branches, as long as they did not use cleats. Woodpeckers stayed well away from it So Bink could lean against it, but had to be careful not to-
The enemy sword slashed at his face. Bink was never sure, afterward, whether his inspiration came before or after his action. Probably after, which meant that his talent was inoperation again despite his effort to avoid that. At any rate, instead of parrying this time, he ducked.
The sword passed over his head and smacked into the tree, slicing deeply into the bark. Instantly the tree's magic focused, and the blade was sealed in place. It wrenched and struggled, but could not escape. Nothing could beat the specific magic of a thing in its own bailiwick! Bink was the victor.
''Bye, Sword,' he said, sheathing his own weapon. 'Sorry we couldn't visit longer.' But behind his flippancy was a certain grim disquiet: who or what had incited this magic sword to slay him? He must, after all, have an enemy somewhere, and he didn't like that. It wasn't so much any fear of attack, but a gut feeling of distress that he should be disliked to that extent by anyone, when he tried so hard to get along.
He ducked around another corner-and smacked into a needle-cactus. Not a real one, or he would have become a human pincushion; a mock one.
The cactus reached down with a prickly branch and gripped Bink by the neck. 'Clumsy oaf!' it snorted. 'Do you wish me to prettify your ugly face in the mud?'
Bink recognized that voice and that grip. 'Chester!' he rasped past the constriction in his neck. 'Chester Centaur!'
'Horseflies!' Chester swore. 'You tricked me into giving myself away!' He eased his terrible grip slightly. 'But now you'd better tell me who you are, or I might squeeze you like this.' He squeezed, and Bink thought his head was going to pop off his body. Where was his talent now?
'Fink! Fink!' Bink squeaked, trying to pronounce his name when his lips would not quite close. 'Stink!'
'I do not stink!' Chester said, becoming irritated. That made his grip tighten. 'Not only are you homely as hell, you're impertinent.' Then he did a double take. 'Hey-you're wearing my face!'
Bink had forgotten: he was in costume. The centaur's surprise caused him to relax momentarily, and Bink snatched his opportunity. 'I'm Bink! Your friend! In illusion guise!'
Chester pondered. No centaur was stupid, but this one tended to think with his muscles. 'If you're trying to fool me-'
'Remember Herman the hermit? How I met him in the wilderness, and he saved Xanth from the wiggle swarm with his will-o'-the-wisp magic? The finest centaur of them all!'
Chester finally put Bink down. 'Uncle Herman,' be agreed, smiling. The effect was horrendous on the cactus-face. 'I guess you're okay. But what are you doing in my form?'
'The same thing you're doing in cactus form,' Bink said, massaging his throat. 'Attending the masquerade ball.' His neck did not seem to be damaged, so his talent must have let this encounter be.
'Oh, yes,' Chester agreed, flexing his needles eloquently. 'The mischief of Good Queen Iris, the bitch-Sorceress. Have you found a way into the palace yet?'
'No. In fact, I ran into a-' But Bink wasn't sure he wanted to talk about the sword just yet 'A zombie.'
'A zombie!' Chester laughed. 'Pity the poor oaf in that costume!'
A costume! Of course! The zombie had not been real; it had merely been another of the Queen's illusion-costumes. Bink had reacted as shortsightedly as Chester, fleeing it before discovering its identity. And thereby encountering the sword, which certainly had not been either costume or illusion. 'Well, I don't much like this game anyway,' he said.
'I don't go for the game either,' Chester agreed. 'But the prize-that is worth a year of my life.'
'By definition,' Bink agreed morosely. 'One Question Answered by the Good Magician Humfrey-free. But everyone's competing for it; someone else will win.'
'Not if we get hoofing!' Chester said. 'Let's go unmask the zombie before it gets away!'
'Yes,' Bink agreed, embarrassed by his previous reaction.
They passed the sword, still stuck in the tree. 'Finders keepers!' Chester exclaimed happily, and put his hand to it.
'That's a gluebark; it won't let go.'
But the centaur had already grasped the sword and yanked. Such was his strength there was a shower of bark and wood. But the sword did not come free.
'Hm,' Chester said. 'Look, tree-we have a glue-bark in Centaur Village. During the drought I watered it every day, so it survived. Now all I ask in return is this sword, that you have no use for.'
The sword came free. Chester tucked it into his quiver of arrows, fastening it in place with a loop of the coil of rope he also carried. Or so Bink guessed, observing the contortions of the cactus. Bink had put a hand to his own sword, half-fearing a renewal of hostilities, but the other weapon was quiescent. Whatever had animated it was gone.
Chester became aware of Bink's stare. 'You just have to understand trees,' he said, moving on, 'It's true of course; a centaur never lies. I did water that tree. It was more convenient than the privy.'
So this gluebark had given up its prize. Well, why not? Centaurs were indeed generally kind to
