“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.
