“What do they matter, my delight? They can not escape.”
“I like my privacy,” he said. “Let’s take a walk outside—and return later, as before.” He glanced meaningfully at Neysa, hoping the drug had worn off enough to uncloud her mind. “As before.”
Yellowette’s fair brow wrinkled. “Thou knowest that unicorn, werewolf?”
“I’m not a werewolf,” he said, aware that she would not believe him. “I do know her. She’s a jealous mare.”
“So? Well, she’ll be gone in a few days. There’s a fair market in unicorns, for they are hard to catch. Their horns and hooves are valuable for musical instruments and for striking fire, their dung is excellent fertilizer for magic plants, and their hides have anti-magic proper-ties.”
Stile experienced an ugly chill. “These animals are for slaughter?”
“Some are, my pleasure. Some aren’t even good for that. The black mare would be excellent as a courtyard showpiece, except that she lacks proper coloration and is small. The white stallion, in contrast, is a prize; the White Adept will probably use him to battle dragons in his arena.”
Good thing she didn’t know the white unicorn was a fake! “What happens to the completely useless animals?”
“I have Darlin’ Corey take the worthless ones outside and put them through the curtain.” The witch was no longer bothering to conceal her identity, since he seemed to accept it. Her female view of man was that he was interested only in the external appearance—and Stile suspected there was some merit in that view. He had already had relations with a machine that looked like a woman, and with a unicorn that also looked like a woman. What of an old woman who looked like a young woman? Yellow was certainly much more pleasing to deal with in this form than in the other.
“Thou knowest about the curtain?” he asked after a moment, surprised.
“Thou dost not? There is another world beyond it, a desert. The potion puts the creatures through; they never return. I have not the heart to kill them outright, and dare not let them go free in this world lest they summon hordes of their kind to wreak vengeance on these my demesnes, and if they survive in the other world I begrudge it not.”
So she was not heartless, just a victim of circumstance. To an extent. Yet it seemed a safe assumption that she was as yet only partially corrupted by power.
How much should he say? Stile detested lies even by indirection. “I am of that world.”
“Thou’rt a frame traveler? A true man?” She was alarmed.
“I am. Thou didst merely assume I was a werewolf.”
“I do not deal in true men!” she said nervously. “This leads to great mischief!”
“I came merely to discover thine identity. Now I seek only to free thy captives and to depart with my friends. I have no inherent quarrel with thee, but if thou threatenest my life or those of my friends—“
She turned to him in the hallway. She was absolutely beautiful. “I proffer no threat to thee, my handsome bantam. Dally with a lonely woman a time, and thy friends shall go free with thee.”
Stile considered. “I don’t regard myself to be at liberty to do that.”
She frowned. “Thou hast only limited leeway for bargaining, sweets.”
“Perhaps. My friend urged me to slay thee without warning, but I did not wish to do that either.”
“Oh? We shall put that to the proof.” She led him into the main room of the house. Shelves lined the walls, containing bottles of fluid: rows and rows of them, coated with dust. In the center a huge cauldron bubbled, its vapors drifting out through a broken windowpane. This was obviously the source of the summoning scent: a continously brewing mix.
“All these bottles—potions for different spells?” he inquired, impressed.
“All. I must brew one potion at a time, and can use it only once, so I save each carefully. It is not easy, being Adept; it requires much imagination and application. I must develop a new formula for every invisibility elixir I mix—and for every rejuvenation drink.”
Stile eyed her figure again. What a potion she must have taken! “Thou didst really look like this in thy youth?”
“I really did, my honey. Or as close as makes no nevermind. Hair and flesh tints differ from mix to mix, and sometimes one brews too strong, and I become as a child. But my youth was a very long time ago, my lamb, and even the best potion lasts no more than an hour. See—I have only three of these mixes left.” She gestured to a half-empty shelf, where three bottles sat. “I expended one quarter of my stock, for a mere hour with thee. Take that as what flattery thou mayst.”
“Flattering indeed,” Stile said. “I did see thee in thy natural state. But this is not what restrains me. I have other commitments.” He pondered briefly. “Thou didst believe me to be a werewolf, before. The true werewolf might be interested in the remainder of thy hour, if thou wert to free him thereafter.”
Yellow took down a bottle. “Thou art most facile, lovely man. I hardly trust thee. If thou provest a liar, it will go hard indeed with thee—and thy friends.” She drew the stopper out. Stile stepped back, alarmed, but she sprinkled the liquid on a statuette, not on him.
The figurine grew rapidly into a demon monster. “Thou summonest me, hag?” it roared, its small red eyes fairly glowing as they glared about. Then it did a double take. Its lips pursed appreciatively. “I have not seen the like in six hundred years! But thou didst not need to prettify thyself for me, witch.”
“ ‘Twas not for thee I did it,” she snapped. “Speak me the truth, Zebub. Why came this man here, and who is he?”
The demon glared in Stile’s direction. “This time thou’rt victim to thine own paranoia, crone. He is innocuous, with respect to thee. Not with respect to certain others, though.” The demon smiled privately.
“He really sought not to kill me?”
“True. He but seeks his own identity, so comes with werewolf and unicorn to learn if thou art it.”
Yellow burst into a cackle of laughter. “Me! What kind of fool is he?”
“No fool, he. He lacks information on the nature of the Adepts. The Oracle advised him to know himself, so he seeks to learn if he is one of you. He was trapped by Black, and only escaped via the curtain. He is of that other world.”
Stile felt another chill. This monster really did have information!
“What gives him the notion he is Adept?” Yellow demanded.
“He is Adept, 0 senile one.”
Yellow backed against a wall, almost jarring loose several bottles. “Not only a man, but Adept to boot! Oh, what a foul pickle I have hatched! Who is he?”
“He is Stile, a serf of Proton, in the other frame, freed to cross the curtain by the death of his Phaze-self.”
“Idiot! I meant which Adept is he?”
The demon scowled. “That is formidable information.”
“Don’t stall, hellborn one!” Yellow screeched. “Else I will apply a pain potion.”
Zebub blanched. “Blue,” he muttered.
Yellow’s eyes went round. “This midget is the Blue Adept?”
“His alternate, yes.”
“I can’t afford trouble with another Adept!” she ex-claimed, wrenching at her own hair in distraction. “Not one of such power as Blue! If I free him, will he seek to destroy me? Why does he withhold his magic now?”
“This calls for conclusions on the part of the witness,” the demon said smugly.
Yellow took a step toward a shelf of small bottles.
“Question him,” Zebub said quickly. “I will verify his word.”
“Stile, a.k.a. Blue Adept!” she cried, her eyes round and wild, yet still lovely. “Answer me, in the presence of Zebub.”
“If thou shouldst free me, I will still seek to release my friends and the other captives,” Stile said. “I will not seek to destroy thee gratuitously.”