Piers Anthony - Split Infinity

No, there were two problems. The curtain, close as it was, was out of reach, since it was beyond the palisades. And Neysa could not use it. Or would not; he wasn’t sure which. So this was a mere tantalization, no real help. Best to wait and see what the witch’s daughter had in mind. She was probably a homely girl upon whom her crazy mother forced the attentions of any likely-seeming male.

She emerged. She was stunning. Her yellow hair flowed luxuriously to her waist, her hands and feet were tiny, and her complexion was gold-bronze vibrant, not sallow. She had a figure that would have made an artist gape, with prominent secondary sexual characteristics. Her eyes were so large she seemed almost like a doll—but what a doll!

Young witches, it seemed, had other assets than magic.

“Darlin’ Corey, put that man down this instant!” the girl cried, spying Stile. Her voice, despite its vehemence, was dulcet. Everything about her was as nice as it was nasty about her mother.

Darlin’ Corey lowered Stile to the ground, but remained near, on guard. Stile straightened his clothing and rolled his shoulders; it had not been entirely comfortable, hanging all that time in midair. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said.

She giggled jigglesomely. “Tee-hee. I’m Yellowette. My, thou’rt a handsome wolf.”

“I’m a man,” Stile said.

She looked down at him. That was the only fault he could perceive in her: she was a few centimeters—a couple of this frame’s inches—taller than he. “That, too. Kiss me, my cute.”

Neysa, in the cage, recovered enough to make a mu-ical snort of recognition. Suddenly Stile had a suspicion why the pink elephant had found the notion of this encounter humorous, and why the caged beasts had never known of the witch’s daughter. What would a lonely old hag do with a handsome-if-small man, if she had a potion for every purpose? Drug him—or take a very special potion herself? “Not in front of these monsters,” he said.

“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.