Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

While one goon tried to distract her, backing away from the unicorn’s horn, the other tried to get at her from the side. But Stile attacked the side monster, stabbing at it with his point. He wished he had a broad-sword; then he could have slashed these things to pieces. He wasn’t sure that a simple puncture would have much effect.

He was mistaken. He pricked his monster in the flank, and it howled and whirled on him, huge ham-hands stretching toward him. Stile pricked it again, in its meaty shoulder. Not a mortal wound, but it obviously hurt. At least these demons did have pain sensation; Stile had half-feared they would not. Still, this was basically a standoff. He needed to get at a vital spot, before the thing—

The goon’s arm swung with blinding speed and swept the weapon out of Stile’s hand. The thing’s eyes glowed. Gratified, it pounced on him.

Stile whirled into a shoulder throw, catching the monster’s leading arm and heaving. With this technique it was possible for the smallest of men to send the largest of men flying. But this was not a man. The creature was so large and long-armed that Stile merely ended up with a hairy arm dangling over his shoulder. The monster’s feet had not left the ground.

Now the goon raised its arm, hauling Stile into the air. He felt its hot breath on his neck; it was going to bite off his head!

“Oh, swell! Go to hell!” Stile cried with haphazard inspiration.

He dropped to the ground. The monster was gone.

Stile looked around, pleased. His impromptu spell had worked! It seemed this frame did have a hell, and he could send—

He froze. The other goon was gone too. So was Neysa.

Oh, no!

Quick, a counterspell. Anything! What rhymed with spell?

“I don’t feel well; cancel that spell,” he singsonged.

The two monsters and Neysa were back. All three were scorched and coated with soot.

“Monsters away; Neysa stay!” Stile sang. The goons vanished again.

Neysa looked at him reproachfully. She shook herself, making the powdered soot fly. There were sulfur smears on her body, and her mane was frizzled, and her tail was only half its normal length. Her whole body was a mass of singed hair. The whites showed all around her eyes; sure signal of equine alarm.

“I’m sorry, Neysa,” Stile said contritely. “I wasn’t thinking! I didn’t mean to send you to hell!” But he realized that wasn’t much good. She was burned and hurting. He had to do more than merely apologize.

He could do magic—if he sang a new spell every time. Could he make her well?

“To show how I feel—I say ‘Neysa, heal!’”

And before his eyes she unburned. Her mane grew out again and her tail became long and black and straight Her coat renewed its luster. Her hooves bright, but she must have had a truly disturb-ing emotional experience. A visit to hell! How could he erase that horror? Could he formulate a spell to make her forget? But that would be tampering with her mind, and if he made any similar error in definition—no, he dared not mess with that.

Neysa was looking at him strangely, as she had be-fore. Stile feared he knew why.

“Neysa—how many people on this world can perform magic like this?” he asked her. “I know most people can do minor magic, like stepping through the curtain, the way most people can pick out clumsy melodies on the harmonica. But how many can do it well? Professional level? Many?”

She blew a negative note.

“That’s what I thought. A lot of people have a little talent, but few have a lot of talent, in any particular area. This sort of thing is governed by the bell-shaped curve, and it would be surprising if magic talent weren’t similarly constrained. So can a moderate number match my level?”

She still blew no.

“A few?”

This time the negation was fainter.

“A very few?”

At last the affirmative.

Stile nodded. “How many can exert magic against a unicorn, since unicorns are largely proof against magic?”

Neysa looked at him, her nervousness increasing. Her muzzle quivered; her ears were drawing back. Bad news, for him.

“Only the Adepts?” Stile asked.

She blew yes, backing away from him. The whites of her eyes were showing again.

“But Neysa—if I have such talent, I’m still the same person!” he cried. “You don’t have to be afraid of me! I didn’t mean to send you to hell! I just didn’t know my own power!”

She snorted emphatic agreement, and backed another step.

“I don’t want to alienate you, Neysa. You’re my only friend in this world. I need your support.”

He took a step toward her, but she leaned away from him on all four feet. She feared him and distrusted him, now; it was as if he had become a demon, shuffling off his prior disguise.

“Oh, Neysa, I wish you wouldn’t feel this way! The magic isn’t half as important as your respect You joined me, when you could have killed me. We have been so much to each other, these past three days!”

She made a small nose at him, angry that he should try to prevail on her like this. He had sent her to hell; he had shown her how demeaning and dangerous to her his power could be. Yet she was moved; she did not want to desert him.

“I never set out to be a magician,” Stile said. “I thought the magic was from outside. I had to know the truth. Maybe the truth is worse than what I feared.”

Neysa snorted agreement. She was really dead set against this caliber of magic.

“Would it help if I swore not to try any more magic? To conduct myself as if that power did not exist in me? I am a man of my word, Neysa; I would be as you have known me.”

She considered, her ears nicking backward and for-ward as the various considerations ran through her equine mind. At last she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“I swear,” Stile said, “to perform no magic without your leave.”

There was an impression of faint color in the air about him, flinging outward. The grass waved in concentric ripples that expanded rapidly until lost to view. Neysa’s own body seemed to change color momentarily as the ripples passed her. Then all was normal again.

Neysa came to him. Stile flung his arms about her neck, hugging her. There was a special art to hugging an equine, but it was worth the effort. “Oh, Neysa! What is more important than friendship!”

She was not very demonstrative in her natural form, but the way she cocked one ear at him and nudged him with her muzzle was enough.

Neysa returned to her grazing. Stile was still hungry. There was no suitable food for him here, and since he had sworn off magic he could not conjure anything to eat. Actually, he found himself somewhat relieved to be free of magic—but what was he to say to his stomach?

Then he spied the monster Neysa had slain. Were goons edible? This seemed to be the occasion to find out. He drew his knife and set about carving the demon.

Neysa spied what he was doing. She played a note of reassurance, then galloped around in a great circle several times, while Stile gathered brush and dead wood and dry straw to form a fire. When he had his makings ready, Neysa charged in, skidded to a halt, and snorted out a blowtorch blast. She had evidently not yet cooled off from the battle—or from hell—and needed only a small amount of exertion to generate sufficient heat. The brush burst into flame.

As it turned out, monster steak was excellent.

CHAPTER 11 - Oracle

By the time they reached the Oracle, two days later, Stile had pretty well worked out the situation. He could do magic of Adept quality, provided he followed its rules. He had sworn off it, and he would not violate that pledge. But that didn’t change what he was: an Adept That could explain why another Adept was trying to kill him; that other was aware of Stile’s potential, and didn’t want the competition. The Adepts, it seemed, were quite jealous of their prerogatives—as were the members of most oligarchies or holders of power.