Piers Anthony - Out of Phaze

Then ahead a new shape appeared. “Oh, no!” Mach breathed. “A dragon!” He remembered that in Proton the dome-city of Dradom was in this region. That meant this would be the Dragon Demesnes in Phaze. If there was one thing worse than goblins—

Fleta slowed, wary of the dragon. It was a huge fire-breather; they could tell by the plume of smoke drifting up from it. The monster was winged, so it would be able to go after them in the air; they could not avoid it or outrun it. The only escape would be straight back the way they came—and there the goblins waited, in a giant cup-shaped formation. The goblins obviously believed that the quarry would choose to turn back and be captured, rather than proceed forward and be toasted and eaten.

But Mach knew that though he might be spared, the goblins had no such intent for Fleta. She would be raped and/or eaten by the army of little monsters. He couldn’t allow that.

“Let me try magic,” he said to her furry ear as she slowed her running. She twitched the ear, acknowledging.

Mach concentrated, humming a tune to build up his magic. He was gradually getting the hang of it. Music, concentration, and a firm notion of exactly what he wanted—these were the important elements. That firm notion was perhaps the most vital part of it; he had to really want it, subconsciously as well as consciously. Thus his effort to conjure a comb for the harpy misfired, because it was a minor matter to him, while his spell to generate his own potency had worked, because he had really known he needed it. The sung rhyme mostly triggered the magic, somewhat the way one told a computer to “execute.” He had to be sure everything was right before he sang the rhyme; any sloppiness ruined the result.

The dragon was getting close. It was licking its giant chops. Fleta fluted nervously—and that gave him another idea. “Play a tune!” he cried to her. “I’ll sing to it, when I cast the spell!”

She played. She was worried, but her music, as always, was lovely. He listened for a moment, enjoying it, getting the feel of it, trying to attune himself to it to the maximum. Then he sang: “Make our flight be out of sight!”

Fleta vanished. Mach found himself riding along above the plain. She was still there, but she was entirely invisible. He glanced at himself, and found nothing. He was invisible too. This time the spell had really worked!

“We’re completely invisible,” he told her. “I suppose we can be heard and smelled, so we’d better shy away from the dragon, but no one can track us by sight. I think.”

She swerved, and the dragon did not. The dragon seemed confused, its head swinging this way and that as it peered about, trying to spot the prey it had seen a moment before. The wind was from the west, carrying their scent east, so Fleta swerved to run east. But her hooves kicked up sand, so she slowed to a walk. Now they were truly invisible.

They walked sedately away from both dragon and goblins. They circled back to the mountains, recovering the protection of the trees at the base. Mach did not dare dismount lest he lose track of Fleta, or she of him, so he continued to ride. But at this pace it was no strain on her.

In the afternoon they came to the river that emerged from the range. ‘This must be the one the dragon is in, upstream,” Mach said. “Maybe we can spend the night here, since no one can see us.”

Fleta fluted agreement. “If we get separated, make some music and I’ll come to you,” he said, walking to a tree for some fruit.

But there was no danger of her getting lost. In a moment he felt her hand in his. She had changed back to girl form, invisibly, and rejoined him.

As they settled down for the night, she whispered, “Is tomorrow here yet?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” he said, and grabbed her.

It was a strange and wonderful thing, doing it invisibly. The first time he kissed her, he got a mouthful of hair; then she turned her head to bring her lips into play, giggling. It occurred to Mach that he should neutralize the spell, which he presumed he could do merely by making up a rhyme to that effect, but the invisibility was so convenient for foiling the pursuit that he decided to leave it in place.

And so it was that they made their way east to the large river that cut through the mountains from the north, and along its shore until they reached the wooden towers of the Brown Demesnes.

9 - Game

Bane found himself in the apartment, with Agape back to her jelly state. He must have been unconscious, and she still was. Obviously the technicians of Proton had the means to knock a robot out and to knock out an entity of Moeba, and when the charade had been exposed, these means had been used. He discovered that his chewed finger had been restored; someone had done some work on him, perhaps replacing that unit.

He decided to wake Agape, if he could. He didn’t like the present situation, and wanted to escape it, but would not make the attempt without her. He reached for her, but hesitated to touch that semiliquid form. It was not that it repulsed him, but that he was afraid he might do her some damage.

“Agape,” he said. “Can you hear me? Wake!”

She did not stir. Perhaps she could not hear, with no ears at present. Surely she could not see, with no eyes.

He extended one finger and touched the protoplasm. It was not actually liquid; it had a translucent skin. His touch depressed a spot, that returned when he withdrew. It was like poking a water bag. Still she did not stir.

He tried again, this time pushing her surface with his whole hand. The substance proved to be infinitely malleable, giving way wherever he applied pressure, resettling in whatever new configuration was convenient, and slowly returning to its original state when allowed to. But it did not animate itself.

Finally he took hold with both hands and hauled. The form stretched out like flaccid taffy, and the form elongated. He continued to haul, and the end of it came over the edge of the bed. Finally the rest of the mass slid down, and the substance resumed a more globular form. Bane let go, and the mass sank down on the floor at the foot of the bed, the portion that remained on the bed sliding along to merge with the main mass. Now the body of it was on the floor.

Bane didn’t like the notion of her getting dirty, so he tried to put the mass back on the bed. He put his arms around it and lifted, but only portions came up; most of it simply slid through his grasp and resettled below. He tried again, sliding his arms more carefully underneath; then the center came up and the protoplasm to either side flowed down, leaving him with a thinning strand that would not stay on the bed.

He pondered, then fetched a sheet from the bed, put it on the floor, and half rolled, half shoved the protoplasm onto the sheet. Then he caught up the corners of the sheet, making a bundle. He lifted this up to the bed and set it down. But as he swung the mass over, his feet could not follow; he lost his balance and fell facefirst onto the jelly.

Now it stirred. Bane tried to lift himself free, but the protoplasm spread out beyond the range of his hands, squeezed flat by his weight, and wherever he tried to set his palm, he was squishing more of the stuff. Meanwhile it was animating more actively, trying to form into the human shape but prevented by his presence on it.

Bane rolled, squashing one side of the mass but freeing the other side. He made it to the surface of the bed but some of the protoplasm was carried along with him half covering him. He waited, and the arms, legs, torso and head of Agape formed, beside him and over him.

She lifted her head, on which the hair was still sprouting, and looked down at him. “You are becoming most affectionate!” she remarked.