Piers Anthony - Adept 06 - Unicorn Point

Anthony, Piers - The Apprentice Adept - 6 - Unicorn Point

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1

Stile

Stile took the Lady Blue in his arms. "Thou dost know what we are about," he

said.

The Lady was fifty years old now, and her face was lined, but she remained

beautiful to him. Her hair still fell to her waist, fair but seeming tinted

with blue because of her blue gown and slippers. She stood slightly taller

than he, because of his diminutive stature; it had never been an issue between

them.

After a pause, she murmured, "I know, my love."

"I will return in a few days," he continued gravely. "Thou shallst have

company."

"True." But there was a tear on her cheek.

He kissed her, then went outside the castle. There was Neysa, her head turning

white, her socks falling down about her hooves but her hide glossy black

between, and her muscles still firm. She remained a fine figure of a unicorn;

as her kind put it, her horn retained its point. Stile mounted her bareback,

and she trotted across the drawbridge over the moat.

Neysa paused without being asked, so that Stile could turn and wave to the

castle. A blue kerchief waved back from the window. Stile felt a pang, because

all three of them knew that much more was afoot than this simple excursion.

Then Neysa turned away, and trotted from the Blue Demesnes. They were on their

way.

"We have time," Stile remarked, reverting to the dialect of his origin, as he

tended to do when alone with her. "Let's take the scenic route."

Neysa played an affirmative note on her horn, and bore west. Stile, reminded

by the sound, which resembled that of a harmonica, brought out his own

harmonica and began to play. In a moment Neysa joined in, and they played a

duet, as they had in the old days when both were young. The music was pretty,

and there was an enhancement around them, because music summoned Stile's

magic. He seldom used it these days, because a given spell could be invoked

only once, and he preferred not to waste any. Magic, even for an Adept, was

often the last resort. But it was all right to summon die ambience without

drawing on it.

After a while Stile paused in his playing. "I remember when you protested my

power, old friend," he said.

She played a laughing bit of melody. She had forgiven him his power a quarter

century before, at the time he made his Oath of Friendship to her. From that

time on, all the unicorns of her Herd, and all the werewolves of Kurrelgyre's

Pack, had been her friends too, charmed by the peripheral power of that Oath.

There had been no war between Herd and Pack, despite significant changes in

their compositions as members grew and bred and migrated, and the Oath had

become a minor legend. It had been the proof of his status as the Blue Adept,

for only Adept magic could affect unicorns against their will.

"Aye, I remember well," he continued, experiencing the nostalgia of old times.

"I was an injured jockey from the frame of Proton, discovering the strange new

world of Phaze. I decided I needed a steed, and you were there, you beautiful

animal, the finest of your kind I had seen, and small like me. I loved you

that moment, but you did not love me."

Neysa played a note of agreement. Her horn was musical, but she could talk

with it in her fashion, and he understood her well. All the advanced animals

of Phaze could communicate well in other than the human mode, though not as

well as they could by using it, because the conventions of notes or growls or

high sonics were less versatile than the completely developed human languages.

"So then did I challenge thee, and mount thee and ride thee, and thou didst

try to throw me off, and we careered all over Phaze!" he continued, playfully

switching back to Phaze dialect. "I think I kept my place chiefly by luck—"

Here she snorted derisively. "But then thou didst get set to leap from the

high point, and I thought we both would die, and I let thee go—and won thee

after all." And she agreed.

"Then there came to me a woman, young and fair and small, and lo! it was thee

in human guise, and I learned what it meant to befriend a unicorn," he

continued. "And now we be old, and I have my son Bane and thou thy filly

Fleta, and they both be grown and have offspring in their fashion. Were we

wrong to oppose their unions? How much mischief might we have avoided, had we

accepted their pleas!"

