Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“Someone has tampered—“ Sunlight shone brilliantly down from above, angling in from the new hole in the ceiling to bathe the troll. “Sabotage!” Sheen exclaimed. “It would have crushed one of us—“

“Surely,” Stile agreed. “The trap was meant for me.”

“Look at Trool!” she cried, horrified.

Stile looked. The troll had been instantly destroyed by the light. He was now a figure of stone—a grotesque statue.

Suddenly it made a terrible land of sense. Stile remembered how Serrilryan the werebitch had been fated to see the sidhe three times before she died; she had seen them the third time, then died. Trool had been fated to help Stile three times; he had done that, and had now been terminated.

“Damn it, this time I’m going to fight fate,” Stile said angrily.

CHAPTER 11 - Xanadu

Clef was in the palace of the Oracle, playing the Platinum Flute. The perfect melody suffused the premises, more lovely than any tangible thing could be. He halted when Stile’s party arrived.

“I have another prophecy for thee,” he said to Stile. “Thou wilt be betrayed for thine own good by a young seeming woman thou dost trust.”

“Too late on that,” Stile said. “Merle betrayed me three hours ago.”

Clef was embarrassed. “Sorry; I understood it was scheduled for a few hours hence. The Oracle must have slipped a cog.” He looked at Sheen. “I thought thou wast a creature of Proton,” he said, surprised.

“I am,” she agreed. “Now I am a creature of Phaze too, a golem.” She indicated the statue she supported. “This is Trool the troll, who sacrificed himself to save us. Stile says you may—thou mayest be able to—“ She paused. “But doesn’t the juxtaposition suffer when thou dost stop play ing?”

“Marginally. It’s a long process; inertia maintains the movement for brief interludes. Otherwise I could not take a breath. In any event, what you hear is not the juxtaposition theme; that is only part of it, a single-note exercise that reaches into the deeper firmament. It is not continuous; rather I must play it at the key intervals.” Clef considered the statue. “Thou dost wish the troll’s soul piped to Heaven?”

“Nay, not yet,” Stile said. “Canst thou pipe him back to life?”

Clef stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I fear not. Stile. There is a monstrous difference between directing traffic—that is, routing a soul to Heaven—and revivifying the dead. I can send the soul back into the body—but that in itself will not change stone or flesh. You need a different kind of magic for that. Perhaps there is a suitable spell in the book of magic. You did fetch that?”

“The book of magic!” Stile exclaimed, stricken. “I forgot all about it!”

“Merle has it,” Sheen said. “She deactivated me—and now the book is gone.”

“Is that why she betrayed me?” Stile asked. ‘To get that book?”

“I doubt she knew of it,” Sheen said. “She said nothing about it to me. I just happened to be carrying it.”

“She surely has some inkling now, though. She has access to the curtain, to Phaze; she can use those spells to become an instant Adept. We’ve got to get the book back before she does that!”

“For the sake of Phaze as well as for the troll,” Sheen agreed.

“I’ll surely find her at the Citizens’ business meeting.” Stile frowned, worried. “I don’t have much time for that either; I’ve got to move.” His hope of studying the spells of the book before the Proton crisis came had been dashed; whatever preparations he might have made were moot.

“I’ll go with thee,” Sheen said.

“But first thou must marshal thy troops,” Clef said.

“The time is nigh.”

“Oh, yes, the troops. I did alert the various creatures of Phaze, and all but the dragons, harpies, and goblins are with us. Has the Oracle finally condescended to inform us exactly how such troops are to be employed?”

“Only that thou must dispose them as for battle.”

“Dispose them where? Against whom?”

Clef shrugged, embarrassed. “I know not”

“That is not a phenomenal help.”

“Thou knowest that prophecies work out regardless of comprehension,”

“Look, if I miss that Citizens’ business meeting, I’m finished in Proton. I have scarcely an hour as it is. Can’t the Phaze side wait at least until I’ve recovered the book of magic?”

“The Oracle says the troops must be disposed first.”

“Damn!” Stile swore. “Send my coldest regards to that inscrutable machine. I’ll do what I can.”

“I shall keep thy friend the troll statue safe for thy return with the book.”

“Thanks,” Stile said gruffly. He played a bar of music on the harmonica, took Sheen by the hand, and spelled them to the Brown Demesnes.

They popped in at the main receiving hall. The child Adept was waiting. “Oh, I’m so glad thou art back. Blue!” she exclaimed. “And thou too. Lady Machine. Dost thou like being a golem?”

“It’s wonderful. Lady Adept,” Sheen agreed.

The child’s mouth went round with astonishment. Then she giggled. “I guess thou meanest me. Nobody ever called me Lady before, ‘cause I’m just a girl.”

“That’s more than I’ll ever be,” Sheen said.

Stile had to interrupt. He had very little time. “Brown, a troll rescued me from confinement, but he got turned to stone by the sun. Can you animate stone?”

“Oh, sure, some. But you know, it doesn’t change the substance. He’d be awful heavy if thou didst not spell him back to flesh, and he’d crack when struck hard. I work with wood because it is strong and light, and the Lady Machine was preformed, so she was okay. But a stone troll—“

“I see the problem. I think I could turn him to wood, but I’m not sure about flesh.”

“Perhaps with the aid of the book of magic,” Sheen reminded him.

“Of course. That should do it.”

“Thou couldst just about create a troll from scratch,” Sheen pointed out. “Make a figure, enchant it to flesh, have the Brown Adept animate it, and Clef could pipe a soul into it.”

“If we had a soul,” Stile agreed. “That’s the one thing magic can’t generate.”

“I know,” she said sadly.

“My golems and the wolves have spread the word among all the creatures of Phaze,” Brown said. “All but the goblins and monsters have joined. But they know not what to do now.”

“I wish I could tell them,” Stile said. “I am the victim of a prophecy. I don’t know where to tell them to go.”

“Well, maybe thou canst improvise,” Brown suggested.

“The troops will dissipate if not encouraged.”

“So the Oracle seems to think, though I hardly have time to—“

“Which means we must hurry,” Sheen said, enjoying this.

“And I thought Citizenship was uncomplicated!” Stile worked out several travel-spells, and they were off. First stop was the werewolves. Kurrelgyre was there, but the Pack had been depleted by the wolves and bitches assigned to accompany the wooden golems. Kurrelgyre shifted immediately to man-form to shake Stile’s hand. “But this bitch—I know her not,” he said, looking at Sheen. “Unless—could it be?”

“This is the robot-golem Sheen, my Proton fiancee,” Stile said. “Thy suggestion was good; the Brown Adept animated her.”

“At least conjure her fitting apparel,” the werewolf said. “She is too luscious a morsel to go naked hereabouts.”

Clothing! Stile had forgotten all about that for Sheen. Quickly he conjured her a pretty dress and slippers, as befitted a Lady of Phaze.

“But I can not wear clothing!” she protested. “I’m a serf!”

“Not here,” Stile assured her. “In this frame all people wear clothes.” He eyed her appraisingly. “They do befit thee.”