Read Online Juxtaposition by Piers Anthony - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Piers Anthony
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This sudden concern was suspicious.
“Needs must I then elaborate,” Green said heavily. “My Demesnes lie athwart thy route. I would let flee pass unscathed, knowing thy mission—but by that acquiescence I commit myself to thy fate. This is not my desire. I want no part of what befalls thee. Go not to the West Pole—but an thou must go, then go not through the Green Demesnes.”
That made sense. The Green Adept had no personal interest in Stile; he merely wanted to make certain he was not implicated in what happened to Stile. If a prophecy decreed doom to all who might facilitate Stile’s approach to the West Pole, this step exonerated the Green Adept.
“Now I seek no trouble with thee,” Stile began. “But the Lady and I planned to follow the curtain to its terminus, and—“
“And we can bypass the Green Demesnes, in the interest of courtesy,” the Lady Blue finished.
Stile shrugged. “The Lady has spoken. Set out warners at thy boundaries, and we shall there detour.”
“I shall,” Green agreed. “Since thou dost humor my preference, I offer one final word: my sources suggest that if thou dost go to the West Pole, thou wilt suffer grievously in the short term, and in the moderate term will incur the enmity of the most powerful forces of the frame. I urge thee once more to give up this quest. There are other suitable places to honeymoon. The Green Demesnes themselves will be opened to thee, shouldst thou care to tarry there instead.”
“I thank thee for thy advice,” Stile said. “Yet it seems the end of Phaze draws nigh, and powerful forces already dispose themselves in readiness. The Foreordained has appeared. What is fated, is fated, and I am ready if not eager to play my part.”
“As thou dost choose.” The Green Adept made a signal with the fingers of his left hand and disappeared.
“I mislike these omens,” the Lady said. “Methought our troubles were over.”
“Loose ends remain, it seems. I had hoped we could let them be for at least this fortnight.”
“Surely we can,” she agreed, opening her arms to him. The hawk flew quietly away. The weapon of the unicorn had not, after all, been needed.
Next day they resumed the ride north. Stile made a small spell to enhance Hinblue’s velocity and let Clip run at full speed. They fairly flew across the rolling terrain. Fire jetted from the unicorn’s nostrils, and his hooves grew hot enough to throw sparks. Unicorns, being magic, did not sweat; they ejected surplus heat at the extremities. After a time they slowed. Stile brought out his harmonica and played. Clip accompanied him on his saxophone-voiced horn, and the lady sang. The magic closed about them, seeming to thicken the air, but it had no force without Stile’s verbal invocation.
“We can camp the night at the Yellow Demesnes,” Stile said. “The curtain clips a comer of—“
“By no means!” the Lady snapped, and Clip snorted. Stile remembered. She didn’t like other Adepts, and Yellow liked to take a potion to convert herself from an old crone to a luscious young maid—without otherwise changing her nature. Also, her business was the snaring and selling of animals, including unicorns. Stile had traded magical favors with Yellow in the past and had come to respect her, but he could understand why his wife and steed preferred not to socialize.
“Anything for thee,” he agreed. “However, night approaches and the White Mountains lie beyond.”
“Indulge thyself in a spell. Adept.”
“How soon the honeymoon turns to dull marriage,” he grumbled. Clip made a musical snort of mirth, and the lady smiled.
The ramshackle premises of Yellow appeared. Both animals sniffed the air and veered toward the enclosure. Hastily Stile sang a counterspell: “This will cure the witch’s lure.” That enabled them to ignore the hypnotic vapor that drew animals in to capture and confinement. Before long they had skirted those premises and
“Needs must I then elaborate,” Green said heavily. “My Demesnes lie athwart thy route. I would let flee pass unscathed, knowing thy mission—but by that acquiescence I commit myself to thy fate. This is not my desire. I want no part of what befalls thee. Go not to the West Pole—but an thou must go, then go not through the Green Demesnes.”
That made sense. The Green Adept had no personal interest in Stile; he merely wanted to make certain he was not implicated in what happened to Stile. If a prophecy decreed doom to all who might facilitate Stile’s approach to the West Pole, this step exonerated the Green Adept.
“Now I seek no trouble with thee,” Stile began. “But the Lady and I planned to follow the curtain to its terminus, and—“
“And we can bypass the Green Demesnes, in the interest of courtesy,” the Lady Blue finished.
Stile shrugged. “The Lady has spoken. Set out warners at thy boundaries, and we shall there detour.”
“I shall,” Green agreed. “Since thou dost humor my preference, I offer one final word: my sources suggest that if thou dost go to the West Pole, thou wilt suffer grievously in the short term, and in the moderate term will incur the enmity of the most powerful forces of the frame. I urge thee once more to give up this quest. There are other suitable places to honeymoon. The Green Demesnes themselves will be opened to thee, shouldst thou care to tarry there instead.”
“I thank thee for thy advice,” Stile said. “Yet it seems the end of Phaze draws nigh, and powerful forces already dispose themselves in readiness. The Foreordained has appeared. What is fated, is fated, and I am ready if not eager to play my part.”
“As thou dost choose.” The Green Adept made a signal with the fingers of his left hand and disappeared.
“I mislike these omens,” the Lady said. “Methought our troubles were over.”
“Loose ends remain, it seems. I had hoped we could let them be for at least this fortnight.”
“Surely we can,” she agreed, opening her arms to him. The hawk flew quietly away. The weapon of the unicorn had not, after all, been needed.
Next day they resumed the ride north. Stile made a small spell to enhance Hinblue’s velocity and let Clip run at full speed. They fairly flew across the rolling terrain. Fire jetted from the unicorn’s nostrils, and his hooves grew hot enough to throw sparks. Unicorns, being magic, did not sweat; they ejected surplus heat at the extremities. After a time they slowed. Stile brought out his harmonica and played. Clip accompanied him on his saxophone-voiced horn, and the lady sang. The magic closed about them, seeming to thicken the air, but it had no force without Stile’s verbal invocation.
“We can camp the night at the Yellow Demesnes,” Stile said. “The curtain clips a comer of—“
“By no means!” the Lady snapped, and Clip snorted. Stile remembered. She didn’t like other Adepts, and Yellow liked to take a potion to convert herself from an old crone to a luscious young maid—without otherwise changing her nature. Also, her business was the snaring and selling of animals, including unicorns. Stile had traded magical favors with Yellow in the past and had come to respect her, but he could understand why his wife and steed preferred not to socialize.
“Anything for thee,” he agreed. “However, night approaches and the White Mountains lie beyond.”
“Indulge thyself in a spell. Adept.”
“How soon the honeymoon turns to dull marriage,” he grumbled. Clip made a musical snort of mirth, and the lady smiled.
The ramshackle premises of Yellow appeared. Both animals sniffed the air and veered toward the enclosure. Hastily Stile sang a counterspell: “This will cure the witch’s lure.” That enabled them to ignore the hypnotic vapor that drew animals in to capture and confinement. Before long they had skirted those premises and
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