Neysa did not comment. She, with her unicorn stubbornness, had not yet changed

her mind about her position. They proceeded a while in silence. Stile mulling

it over. His son Bane had managed to exchange identities with his opposite

number in Proton, who happened to be a robot: the manufactured son of the

humanoid robot Sheen, once Stile's lover. The robot youth, called Mach, had

occupied a living human body for the first time, and fallen in love with the

human form of Fleta before properly appreciating her nature. Across the

frames, the robot and the unicorn—the impossibility of this relationship had

been evident to all except the protagonists. Only the conniving Adverse

Adepts, who sought to use the boys for their own purposes, had supported the

union. Bane, in the robot body in Proton, had developed a similarly difficult

relationship with an alien creature. Thus Stile had lost his son to the enemy.

He had recognized his mistake, in retrospect, too late; the boys were working

for the enemy, and Stile and his allies were suffering.

"Yet now there be Flach," he said, vocalizing again, knowing that Neysa would

have no trouble following. He pronounced the name "Flash"; it was the merger

of Fleta and Mach, with the hard ch become soft. "The first man-unicorn

crossbreed, and a delight to us both. Perhaps in time he will develop

abilities drawn from both our stocks. And little Nepe, in Proton—"

Neysa's ears perked. She was listening to something. Stile paused, so as to

give her a better chance; her ears were better than his. It was probably

nothing significant; still, it was always best to be alert, because there were

more monsters than in the past, and not all of them had learned proper respect

for either unicorns or Adepts.

Neysa elevated her nose to sniff the breeze. She made a musical snort of

perplexity. Evidently this was not routine. "Do you wish me to intercede?"

Stile asked. As an Adept, he could handle just about any threat from anything

less than another Adept, and at present the Adepts were not harrying each

other despite their enmities.

But the unicorn was independent, true to the nature of her species. She

preferred to handle this herself. She broke into a trot, and then into a

gallop, moving at the velocity only her kind could manage. Stile crouched low,

hanging on to her mane, enjoying this run as much as he had her easy walk.

They broke into open country, much as they had a quarter century before,

covering ground at a rate beyond the powers of any horse. The magic of the

unicorn was not merely in her horn! This time she was trying not to throw him

off, but to outdistance something. What could it be, that caused her to react

this way?

Stile looked around, craning his head to see the ground behind them. But their

pursuer was not on the ground. It was in the air, flying strongly. A small

dragon? No, the shape was wrong, and the mode of flight; it seemed to have

birdlike wings and a running body.

He ran through his mental repertoire of monsters, but could not find a match.

This one seemed alien to Phaze. What could it be? No wonder Neysa was

concerned; she did not trust anything unfamiliar.

He continued his effort to place the creature. It had to be something^. It had

a body like that of a panther or lion, and a head like that of a bird of prey.

It reminded him of the old heraldic devices in the history texts—

"Griffin!" he exclaimed. "That's a griffin! Head and wings of an eagle, body

of a lion!"

Neysa made a musical toot of agreement and continued running at speed. She had

known it by the sound and smell.

"But there are no griffins in Phaze!" he exclaimed after a moment.

Yet there it was, and gaining on them. A classic heraldic monster. Obviously

it did exist here.

Stile's brain was now racing at almost Neysa's pace. Sparks were flying up

from her heating hooves, and figurative sparks were emanating from his head.

There were only a few ways that such a creature could be in Phaze. Was it

possible that all the surveys of the wildlife of the frame had been wrong, and

had overlooked this creature? He doubted that; those surveys had been

competent and conducted magically. The griffin might be an illusion, crafted

by another Adept. But he doubted that too, because Neysa had heard it and

scented it; it would require an extremely thorough illusion to cover sound,

smell and sight in a manner that would convince a unicorn. So it was probably

a form assumed by some other creature.

A number of Phaze creatures could change their forms. There were the unicorns,

each typically having two forms in addition to the equine one. The werewolves,

who changed from wolf to man and back. The vampires, who were bats and men.

