Indeed it was. Suddenly he faced a small flying dragon. The creature spread batlike wings and flew over Stile’s head, out of reach of his sword.
Well, Stile was also out of reach of the dragon’s talons. It was a standoff, for the moment. Since he didn’t really want to hurt the Herd Stallion, that was all right. Then the dragon shot fire from its mouth. Stile dived out of the way. This was more complicated than he had thought! Evidently the unicorn had built up some heat in the course of the match, and was able to use that to fuel his dragon-form.
The dragon oriented for another shot. Stile raised his sword—and it was a shiny, mirror-surfaced shield. It caught the jet of fire and bounced it back at the dragon. The creature took evasive action.
Stile could bring the dragon down by magic—but he remained unwilling to do that. He wanted to win as he was. His weapon could change according to his need; the Stallion could change his shape. They remained even. Except that Stile could not reach the dragon. Or could he? Suddenly his weapon became an eighteen-foot pike. Stile heaved it upward at a sharp angle, poking at the dragon. The creature squawked with a sound like an accordion—which was the tone of the Stallion’s horn—and flapped higher. Another jet of fire came down, but petered out short of the mark. Stile’s pike was keeping the dragon beyond flame-range.
Standoff. Neither could hurt the other. Unless—Stile’s spike became a powerful platinum bow, with a long, sharp arrow. He aimed it at the dragon—but already the creature was diving to earth, changing back to the unicorn, who formed in midcharge toward Stile. Stile’s weapon shifted back to broadsword, and the fencing resumed. Stile was the better swordsman, but every time he pressed his advantage the Stallion changed shape and they went through a quick series of animal and weapon forms before returning to the more conventional fray.
It became apparent to the audience that there was unlikely to be a winner here; neither party could hurt the other. Stile was satisfied with that; they could negotiate a reasonable extension of Neysa’s time.
Stile outfenced the Stallion again, the Stallion shifted to dragon-form. Stile’s sword became the bow ... And the dragon became the man-form, who plummeted toward Stile. Stile flung himself aside, his grip on his weapon slackening, and the man-form snatched it from Stile’s grasp. He hurled it far across the arena. In air, the bow reverted to its natural state, the Flute, and bounced on the grass. Stile had been careless, and abruptly disarmed. His first impulse was to run for the Flute, for he had no chance without it. His mass had reverted to normal the moment he was separated from the Flute. The ring of unicorns now deprived him of his magic. How foolish he had been not to retain his grip; he could never have been disarmed had he willed himself not to be. A large hand caught his shoulder. The man-form was preventing him from going after the weapon. Stile reacted instantly. He caught the hand on his shoulder, whirled about, and applied pressure to the man-form’s elbow joint. It would have been a submission hold, ordinarily—but the form shifted back to equine and the hold was negated.
Freed, Stile sprinted for the Flute. But the Stallion galloped after him. No chance to outrun that! Stile had to turn and dodge, staying clear of that horn.
But he would not be able to dodge it long! Stile made a phenomenal, acrobatic leap, feeling his weakened knees giving way in the effort, and flipped through the air toward the Stallion’s back. If he could ride the animal long enough to get near the Flute—
Then, in the moment he was in the air, he saw that terrible unicorn horn swinging about to bear on him. The Stallion had reacted too quickly. Stile would land—directly on the point.
He landed—in the arms of the man-form. The creature set him down carefully. “I seek not to injure thee. Adept, for thou hast been kind to my kind. I merely deflect thee. Thou’rt disarmed of thy weapon and thy magic. Dost thou yield?”
It had been a fair fight. The unicorn had outmaneuvered him. Stile might be able to hold his own against the man-form, but not against the equine-form or dragon-form, and he refused to stoop to any subterfuge. He had lost. “I yield,” he said.
“Fetch thy weapon ere hostile magic comes,” the man-form said, and shifted back to unicorn-form. Stile walked across the arena and picked up the Flute, then rejoined the Stallion before the main judging stand. The Stallion did not speak, so Stile did. “We have met in fair encounter, and the Stallion defeated me. The Blue Adept yields the issue.”
