Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

“Spells—to cross back?” Stile asked blankly.

“How else? From the other side you just have to will-to-cross hard enough, but from this side only a spell will do it—a new one every time. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“I—thought this was a matter-transmission unit.”

The man laughed as he walked to a tree and reached into the foliage of a low branch. A package came down into his hands. “There’s no such thing as matter trans- mission! No, it’s the magic curtain. It’s all over—but it’s not safe to use it just anywhere. You have to make sure no one on the other side sees you go through. You know how those Citizens are. If they ever caught on there was something they didn’t control—“

“Yes. I am unemployed because of Citizen manipulation.”

“Which explains why you had the will-to-cross, first time. The curtain’s been getting clearer, but still you can’t even see it if you don’t have good reason, let alone use it. Then you have to will yourself through, strongly, right as you touch it. Most people never make it, ever.” The man opened his package and brought out a crude tunic, which he donned.

Stile stared. “You wear clothes here?” He remembered the clothing-marks on the woman.

“Sure do. You’d stick out like a sore toe if you went naked here in Phaze!” The man paused, appraising Stile. “Look, you’re new here, and sort of small—I’d better give you an amulet.” He rummaged in his bag, while Stile suppressed his unreasoning resentment of the remark about his size. The man had not intended any disparagement.

“An amulet?” Stile asked after a moment. He considered himself to be swift to adjust to new realities, but he found it hard to credit this man’s evident superstition. Spell—magic—amulet—how could a Proton serf revert to medieval Earth lore so abruptly?

“Right. We’re supposed to give them to newcomers. To help them get started, keep things smooth, so there’s no ruckus about the curtain and all. We’ve got a good thing going here; could sour if too many people got in on it. So don’t go blabbing about the curtain carelessly; it’s better to let people discover it by accident.”

“I will speak of it only cautiously,” Stile agreed. That did make sense, whatever the curtain was, matter transmission or magic.

The man finally found what he was looking for: a statuette hanging on a chain. “Wear this around your neck. It will make you seem clothed properly, until you can work up a real outfit. Won’t keep you warm or dry; it’s just illusion. But it helps. Then you can pass it on to some other serf when he comes across. Help him keep the secret. Stay anonymous; that’s the rule.”

“Yes.” Stile accepted the amulet. The figure was of a small demon, with horns, tail and hooves, scowling horrendously. “How does this thing work?”

“You just put it on and invoice it. Will it to perform. That’s all; it’s preset magic that anybody can use. You’ll see. You probably don’t really believe in magic yet, but this will show you.”

“Thank you,” Stile said, humoring him.

The man waved negligently as he departed in his tunic and sandals, bearing south. Now Stile made out a faint forest path there, obvious only when one knew where to look. In a moment he was gone.

Stile stared down at the amulet. Belief in magic! The man had spoken truly when he said Stile was a skeptic! Yet the fellow had seemed perfectly sensible in other respects. Maybe it was a figure of speech. Or a practical joke, like an initiation rite. See what foolishness new-comers could be talked into. Emperor’s new clothes.

He shook his head. “All right, I won’t knock what I haven’t tried. I’ll play the game—once. Amulet, I invoke you. Do your thing.” And he put the chain on over his head.

Suddenly he was strangling. The chain was constricting, cutting off his wind and blood. The amulet seemed to be expanding, its demon-figure holding the ends of the chain in its miniature hands, grinning evilly as it pulled.

Stile did not know how this worked, but he knew how to fight for his life. He ducked his chin down against his neck and tightened his muscles, resisting the constriction of the chain. He hooked a finger into the crease between chin and neck on the side, catching the chain, and yanked. He was trying to break a link, but the delicate-seeming metal was too strong; he was only cutting his finger.

More than one way to fight a garrote! Stile grabbed the grinning demon by its two little arms and hauled them apart. The little monster grimaced, trying to resist, but the chain slackened. Stile took a breath, and felt the trapped blood in his head flow out. Pressure on the jugular vein did not stop the flow of blood to the brain, as many thought; it stopped the return of the blood from the head back to the heart. That was un-comfortable enough, but not instantly conclusive.

But still the demon grew, and as it did its strength increased in proportion. It drew its arms together again, once more constricting the loop about Stile’s neck.

Even through his discomfort. Stile managed a double take. The demon was growing? Yes it was; he had observed it without noting it. From an amulet a few centimeters long it had become a living creature, swelling horrendously as it fought. Now it was half the size of Stile himself, and fiendishly strong.

Stile held his breath, put both hands on the hands of the demon, and swung it off its feet. He whirled it around in a circle. It was strong—but as with robot strength, this was not sufficient without anchorage or leverage. This was another misconception many people had, assuming that a superman really could leap a mile or pick up a building by one comer or fight invincibly. That belief had cost many Gamesmen their games with Stile—and might cost this demon its own success. As long as the creature clung to the chain, it was in fact captive—and when it let go, even with one hand, it would free Stile from the constant threat of strangulation. That would be a different contest entirely.

The demon clung tenaciously to its misconception. It did not let go. It grinned again, showing more teeth than could fit even in a mouth that size, and clamped its arms yet closer, tightening the noose. Stile felt his consciousness going; he could hold his breath for minutes, but the constriction was slowing his circulation of blood, now squeezing his neck so tightly that the deeply buried carotid artery was feeling it. That could put him out in seconds.

He staggered toward a towering tulip tree, still whirling his burden. He heaved mightily—and smashed the creature’s feet into the trunk.

It was quite a blow. The thing’s yellow eyes widened, showing jags of flame-red, and the first sound escaped from it. “Ungh!” Some chain slipped, giving Stile respite, but still the demon did not let go.

Stile hauled it up and whirled it again, with difficulty. He had more strength now, but the demon had continued to grow (how the hell could it do that? This was absolutely crazy!), and was at this point only slightly smaller than Stile himself. It required special power and balance to swing it—but this time its midsection smashed into the tree. Now its burgeoning mass worked against it, making the impact stronger. The demon’s legs bent around the trunk with the force of momentum; then they sprang back straight.

Stile reversed his swing, taking advantage of the bounce, bringing the demon around in the opposite arc and smashing it a third time into the tree. This time it was a bone-jarring blow, and a substantial amount of slack developed in the chain.

Stile, alert for this instant, slipped his head free in one convulsive contortion. The chain burned his ears and tore out tufts of his hair—but he had won the first stage of this battle.