Piers Anthony - Blue Adept

They played an impromptu duet. Neysa’s music was lovely, of course—but Stile’s carried the magic. It coalesced like a forming storm, charging the immediate atmosphere.

And in that charge, dim figures began to appear: small, slender humanoids, with flowing hair and shining white robes. They had been invisible; now they were translucent, the color slowly coming as the music thickened the magic ambience. Stile’s power was revealing them. One of them was hovering near the Lady, playing with her hair. “The Sidhe,” the Lady breathed, pronouncing it “Shee.”

“The Faerie-folk. They were teasing us.”

Stile squeezed Neysa’s sides with his knees questioningly. She perked her ears forward: a signal that there was no immediate danger.

Stile continued playing, and the ethereal figures solidified. “0, Sidhe,” the Lady said. “Why do you interfere with us? We seek no quarrel with your kind.” Then a Faerie-man responded. “We merely played with thee for fun. Lady of the Human Folk, as we do so often with those who are unaware of our nature. Innocent mischief is the joy of our kind.” His voice was winningly soft, with the merry tinkle of a mountain streamlet highlighting it. Stile could appreciate how readily such a voice could be mistaken for completely natural effects—flowing water, blowing breezes, rustling leaves.

“And thou,” a Sidhe maid said to Stile as he played. “What call hast thou, of Elven kind, to ride with a mundane woman?” Her voice was as soft as the distant cooing of forest doves, seductively sweet, and her face and form were similarly winsome.

Stile put aside his harmonica. The Sidhe remained tangible; now that they had been exposed, they had no further need of invisibility. “I am a man,” he said.

“A man—on a unicorn?” she inquired derisively. “Nay, thou art more likely a giant kobold, serving in the house of the human lady. Thou canst not fool her long, sirrah! Come, I will offer thee entertainment fit for thy kind.” And she did a little skip in air that caused her white skirt to sail up, displaying her immortal legs to advantage.

“Thou’rt not my kind,” Stile insisted, intrigued.

“Dost thou jilt me already?” she flashed, and evanescent sparks radiated from her hair. “I will have thy fanny in a hoist, ingrate!” Neysa shifted her horn to bear on the Faerie-lass, who skipped nimbly aside. These magical creatures might not fear the weapons of human beings, but the unicorn’s horn was itself magical, and would take its toll of any creature. Stile lifted his harmonica to his mouth again.

“Yea, play!” the Sidhe lady exclaimed. “I will forgive thee thine indiscretion if thou playest while we dance.” It was a face-saving maneuver on her part, but Stile decided to go along. He did not want to have to use overt magic here. He played, and Neysa accompanied him, and the music was marvelously light and pretty. Stile had been a fair musician before he came to Phaze, but he had improved substantially since.

The Sidhe flocked in and formed their formation in mid-air. They danced, wheeling in pairs, singing and clapping their little hands. The males stood about four and a half feet tall, with calloused hands and curly short beards; the females were closer to four feet, and all were delicate of limb and torso. They whirled and pranced, the girls flinging their skirts out with delightful abandon, the men doing elaborate dance steps. It was beautiful, and looked like an extraordinary amount of fun.

After a time, the Sidhe damsel floated back down to Stile. She perched on Neysa’s hom, somewhat to the unicorn’s annoyance. She was breathing briskly, her full bodice flexing rhythmically. “Give o’er, giant elf; thou’rt forgiven!” she exclaimed. “Now come dance with me, before sunset, while thy steed plays her horn.” And she reached out a hand to him, the tiny fingers beckoning. Stile glanced at the Lady Blue, who nodded affirmatively. Neysa shrugged. Both evidently felt it was better to go along with the Faerie-folk than to oppose them. They were getting along well at the moment; better not to disrupt the mood, for such creatures could be unpleasant when angered, and their tempers were volatile. Stile had seen that in the mercurial reactions of this little lady. Yet he demurred, more diplomatically this time. “Elven lass, I can not dance in air without magic.” And he was not about to reveal his true nature now. Already he under-stood that Adepts were held in as poor regard by the Little Folk as by ordinary human people.

“Then shall I join thee below,” she said, descending lightly to the turf. Then, abruptly shy: “I am Thistlepuff.”

Stile dismounted. “I am Stile.” He stood almost a foot taller than she, and really did feel like a giant now. Was this the way Hulk saw the world?

“The bridge between pastures?” Thistlepuff exclaimed, correctly interpreting his name. Then she did a pirouette, again causing her skirt to rise and expose her fine and slender legs. This was a characteristic gesture with her. In the frame of Proton, where all serfs were naked, no such effect was possible, and Stile found it almost embarrassingly appealing. The brief glimpse seemed better than the constant view, because of the surprise and mystery. Clothing, he realized, was also magic.

Stile had played the Game in Proton for most of his life. Part of the Game was the column of the Arts, and part of the Naked Arts was Dance. He was an athlete and a gymnast, and he had a good memory and sense of pace. Hence Stile could dance as well as any man, and a good deal better than most. He had watched and analyzed the patterns of the Faerie dance, and now understood it well enough. If this sprite thought to make a fool of him for the entertainment of her peers, she would be disappointed. He went into a whirl of his own, matching Thistlepuff’s effort. There was a faint “Oooh” of surprise, and the other Faerie-folk gathered about to watch. Yes, they had thought to have sport with him! The lass stepped blithely into his arms, and he swung her in Sidhe fashion. Her head topped at the level of his shoulder, and she was light as a puff of smoke, but she was also lithe and sweet to hold. She spun out and kicked one leg high in the manner of a ballerina—oh, didn’t she love to show those legs!—while he steadied her by the other hand. Then she spun back into his embrace, making a little leap 1 so that her face met his in a fleeting kiss that struck and dissipated like a breath of cool fog.

They moved into a small promenade, and he tossed her into the air for a graceful flip and caught her neatly at the waist. Light as she was, it was easy to do the motions, and he enjoyed it. He felt more and more like the giant he never had been, and privately he reveled in it. When the demonstration was through, the Sidhe spectators applauded gleefully. “Thou hast danced before!” Thistlepuff exclaimed, her bosom heaving with even more abandon. “Yet thou dost claim to be human!”

“Human beings can dance,” Stile said. “The Lady I serve could do as well.” He hoped that was the case; it occurred to him as he spoke that though he had seen the Lady Blue ride marvelously well, he had never seen her dance. Yet of course she could do it!

Neysa blew a note of caution. But it was too late. Stile, in his inexperience with the Faerie-folk had made another blunder. Thistlepuff was frowning mischievously at the Lady Blue.

“So thou sayest?” the Sidhe inquired, as sharply as the sound of the wood of a tree-limb snapping under too great a burden of snow. “Thou art of the Elven kind, surely; but she is as surely mundane. We shall see how she can dance.” And the Sidhe recentered their ring on the lady. He had gotten her into this; he would have to get her out. Stile crossed to the Lady as she dismounted. He could not even apologize; that would betray the situation to the Faerie-folk. He had to bluff it through—and he hoped that she could and would go along.