me to tell you: Dinner's almost on.» Rimble grabbed Jinndaven's arm and pulled him back to his previous squatting posture in the snow. «Okay,» said Trickster. «I'll give you a bigger hint.» «Oh, Rimble—I'm hungry!» «Yeah,» snapped Trickster, «and you don't even know what for!» «What?» Trickster let go of Jinndaven's arm and folded his hands primly in his lap, his nose in the air. «Tell the others I'll be along.» Jinndaven eyed him warily. «When?» «When I finish completing the greatest experiment of all time.» Jinndaven bit his lower lip, his curiosity aroused. «Surely you're exaggerating.» «Nope,» said Trickster and went back to watching the tangle of black briars. «But what do you care? You're hungry,» he said in perfect whining mimicry of the Greatkin of Imagination. Jinndaven swore under his breath. His curiosity had just gained on his hunger. And Rimble knows it, too, Jinndaven thought sourly. Calling on the Presence to protect him from Rimble's meddling—a prayer that had yet to be successful—Jinndaven took a deep breath and said, «All right—I'll play. What's the difference between contrariwise with an 'i' and contrarywise with a 'y'?» Trickster turned to look at him, his smile broad. «That's my boy,» he said nodding enthusiastically. «The difference is a teensy, weensy psychic shift. Which translates into Reality as a genetic transpositional element.» There was dead silence. And shock. Jinndaven stiffened so sharply that he fell over in the snow. He scrambled to his knees, took Rimble by the shoulders and shook him. «A mutation on the eve of the Panthe'kinarok?» he cried. «Have you forgotten the mortals? Have you?» Trickster extricated himself from Jinndaven's strong grasp gingerly. «I haven't forgotten anything,» he retorted. «Least of all the mortals. In fact, it's them I'm thinking about.» He grinned. «I've finally found a way to motivate their 'selfish DNA.' We're talking Fundamental Change. Big Time. Very big time.» Rimble shrugged. «One or two more psychic adjustments here, and my latest Improoovement will be ready to fly.» Jinndaven frowned, then seeing the look of absolute mischief in Trickster's pied eyes, Jinndaven paled. «What kind of adjustments, Rimble?» «Well, I just need a little help—» «What kind of help?» asked Jinndaven, wishing fervently that Themyth had sent someone else to find Greatkin Rimble. Trickster winked at him; then before Jinndaven could bolt, Trickster began humming an entrancing little tune, purposefully punctuating it with explosive laughter and drunken smiles. Jinndaven's breathing turned shallow. He made a hasty ball of his lavender handkerchief and began dabbing frantically at his brow and neck. He tried to get to his feet but was swiftly prevented from doing so by Greatkin Rimble. Grabbing Jinndaven's arm with his strong, claw-like grip, Trickster grinned seductively at the Greatkin of Imagination. Then Trickster farted. The sound of it was so loud that the hapless Jinndaven lost his balance and fell backwards into a snowdrift. This sent Trickster into hyena-like giggles. Then, still sitting cross-legged, Greatkin Rimble began to rock from side to side singing the following verse in an unexpectedly pure tenor, the quality of his voice as sweet and piercing as that of a young boy: Will you turn the inside inside-out, And be sanely mad with me? Will you master the steps of my turnabout, And come to my ecstasy? When he finished, Trickster met Jinndaven's eyes briefly, his expression suddenly wistful. «It's a reel,» he said, his voice full of yearning. Jinndaven, who was used to Trickster's quick changes of emotion, (and terrible puns), replied drily, «A real what?» Trickster instantly shrieked with laughter, threw open his harlequin greatcoat, and exposed a gilded penis sheath two feet long. Pretending to masturbate, Trickster moaned and said, «It's a real hard! Care to come? No? But why not? My ecstasy is sobering.» Jinndaven turned scarlet. Well aware that any portion of Trickster's anatomy was subject to change without notice, he stared bug-eyed at the length of Trickster's penis sheath. «I hope you don't intend that thing for me!» Trickster sniffed haughtily, and covered the gilded penis sheath with the black and yellow front of his greatcoat. «Don't be absurd, Jinn. You've neither the courage or capacity.» Jinndaven scowled, his pride stung by his brother's waspish tone. Still, he had to be careful how he responded to this jab of Rimble's. He didn't want to find himself in bed with Trickster. At least not right before the Panthe'kinarok. It would cause talk and there were the mortals to think about. Jinndaven bit his lower lip and shook his head. Tonight of all nights—on the evening of the Panthe'kinarok, he thought raggedly—when the Presence opened the Everywhen, and all things that the Greatkin did and thought translated into Reality! Jinndaven swore. Leave it to Rimble to speak of transposition and «selfish DNA» at such a time. Trickster, who was watching