And the Adepts, who could do almost anything they chose. But though the

animals could change forms as many times as they wished, they were limited to

those few they had mastered, and Stile knew of none who had elected a

non-Phaze form. The Adepts could take any form, but only once. Thus it would

be necessary to find new variants of the spell to achieve the same alternate

form, which seemed like too much trouble.

However, a single appearance in this form might be enough, depending on its

purpose. Why should an Adept assume the form of a griffin to chase another

Adept? Was one of the Adverse Adepts breaking the truce? Trying to take him

out anonymously, using this shape in case Stile escaped and tried to identify

the perpetrator? That was possible, for some Adepts had few ethical scruples,

but unlikely, because the Adverse Adepts already had the upper hand and were

likely to win the complete power they sought, in time. They had succeeded in

tilting the balance of power in their favor when they had given Mach and Fleta

sanctuary. Now Mach and Bane were both working for them, and their facility

with magic in this frame, and with science in the other, was inevitably

growing. Stile and his allies were waging little more than a holding action at

this point, staving off the reckoning.

Why should the enemy try to kill him, when this would only stir up his allies

to desperate measures, and change nothing?

Yet there was the griffin, closing the gap between them. "Neysa, I believe I

should intercede," he said.

But she remained stubborn; she wanted to pull this out herself. She was

angling toward the Lattice, that dread, demon-infested pattern of cracks in

the ground. She had done that during their first encounter, trying to shake

him loose; could she shake loose a flying predator? Since he wasn't sure how

to proceed, he let her try; if the griffin actually caught them, he would

invoke a spell that would set back even an Adept. The truth was that a single

Adept could seldom really harm another Adept; their magic tended to cancel

out. That was another reason it was easier to abide by the truce; violation

was not likely to be effective.

The shadow of the monster was coming close, and the griffin itself was

descending, its front talons reaching down. Stile readied his spell, but

withheld it; he did not want to affront Neysa by demonstrating a lack of faith

in her effort. Now she had reached the Lattice, and her hot hooves were

clattering on its pattern of little cracks. Those cracks were widening into

crevices, and the crevices to deep clefts, as they penetrated to the center of

the region.

Soon Neysa was stepping across enlarging gaps, and then jumping over them. The

gaps were now broader than the landing places, and the ratio continued to

shift. That was the devastating thing about the Lattice; the farther it went,

the worse it got. There was a way across it, but that way was devious, like a

route through a maze, and could not be navigated blindly. The griffin hovered

above as if uncertain how to proceed; perhaps it was not familiar with this

network. Then it folded its wings and dropped down toward them.

Neysa leaped down into a channel, surprising Stile. Now the walls of it rose

up on either side. In a moment the two of them were below the level of the

surface, and the griffin could not follow, because its wingspan was far too

broad. Neysa had succeeded in avoiding it!

But at a price. Now the demons of this domain showed, and they were not

friendly to man or unicorn. They ducked into cross-passages to avoid the

spearing unicorn point, but only just far enough to let Neysa pass; then they

closed in behind. She could of course run on through and up and out the far

side of the Lattice—but the griffin hovered above, evidently waiting for that.

Had they played into its trap?

"Maybe if we go on through, I can throw a spell at the griffin as we come

out," Stile suggested. "There has to be Adept involvement, so—"

She sounded a note of agreement. They both knew that they could not afford to

dally long here in the Lattice, for the demons would surround them and set up

a barrier to stop the plunging unicorn. Then they would have to deal with the

demons, and it would be messy, because this was the demons' home territory.

But this intrusion had caught the demons by surprise, so they had not yet

massed or organized sufficiently, and would not be able to do so before Neysa

galloped on out.

They passed the nadir of the Lattice, and began the gradual incline toward the

escape at the far side. Stile watched the griffin above, ready to time his

spell so as to stun it as their heads came out of the chasm.

Suddenly Neysa faltered. Her stride broke, and she ground to a painful halt.

Stile was almost thrown from her back, because he had been watching the sky

rather than the Lattice, and had not seen the obstruction. Now his eyes

wrenched down—and there was no obstruction.

