Piers Anthony - Out of Phaze

“No joke,” he agreed.

‘Thou’rt not the man I know!”

“I am not.”

She dropped his hand and backed away. “And I spent the night with thee!” she said, appalled.

He had to smile. “Nothing happened, Fleta.”

“And I kissed thee!” she continued. “Oh, had I known!”

“And a nice kiss it was, too,” he agreed.

“And now I stand naked before thee!” she said, seeming shocked.

“It’s the natural way.”

“Not for grown folk!” she said. In a moment she had gotten back into her robe.

“But you’re no Citizen!” Mach said. “If anyone catches you in that—“

“This be not Proton!” she snapped.

He had to smile. ‘Touche! No Citizens here.”

“No science here.” She squinted at him as if trying penetrate his disguise. “But if thou really canst not do magic—“

“I really cannot,” he agreed.

‘Then there be hazard here,” she concluded. “Best I change form and carry thee back to the Blue Demesnes before any learn!”

“Change form?” he asked. “What are you talking bout?”

She hesitated. “Ah, now I remember! Thou dost not ke—Oh, what must I do?”

Mach spread his hands. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. Why don’t you just show me where these Blue Demesnes are, and maybe there I can learn how to return to Proton. Then you’ll have your friend Bane again.”

She still seemed doubtful. “Bane—Mach, this be no garden within thy demesnes! Here there be monsters, and as we be—we cannot travel through the fell swamp.”

Mach remembered the swamp. He realized what she meant. If it had not been for the unicorn, he would have been lost.

That unicorn! What had been its intent—and where had it gone? What would it do when it returned and found him gone? “Is there any other route? One that doesn’t go through the swamp?”

“None we would care to take,” she said.

“Worse than the swamp?”

She nodded soberly.

“But how did you get here, last night?”

‘Thou really dost not know!” she said, as if verifying something she couldn’t quite believe.

“All I know is that I slept, and when I woke, you were beside me. You must have had some safe route.”

“Not one I care to use at the moment.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Surely thou dost not,” she agreed. “But mayhap we have another way.”

“Another path?”

“Another way. Thou must use thy magic.”

“But I told you, I have no magic!”

“How dost thou know?”

“I come from a scientific frame. I don’t even believe in magic!”

“Well, I don’t believe in thy science,” she retorted. “But if I were in thy land, I would at least try thy way.”

Mach realized that there was some justice in her position. “Very well, tell me how to do magic. We’ll see what happens.”

“Always before, thou hast sung a ditty.”

“Sung a ditty?” he asked incredulously.

“A little rhyme, and it happens.”

“This is ridiculous!”

‘Thou didst promise to try,” she reminded him, pouting.

So he had. “What ditty do you want me to sing?”

She shrugged. ‘Try some simple spell, first.”

“No spell is simple, to my way of thinking!”

“Conjure a sword, mayhap. That can slay a monster.”

“A sword.” Now Mach shrugged. “I just make a rhyme, and sing it?”

“About what thou dost want.”

Mach’s experience in the Game on Proton had made him apt at quick challenges. He could sing well, and he could write poetry, including nonsense verse. That last was an achievement he was proud of, for no other robot he knew of could do it. In a moment he had fashioned some doggerel verse: “I’ll be bored, without a sword,” he said.

Nothing happened. “Nay, thou must sing it,” Fleta reminded him. “And I think thou must concentrate, make a picture of it in thy mind.”

Mach pictured an immense broadsword. “I’ll be bored, without a sword!” he sang.

There was a puff of smoke and an acrid smell. Something was in his hand. As the air cleared, he looked at it.

It was a toy sword.

“Dost thou still mock me?” Fleta demanded. “What canst thou fight with that?”

But Mach was amazed. “I conjured it!” he said. “I actually did conjure it!”

“Of course thou didst conjure it!” Fleta agreed acidly, stamping a foot in rather cute frustration. “But I did mean a real sword!”

“I tried for a real sword,” Mach said. “But I really didn’t believe it would work.”

“It did not work, numbskull! In years of yore, thou wouldst have wrought a truly adequate blade.”

“In just a day of yore, I wasn’t even here,” he retorted, nettled.

She softened. “Aye, sirrah, I forget! Well, try again.”

That seemed sensible. Mach set down the toy, concentrated on an image of a yard-long blade formed of stainless steel, and sang: “I’ll be bored without a sword!”

There was a swirl of fog before him. It dissipated, leaving—nothing. Not even a toy sword.

“Art sure thou art really trying?” Fleta asked.

“I thought I was,” Mach said, baffled. ‘The first must have been a fluke.”

“Canst not get through without a weapon,” Fleta said.

“I could make a weapon.”

“And conjure another toy? This be tiresome!”

“I mean by hand.”

“By hand?”

“To craft it from a natural object. A stone, or a pie of wood.” He looked about as he spoke. There were many stones along the slope they had just descended, and old branches littered the ground between the trees.

“An thou dost try to bop a dragon on the snout with a mere stone, thy hand and half thy arm will pay the forfeit,” she pointed out.

“Unless I threw the stone.”

“Then thou wouldst not have thy weapon anymore.”

“Urn. Maybe an axe, then.” He walked back to the slope, peering at the offerings. He found several nicely fragmented stones with sharp edges. When he found one of suitable shape, he kept it and started his search for a handle. “Are there any vines around here?”

“Vines? Thou meanest to tie up the dragon?”

He laughed. “No. To tie on my axehead.” He found a stout stick of suitable size.

She wended her way among the trees, and soon found a vine. She tugged at it, but it would not come free from the tree. He joined her, setting his hands above hers and hauling down hard, but only succeeded in hauling himself up. He lost his balance and fell into her. She let go, and they both tumbled to the ground.

“Clumsy oaf!” Fleta exclaimed, trying to extricate herself from his involuntary grasp. “Willst tear my cloak!”

“Sorry.” He helped her get free, somewhat diffidently, because she kept reminding him of a Citizen. Nevertheless, the brief contact reminded him forcefully how nicely endowed she was, in the feminine sense. His breakup with Doris in Proton still stung; it would be nice to—

But of course he knew almost nothing about this pretty young woman. She seemed to know a lot about him, or about Bane, so lacked that disadvantage. She had come to join him in the crater, apparently intentionally, because she took him for her old friend. Yet there were ways in which that association seemed other than ordinary friendship. She had kissed him, and gone naked for him though it was not her normal state. Yet again, she had not signaled any actual sexual involvement between them. It was almost as if she were his sister, or perhaps half-sister, close enough to have no secrets or shame, yet distant enough to be aware of him as a male. Of Bane; this intimacy obviously did not extend to Mach. Mach found himself jealous of that intimacy, of whatever nature.

Meanwhile they had a challenge in this vine. It was good that it was tough; he needed strength. But how could he get a suitable length of it for his purpose?