Jinndaven closely, whispered, «Change can be inconvenient.» Jinndaven snorted. «Inconvenient or no, I'd like to point out that my 'courage and capacity» are both substantial. For whatever you have in mind. I am the Greatkin of Imagination,» he added with bruised dignity. Trickster smiled. «I'm sorry, dear fellow,» he said patting the bulge under his coat, «but this insertion is not for you.» Jinndaven peered at Rimble's black-bearded face, trying to read the truth or falsehood in Rimble's pied eyes. «So, I'm not the dupe? I'm not the help you need?» Trickster chuckled. «You sound almost disappointed.» A chill slipped up Jinndaven's spine. «And you're hedging—» Before Jinndaven could press Rimble further for an answer, Trickster snapped his attention back to the tangle of dark briars before them. Pointing excitedly, Greatkin Rimble cried, «At last!» Jinndaven looked past Rimble's small hand, his eyes widening with wonder. Rimble's briar patch was suffused with a soft, blue-white light. As the light intensified, the briars turned a blood-brown and gave way, their thorny mesh slowly pulling back to reveal a delicate, crystal-stemmed flower, its white petals still shut. Jinndaven's jaw dropped in astonishment. «Was this one of my ideas? I don't seem to remember creating any flowers with crystal stems—» «Will you lower your voice?» hissed Trickster. Then he added proudly, «This is the Wild Kelandris. Also known as the Winterbloom. It's a weed. And it can grow in the worst of conditions. It can even bloom in the dead of winter. Hence the name, you see.» «Yes,» whispered Jinndaven. «But who's idea was it?» Trickster grinned. «It's an Improoovement—on one of yours. A rose, I think you called it?» Jinndaven's eyes blazed with indignation. «Whatever happened to creatorly consideration?» he muttered under his breath to the twilight and snow and winter wind rustling in the pine trees above him. Then he turned to Trickster, but before the Greatkin of Imagination could tell his little brother what he thought of his meddling, the Wild Kelandris began to emit a powerful pulsing red light. Startled into silence, Jinndaven stared at Rimble's improvement with grudging awe. The crystal stem of the delicate flower filled slowly with crimson liquid. It seemed to be boiling. Jinndaven wondered if the heat or pressure building inside the stem would shatter its crystalline structure. As the molten liquid continued to bubble, a light snow fell softly on the unopened bud. When the large flakes touched the white petals of the Winter-bloom, they melted. «They look like tears,» mumbled Jinndaven. Trickster rolled his eyes. «Sentimental dope. You've been hanging out with Phebene too much.» Jinndaven shrugged. He couldn't help it if the Greatkin of Great Loves and Tender Trysts was his favorite sibling. He liked being around her influence. Phebene made him feel. Jinndaven slid his hand over his heart. He frowned. «Seems you're making me feel, too, Rimble. Very strange, in fact.» Trickster beamed. «I always feel strange.» «No, I mean it. I feel very strange.» «Is that bad?» Jinndaven swallowed, starting to sweat again. «Well, I don't know exactly. I feel—uh—pierced.» He winced, pressing against his heart with his hands. «Pierced,» he repeated in a whisper. Rimble pursed his lips, looking very much like a scientist examining his laboratory results. He reached for Jinndaven's handsome face, took it in his small hands and peered intently into Jinndaven's eyes. «Anything else? Any other sensations?» Jinndaven nodded slowly. «It's almost sexual,» he added, glancing nervously at the two-foot bulge under Rimble's greatcoat. «But it's inside, Organic-like—more fundamental somehow. Inside inside. And intelligent.» «Presence directed?» asked Trickster. «Yes. Very—uh—natural. Once you get the rhythm of it. Of the pulse, I mean.» «Ah,» said Trickster, and smiled. Then he went back to watching the Wild Kelandris. Jinndaven did so as well, his body straining against the shock of the New coursing through his system. When he could match the greater rhythm of Rimble's improvement, he felt light-headed and free-wheeling. Almost weightless, he thought. Jinndaven grinned unexpectedly. Won't Mattermat be sore when he finds out about this, he thought drunkenly. Mattermat, who was the Greatkin of Inertia and All Things Made Physical, generally scoffed at anything that guaranteed escape from gravity. Jinndaven giggled, his gaze on the flower intensifying. The crimson liquid inside the Wild Kelandris darkened and thickened. The force of the pressure against the unopened bud of the white flower was so extreme now that Jinndaven gasped against the answering resonance inside his own body. Individual rhythm strained to encompass the universal. Jinndaven took an uncomfortable breath, wishing the Wild Kelandris would hurry up and bloom. He winced. He was beginning to feel disturbed in some way. Deeply disturbed. Maybe even a little crazy. «Rimble?» he said hoarsely.