The demons were advancing, appearing from all the interlocking crevices of the

demon warren. This was evidently no surprise to them!

"Neysa—what happened?" he cried, dismounting. He could see that she was in

pain.

She changed form, becoming a woman of about his own age, petite and fit and

attractive, but graying in the forehead, exactly as in her mare form.

"Founder," she breathed in anguish.

Now he saw that her hands were held awkwardly, the fingers gnarling, the

joints swelling. Her feet, also, were swollen. She was in serious trouble.

"Change to firefly form," he urged her. "That will take the weight off your

feet."

But demons were closing in, and some had nets; they were prepared for this

also.

Stile sighed. He knew better than to try to reason with this type of demon. He

would have to back them off with magic. He took a breath.

Abruptly the demons froze in place. Stile gaped; he hadn't done it! This was

very powerful magic; who had interceded?

The griffin landed just above. It changed form. Suddenly a young man stood

there, hair tousled, handsome.

"Bane!" Stile cried, surprised and relieved.

"No, Mach," the man replied. "I am sorry; I did not mean to drive you into the

Lattice. I see Neysa ran afoul of the demons' founder spell. My fault; I will

abate it."

"Mach!" Stile said. Normally he could tell them apart, though they used the

same body; their manners differed. His distraction of the moment had dulled

his perception. "Why were you pursuing us?"

"You can be hard to locate, Adept," Mach said with a smile. "The other Adepts

watch you, of course, but I never bothered to spy on you. I prefer to search

you out at need. So I assumed a form I knew you would recognize as alien to

Phaze. But then you wanted to make a game of it, so I played that game. I did

not realize that would put Neysa in the way of the founder spell."

A game! Stile realized that he had been dull; he should have realized that.

Had he just taken the trouble to sing an identification spell, instead of

letting Neysa run—

"Dam Neysa, if I may..." Mach said. Abruptly the woman straightened, her pain

gone, her hands and feet unkinking. The Robot Adept had freed her without

showing any sign of magic; no sung spell, no gesture. It was a power Stile

could only envy. Originally Mach had been clumsy with magic, his attempted

spells going awry, but after the Red Adept had trained him with the Book of

Magic he had become the most powerful of all the Adepts, Bane included. He

should have been on Stile's side—had Stile not blundered calamitously.

Neysa resumed her unicorn form, and Stile mounted. They moved out of the

Lattice. Mach awaited them at the edge.

"I thought we weren't associating," Stile said with a smile as they emerged.

"Aren't you on the other side?"

"Would I be, if we had the past five years to live over?"

"No." Indeed, the major reason for Stile's opposition to Mach's union with

Fleta had been nullified by events. He had needed an heir who was Adept, and

offspring by that heir who would also be Adept, so as to have the continuing

power to hold off the Adverse Adepts. He had thought that there could be no

offspring of man and unicorn, and that a robot could not become Adept. Had he

known what was to happen, he would have welcomed Mach as a savior, instead of

opposing him as an interference.

"I gave my word, and Bane gave his," Mach said. "We would have chosen

otherwise, and still our sympathies lie with you, but our word is sacred, so

we work for the other side. Because the Adepts know we can be trusted, we have

complete freedom."

"I would not have it otherwise," Stile said sadly.

"But there are advantages for you also," Mach continued. "Because of this, the

Adepts are bound to take no action against you personally, and the children

are free to visit you and Citizen Blue. We are also working to make the shift

in power more compatible; the status of the unicorns, werewolves and vampires

is being safeguarded. There will not be the disaster there might otherwise

have been."

"But once the Adepts achieve power, will their guarantees be honored?" Stile

asked grimly.

"Translucent's will."

"But how long will he retain power, once the others see no further need for

his leadership?"

"That is not our business," Mach said, frowning.

"But it is mine. We all know the nature of the leadership I represent; none

know the nature of the leadership that will emerge from the Adverse Adepts

once their present constraints are gone, but it will surely be inimical to

Phaze."

