Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

The Lady took the leaves-she needed and thanked the troll a bit diffidently. Trool, perhaps unaware of the cause of her mixed feelings, shrugged and departed, his deed done. They started the trip back to the Orange Demesnes. It was no more pleasant traversing the tunnel the second time, but at least the route was familiar. Dawn was approaching as Stile finally felt the end and poked his head up through the surface of the ground—only to find it overgrown with vines. Were they too late? He wrestled his broadsword out and around and began slashing and sawing. The plants, attacked from below, capitulated quickly, and soon Stile and the Lady stood in their own little hacked-out clearing.

He heard grunts and thumps in the direction of the hermit’s hut. The yellow moon was now out, showing two equine figures backed against the hut wall, still fighting off the encroaching foliage. Perhaps the plants were less active at night, unable to grow as fast without sunlight; or maybe the Orange Adept was saving the finale for morning, when he could see better. At any rate, the end was not quite yet. ‘

Stile hacked a path across the writhing mass of vegetation, the Lady following and tidying things up with her knife. As the sun broke across the eastern horizon, they reached the equines.

Hinblue was sweating and bleeding from numerous scratches, and was so tired she hardly seemed able to stay on her feet. Clip was better off, but obviously worn; his horn swung in short vicious arcs to intercept each reaching tendril. There was very little room left for the two of them; soon the press of plants and their own fatigue would overwhelm them.

And the Orange Adept peered out of his window, grinning as if at an exhibition. This was his private arena, his personal entertainment, and he was enjoying it immensely. Stile experienced a flare of primal rage. Now it was the Lady’s turn to act.

“Take these leaves,” she told Stile, giving him the branch she had taken from the troll’s bush. “Clip—thy horn, please.” The unicorn paused in his combat with the foliage. Guided by the Lady, he touched his horn to the leaves in Stile’s hands. Stile felt something ease, as if he had been released from an ugly threat. He heard his own breathing. “I thank thee,” he said.

Then he did a double take. “Hey, I can speak!”

“Do thou speak some suitable spell,” the Lady suggested, nipping off a reaching tendril with her small knife. Quickly Stile summoned a general-purpose spell from his repertoire. “All save me, in stasis be,” he sang. He had not taken time to coalesce his magic force with preliminary music, so the spell was not fully effective, but its impact was nevertheless considerable. The aggressive plants stopped advancing, and Stile’s three companions stood stunned.

Only the Orange Adept proved immune. His head swiveled to cover Stile. “What’s this?” the man demanded querulously. “Foreign magic in my Demesnes?”

Now Stile let out his long-accumulating wrath. “Oaf, didst know not against whom thou didst practice thy foul enchantment?”

“I know not and care not, peasant!” Orange snapped, sneering.

“Then learn, thou arrogant lout!” Stile cried. He took his harmonica, played a few savage bars to summon his power, then sang: “Let every single spellbound plant, against its master rave and rant!” Instantly there was chaos. The magic plants rotated on their stems, reorienting on the Orange Adept. Now the tendrils reached toward the hut, ignoring the visiting party. “Hey!” Orange screamed, outraged. But a thorny tendril twined about his hand, causing him to divert his attention to immediacies.

Stile made a subspell nullifying the remaining stasis spell, and equines and Lady returned to animation. Stile and the Lady mounted their steeds, and Stile made a spell to heal and invigorate them. Then they rode out through the vicious plants, which ignored this party in their eagerness to close on the hut.

“That was not nice, my Lord Blue,” the Lady murmured somewhat smugly.

“Aye,” Stile agreed without remorse. “The plants can’t really hurt Orange. He will find a way to neutralize them. But I dare say it will be long before every plant is back the way it was. And longer before he bothers passing strangers again.”

When they emerged from the Orange Demesnes, Stile guided them southeast, back toward the region of the animalheads. The Lady glanced at him questioningly, but did not comment.

The animalheads appeared. “Know, 0 creatures, that I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “Guide me to your leader.” When they pressed forward menacingly, he resorted to magic. “Animalhead, be friend instead,” he sang. And the attitude of each one changed. Now they were willing to take him where he had asked.

Soon they encountered an elephanthead, with a giant fat body to support so large an extremity. The creature trumpeted in confusion.

“Each to each, intelligible speech,” Stile sang. “To what do we owe the questionable pleasure of this visit?” the nasal trumpetings translated, now having the semblance of ordinary human speech.

“I am the Blue Adept,” Stile said. “This is my Lady Blue. We are on our honeymoon, touring the curtain with our steeds. We seek no quarrel and do not believe we provoked thy creatures. Why did they attack us?”

The elephanthead considered, his trunk twisting uncertainly. He was evidently loath to answer, but also wary of openly defying an Adept. “We sent a person to inquire of the Oracle, after the shaking of the mountains alarmed us. Hard times may be coming to Phaze, and we are concerned about survival.”

“So are we,” Stile said. “But we understand we have a safe fortnight for our pleasure journey to the West Pole, and thereafter the Lady Blue will have time to bear my son. So the end of Phaze is not quite yet. But why should you interfere with us?”

“The Oracle advised us that if we permitted a man riding a unicorn to pass our demesnes, half our number would perish within the month.”

Suddenly the attitude of the animalheads made sense. “The Oracle claims I am a threat to thy kind?” Stile asked incredulously. “I have had no intention of harming thy creatures!”

“The Oracle did not say thou hast intent; only the consequence of thy passage.”

“Let me meet the bearer of this message.” A snakehead came forward. Rendered intelligible by Stile’s spell, she repeated the message: “Let pass the man on ‘corn, and half will die within the month.”

The Lady Blue’s brow furrowed. “That is an either-or message, unusual. Can it be a true Oracle?”

“The Oracle is always true,” the elephanthead said.

“But just let me check the messenger,” Stile said, catching on to the Lady’s suspicion. He faced the snakehead, played his harmonica, and sang: “Lady Snakehead, tell me true: what the Oracle said to do.”

And she repeated: “Let pass the man on ‘corn, and half will die within the month. Prevent him, and in that period all will die.”

The elephanthead gave a trumpet of amazement. “Half the message! Why didst thou betray us so, snake?”

“I knew not—“ she faltered.

“She was enchanted,” the Lady Blue said. “By someone who bore ill will to us all.”

The elephanthead was chagrined. “Who would that be?”

“Ask first who could have done it,” Stile said.

“Only another Adept,” the elephanthead said. “We are enchanted creatures, resistant to ordinary magic, else we would change our forms. Only Adepts can play with our bodies or minds.”

“So I suspected,” Stile said. “I could not prevail against thy kind until I used my magic. Could this be the handiwork of the Orange Adept?”

“Nay. He dislikes us, as he dislikes all animate creatures, even himself. But he has no power over aught save plants.”