avoid the monster.
Soon she had circled the region enclosed by the moat, being confined—and there was the monster again, facing her from in front. Imbri braked and reversed, angling her body to prevent Chameleon from being thrown off, and took off the other way. But she realized that this was no real escape; she would not be able to concentrate on anything else, such as exploring the megalithic structure and searching for clues to the whereabouts of the Good Magician’s castle, until she dealt with the centycore.
She slowed, letting the thing gain, though this terrified Chameleon, who was clinging to Imbri for dear life. Imbri hurled back a dreamlet picture of herself as a harpy hovering low, calling, “What are you doing here, monster?”
“Chasing you, you delectable equine!” the centycore bellowed back, snapping his teeth as punctuation.
Ask a foolish question! “We only came to seek the Good Magician,” Imbri sent.
“I don’t care what you seek; you will still taste exactly like horsemeat.” And the centycore lunged, his antler stabbing forward with ten points.
“Oh, I don’t like this!” Chameleon wailed. “I wish my husband Bink were here; nothing too terrible ever happens to him!”
That was surely an exaggeration, but Imbri understood her feeling. She accelerated, putting a little more distance between herself and the predator. How could she nullify the centycore? She knew she couldn’t fight it, as it was a magic beast, well able to vanquish anything short of a dragon. Even if she were able to fight it, she could not safely do so while Chameleon rode her; the woman would surely be thrown off and fall prey to the monster.
“Run through a wall!” Chameleon cried, sensing the problem.
“I can’t phase through solid things by day,” Imbri protested, her dreamlet showing herself as a mare bonking headfirst into a megalithic column and coming to a bonejarring stop. She felt Chameleon’s sympathetic hand pressure, though the accident had been only a dream; the woman tended to take the dreams too literally. “Only at night—and we have at least an hour of day left.” It seemed like an eternity, with the centycore pursuing.
But the description of the problem suggested the answer. Suppose they somehow made it prematurely dark? Then Imbri would be able to phase. For it wasn’t night itself, but darkness, that made her recover her full night mare properties; otherwise the Horseman’s fire would not have been able to hold her. The Powers of the Night came to whatever night there was, natural or artificial, whatever and whenever it was, for night was nothing but an extensive shadow. Just as day was nothing more than a very large patch of light.
How could they make it dark? Sometimes, Imbri understood, the moon eclipsed the sun, rudely shoving in front of it and blocking it out. But the sun always gave the moon such a scorching on the backside when the cheese did that, that the moon hardly ever did it again soon. There was very little chance of it happening right at this moment; the moon wasn’t even near the sun.
Sometimes a big storm blotted out most of the light, turning day to night. But there was no sign of such a storm at the moment. Count that out, too.
There was also smoke. A bad, smoldering blaze could stifle the day for a time. If they could gather the makings of a fire, then start it going—
“Chameleon,” Imbri sent in a dreamlet. “If I let you off behind a stone, so the monster doesn’t see you, could you make a fire?”
“A fire?” The woman had trouble seeing the relevance, naturally enough.
“To stop the centycore.”
“Oh.” Chameleon considered. “I do have a few magic matches that I use for cooking. All I have to do is rub them against something rough, and they burst into flame.”
“Excellent. Make a big fire—” Imbri projected a sequence in pictures: Chameleon hiding behind a stone column, dashing out when the monster wasn’t near, gathering pieces
Soon she had circled the region enclosed by the moat, being confined—and there was the monster again, facing her from in front. Imbri braked and reversed, angling her body to prevent Chameleon from being thrown off, and took off the other way. But she realized that this was no real escape; she would not be able to concentrate on anything else, such as exploring the megalithic structure and searching for clues to the whereabouts of the Good Magician’s castle, until she dealt with the centycore.
She slowed, letting the thing gain, though this terrified Chameleon, who was clinging to Imbri for dear life. Imbri hurled back a dreamlet picture of herself as a harpy hovering low, calling, “What are you doing here, monster?”
“Chasing you, you delectable equine!” the centycore bellowed back, snapping his teeth as punctuation.
Ask a foolish question! “We only came to seek the Good Magician,” Imbri sent.
“I don’t care what you seek; you will still taste exactly like horsemeat.” And the centycore lunged, his antler stabbing forward with ten points.
“Oh, I don’t like this!” Chameleon wailed. “I wish my husband Bink were here; nothing too terrible ever happens to him!”
That was surely an exaggeration, but Imbri understood her feeling. She accelerated, putting a little more distance between herself and the predator. How could she nullify the centycore? She knew she couldn’t fight it, as it was a magic beast, well able to vanquish anything short of a dragon. Even if she were able to fight it, she could not safely do so while Chameleon rode her; the woman would surely be thrown off and fall prey to the monster.
“Run through a wall!” Chameleon cried, sensing the problem.
“I can’t phase through solid things by day,” Imbri protested, her dreamlet showing herself as a mare bonking headfirst into a megalithic column and coming to a bonejarring stop. She felt Chameleon’s sympathetic hand pressure, though the accident had been only a dream; the woman tended to take the dreams too literally. “Only at night—and we have at least an hour of day left.” It seemed like an eternity, with the centycore pursuing.
But the description of the problem suggested the answer. Suppose they somehow made it prematurely dark? Then Imbri would be able to phase. For it wasn’t night itself, but darkness, that made her recover her full night mare properties; otherwise the Horseman’s fire would not have been able to hold her. The Powers of the Night came to whatever night there was, natural or artificial, whatever and whenever it was, for night was nothing but an extensive shadow. Just as day was nothing more than a very large patch of light.
How could they make it dark? Sometimes, Imbri understood, the moon eclipsed the sun, rudely shoving in front of it and blocking it out. But the sun always gave the moon such a scorching on the backside when the cheese did that, that the moon hardly ever did it again soon. There was very little chance of it happening right at this moment; the moon wasn’t even near the sun.
Sometimes a big storm blotted out most of the light, turning day to night. But there was no sign of such a storm at the moment. Count that out, too.
There was also smoke. A bad, smoldering blaze could stifle the day for a time. If they could gather the makings of a fire, then start it going—
“Chameleon,” Imbri sent in a dreamlet. “If I let you off behind a stone, so the monster doesn’t see you, could you make a fire?”
“A fire?” The woman had trouble seeing the relevance, naturally enough.
“To stop the centycore.”
“Oh.” Chameleon considered. “I do have a few magic matches that I use for cooking. All I have to do is rub them against something rough, and they burst into flame.”
“Excellent. Make a big fire—” Imbri projected a sequence in pictures: Chameleon hiding behind a stone column, dashing out when the monster wasn’t near, gathering pieces
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