"My word binds me," Mach said tightly. "I would not use my power directly

against you, and do not use it for the Adepts, but to the extent they can

profit from my contact with Bane, they are entitled. I think it is fair to say

that this profit is significant."

"It is overwhelming," Stile admitted. "If I can not stop it soon, I will lose

hope of ever doing so."

"I have no comment."

Of course he didn't. He knew that what he was doing was shifting the balance

to favor the Adverse Adepts in Phaze, and the Contrary Citizens in Proton, but

he was bound by his word. Surely he hoped that Stile would somehow prevail,

but doubted that this was possible. Thus had events mocked their preferences.

"Why did you seek me?" Stile asked.

"It is personal. In three days Flach will visit you for a week, as he has been

doing every month. We are concerned about him, and hope you can help."

"Flach is a fine lad," Stile said. "A joy to Neysa as much as to me, despite

our foolishness in opposing his generation. He thrives as both man and

unicorn, and we always look forward to his presence."

"But we expect more of him," Mach said. "By this time he should be developing

his third form, and perhaps progressing to others, as well as learning magic.

But he shows no sign of this, and has become increasingly withdrawn. Fleta

fears he is retarded."

Neysa made a musical snort of negation. "He is not retarded," Stile said.

"But four-year-old unicorn colts generally have mastered their third forms,"

Mach said. "And they are open, expressive, inquiring. Flach is not. We fear

that something is bothering him, or that he is coming to recognize his

inadequacy compared to the unicorns, so is withdrawing. Will you explore

this?"

"I hardly need to," Stile said. "I know the lad is advanced rather than

retarded, and is developing powers we hardly anticipate. Your concern is

groundless."

Mach shook his head grimly, not wanting to contradict his elder, but certain

he knew better. "Fleta and I know you will do what you can for him," he said.

"Always," Stile agreed gruffly. "I assure you that your son will surprise

you."

"I hope so," Mach said. He glanced at Neysa. "Fleta asks your forgiveness."

Neysa faced away. This had become almost routine: Fleta had alienated her dam

by marrying Mach and joining the cause of the Adverse Adepts, and that

remained unforgiven. Neysa well understood and respected Fleta's reason, but

felt she should not have surrendered principle for love. Neysa herself had

not. Thus Neysa did not associate with Fleta any more than the barest minimum

necessary to fetch Flach and return him. Fleta longed for a change, but it

never came. Unicorns of the old school were unyielding.

"Then we part," Mach said regretfully. "I shall return to Proton; Bane will be

in touch." He became the griffin, spread his wings, and launched into the air.

Soon he was gone.

"I know you want to restore relations with Fleta," Stile said as they resumed

their journey. "Perhaps some day something will enable it."

Neysa did not answer, but that was answer enough. Her nature prevented her

from forgiving her offspring, but she loved Fleta, and hoped that some

legitimate avenue of forgiveness would develop. Just as Stile hoped that he

would somehow be able to prevail over the Adverse Adepts. Perhaps both hopes

were futile—but perhaps not.

For there was much that was not spoken. All of them knew that the Adverse

Adepts kept constant watch on Stile and Neysa and the Lady Blue, so as to

block any action they might initiate against the Adepts. Anything spoken was

overheard and analyzed. Perhaps the Adepts were foolish enough to believe that

there were no unspoken plans, but Stile doubted that.

So he said nothing truly private aloud. This had become automatic these past

five years. But he spoke freely of other things, so as to maintain the

semblance of carelessness, and also to fatigue the snoopers with trivia. That

way if something private slipped out, it just might be overlooked. After all,

constant surveillance was also a constant drain on their magic.

"Mach's power is greater than I had thought," he said. "He cured your founder

without seeming effort. I could have done it, but not nearly so readily."

She made a musical agreement. Unicorns were resistive to incidental magic, but

Adept magic was hardly incidental. The demons must have plotted for a long

time to obtain and place that founder spell, and it had been devastatingly

effective. Yet Mach had nullified both the demons and spell as if such magic

was child's play—which perhaps it was, now, to him. Stile was glad that the

Robot Adept was not his enemy, even if he was not his ally.

They traveled north, now, not running but not dawdling. Stile had an

appointment to meet Icebeard, the snow demon leader who was also a chess

master. They had played several correspondence games since getting started

when the demon agreed to train Mach in chess; the demon had wanted to play

Stile to determine who was the ultimate chess master of Phaze. Since Stile

preferred a fair game, even though Mach was on the other side, he agreed, and

had played the demon, and it had been an excellent game. But it had concluded

in a draw, and so had the following ones. Finally the demon had suggested that

they play a "live" game, with time limits, and another, and another, until

they had one that did not draw, and that would determine who was champion. Of

course there were variants of chess that prohibited draws, but both of them

were conservatives in this respect: for the championship they preferred the

classic game. So Stile was on his way to play, though Icebeard was of the

enemy camp; this was another advantage of the truce. But there was more to it

than chess, as Neysa knew.

For Stile had spoken accurately when he said that his grandson (and Neysa's)

was advanced rather than retarded, and would surprise his father. Mach had

dismissed that as optimism or encouragement, but it was neither. Stile had

been training the lad, and soon the extent of Flach's progress would become

known. But that revelation had to be coordinated with action in the frame of

Proton relating to Nepe, the child of Bane and Agape, because the moment one

child's abilities were revealed, the other would be suspect.

Flach was only four years old, and indeed he could change freely between his

human and unicorn forms. But he could also assume other forms, unknown to his

parents. Stile had cautioned the lad as soon as he learned to speak, and Flach

had responded beautifully. His seeming slowness was a two-year act, masking

his true progress. But Stile had known that this could not be concealed

indefinitely; eventually the Adverse Adepts would catch on, and then they

would act to eliminate the threat. The boy's great progress had been possible

without attracting the notice of the Adepts because they were not watching

him; they assumed he was too young to practice great magic. That was their

colossal error.

The key was this: Flach could communicate with Nepe across the frames. Just as

Mach and Bane could. That meant that Stile and Citizen Blue could develop

similar information to that which the enemy had from Mach and Bane. Had both

been male, they might even have had the potential to exchange, for they were

parallels, perhaps alternate selves. This represented a possible shift in the

balance of power, turning it back to Stile's side.

Stile had been holding off action as long as possible, so as to enable the

children of both frames to mature. But there was too much at risk; the action

had to be now. This was the real reason for his chess trip: it provided him

the opportunity to do what he had to do, without giving his motive away.

Because he had to escape the surveillance of the Adepts while he told Neysa

what to do. A few seconds would suffice; then it would be out of his hands. He

hoped he was doing the right thing.

Neysa picked up her pace, so as to arrive at the White Mountain Range at dusk.

That would make direct visual observation trickier. She knew the importance of

timing; everything had to be right. If they did not achieve their dialogue

without suspicion, all might be lost.

As the light waned, they approached the base of the range. The snow demons

spied them, of course; they were expected. They entered the track that led to

the pass that opened on the demon chief’s cold caves. Stile waved, then

singsonged a spell, while Neysa played a theme to help intensify the magic.

Make us warm despite the cold;

Make us private till it is told.

Immediately the chill of the mountain dissipated; the snow remained, yet they

felt warm. But it was the second part of the spell that counted more: the

privacy. This was masked by the larger spell the demon chief had arranged to

prevent any information being exchanged magically while the chess match was in

progress; he wanted to be sure that nothing but the two great minds was

operating. There was a certain vagueness at the fringe of the region, because

the boundary of the demon's spell could not be precise. Stile had researched

this well. Thus his own spell of privacy should not be detected, and the

spying Adepts should not realize that they were being excluded. They would

assume that Stile and Neysa were passing through a region of interference,

that would clarify as they reached the center and the demon's spell took full

hold. He could have made his privacy spell back at the Blue Demesnes, but that

would have attracted the notice of the spying Adepts, and they would have

doubled their watch, making Neysa's action impossible.

"Neysa," Stile said now. "It is time. Fetch Flach, take him on the circuit of

allies, and take no note when he leaves you. Bring the golem to me."

She made a querying note.

"He will ask you," Stile replied. "Signal yes, then cooperate with anything he

asks. His life will be at stake. He will be afraid; support him. This is the

crisis."

She blew an affirmative note. Stile said no more. The spell of privacy

depended on his intent as much as on his invocation; now it dissipated. The

music summoned his magic; the intent interpreted it; the words defined it,

approximately. Another person might sing as he did, and speak similar words,

and wish the same effect, but would not be able to achieve the same result

because only the Adepts had the necessary underlying talent. Any person could

do some magic, but most could perform only poorly unless gifted with the

talent and willing to train carefully. Some tried, but the established Adepts

were quick to detect such effort and to act against it; they did not desire

competition. So successful Adepts were few; usually the only new ones were

those protected by existing Adepts. Thus Stile's son Bane had been training to

assume the status of Blue Adept, and the Tan Adept's twin offspring had

trained to become the Tan Adept. Sometimes an Adept died without a successor;

then there could be a certain free-for-all, unless some accommodation was

achieved with the other Adepts. As a general rule, those who became Adept were

not nice people; rather, they were the most talented and unscrupulous. That

was why the majority of them opposed Stile; they preferred to operate without

ethical hindrance. Only Red, who owed his position to Stile, and Brown, in her

time somewhat smitten by him, were on his side.

But now they were coming up to the pass, and the snow demons were waiting.

They were about to suffer the hospitality of Icebeard.

Stile had been to these mountains before, a generation ago, but had

encountered a different chieftain: Freezetooth, who had had a passion for a

lovely fire spirit whose proximity would have melted him. Stile had enchanted

the snow demon to make him invulnerable to fire, and a heated romance had

followed. Relations with that tribe had been amicable for twenty years, until

the communication between Mach and Bane had polarized the Adepts and tribes of

Phaze and forced new alignments. It was possible that Icebeard remembered

that, and that the chess challenge was his way of maintaining relations

despite their status as enemies. There were as many tribes of demon folk as

there were human folk, and demons differed as much from each other as did

human beings, and were subject to similar constraints.

Neysa had not been along on that trip. Instead Stile had ridden her brother

Clip, now a Herd Stallion. Neysa was not partial to any demons, no matter what

their heat or color, and was hard put to avoid an impolite snort as the white

creatures closed in. This was however no attack, but an honorary escort.

Icebeard wanted very much to play chess with Stile, and would do nothing to

interfere with that.

They were ushered into the palatial ice caverns that were the demon's throne

room. Icebeard tried to maintain his chill reserve, but could not. He jumped

down and approached Stile with an attitude that in any other creature would

have been positive, but with him was merely less threatening. "Now we play!"

he exclaimed. "Thou and I alone!"

"Aye," Stile agreed. Then he glanced at Neysa. "The mare liketh not these

Demesnes; if thou willst grant her safe passage out, she will depart and

return for me when the issue be settled."

Icebeard looked at Neysa. "Be this not Fleta's dam?"

Neysa made an affirmative note.

"And she play not chess? Fleta be a better player than Mach; comes she oft

here to challenge my minions."

Stile had not realized this. But of course Fleta had come with Mach when he

trained here, so had had opportunity to pick it up if she wanted to. Of course

there was no reason a unicorn could not play chess if she wished, but Stile

had not heard of it happening before. "Interesting," he remarked.

"Methinks the filly be a better gamescreature than Mach overall," the demon

confided. "My affinity to unicorns be not great, but that one dost have

charm."

Piers Anthony - Adept 06 - Unicorn Point

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