He moved out. The ice was firm, and the curvatures of its surface did not bother him. He skated smoothly yet swiftly toward the ice castle, not even bothering to use an invisibility spell. He was here for a challenge, not a sneak attack. He had only to discover the true appearance or mode of the White Adept’s magic. If it did not relate to amulets or golems, she was not the one he wanted. A demon amulet had almost killed him when he first crossed the curtain into the frame of Phaze; four goons had been set on his trail by his use of a healing amulet later. Now he was wary of amulets—but at least it gave him the most promising hint about the identity of his enemy. One strange thing—the woman who had sprung the trap in Proton had suggested that the Blue Adept had attacked her, rather than the other way around. Why? Surely his other self had been innocent. He would not have attacked another Adept without reason, especially not a woman. So she had to be wrong. Yet it bothered him, for the woman had not known she was being recorded; she had been speaking from her cold heart, not for an audience. He skated on, drawing near the ice castle. Now it was time to go into his act. He singsonged a spell: “Garb this one in a suit of fun.” His clothing changed, becoming a brightly colored clown-suit that was, not incidentally, a good deal warmer than his prior garb.
The thing was, the average Adept had all he or she needed or wanted, materially. The Adept could conjure food, and use magic to build a castle or other residence to his liking, and could make deals for other necessities. But he was liable to get lonely and bored in his guarded fast-ness. That was why so many Adepts elected to participate as judges and spectators in functions like the Unolympics. It gave them something to do in a public but protected situation. Yellow had obviously thrived on her job as head judge for the Adept pavilion, being all dressed up with her finest youth potion for the occasion. It followed, then, that Adepts could use entertainment at home, too. An Adept’s own magic would not amuse himself, even if he chose to waste it that way. So now Stile looked the part of an entertainer—and should be admitted to the White Demes-nes with no more than the usual suspicion. So he leaped and looped and whirled into occasional spins. He did a cartwheel and took a fancy, deliberate spill.
He was a clown, a joker, a fool. Until he had his chance to brace the White Adept and discover the nature of her magic.
He skated close to the castle. So far so good. No hostile spell had been hurled at him.
There was a moat of ice-free water surrounding the castle: an effective barrier to a skater. Stile drew up. “Ho!” he called. “Grant ye access for a fool?”
A human guard appeared. It seemed there was modest employment for a number of villagers in the various Adept castles. “Why come ye?”
“To entertain—for a fair fee. To glean what information I can.”
“A spy?”
“Naturally.”
The guard lowered his voice. “Fool art thou indeed, if thou wouldst enter these Demesnes. The Adept is ill of humor. Depart, lest thou losest thy gizzard.”
“I thank thee for thy warning,” Stile said. “But I have come far, and must complete my mission. Do thou announce me to the Adept and let me take my chance.”
“On thy insecure head be it. I tried to warn thee.” The guard retreated inside the castle.
In due course he returned to crank down the draw-bridge, which seemed to be formed of a huge slab of ice. Stile skated blithely across and on into the central court-yard, admiring the way the daylight refracted through the ice walls. And the floor abruptly converted to stone. Stile tripped on it and took a genuine tumble; he had not been paying attention to his feet. He adapted his fall to an acrobatic roll in what he hoped was comical fashion, then removed his skates.
Neysa did not reappear. She remained as a firefly, hiding in his hat. Stile knew why; her conversion back to equine-form would attract attention to him. Who but the Blue Adept, as the Platinum Elves had pointed out, rode a unicorn? But she would change in a hurry if it became necessary. He felt much more secure with her along.
There were no special preliminaries. The White Adept walked out, looking much as she had at the Unolympics, but older and fatter. She had evidently used her magic only to improve her image moderately. “What hast thou got, churl?” she demanded irritably. “What dost thou want?”
“I have a rare show of antics and prestidigitation,” Stile said, making his voice comical too. “’Twill lighten thy spirit and make thee laugh. All I ask in return is the smallest of favors.”
“What smallest favor?” She was evidently used to panhandlers.
Stile brought out a silver medal he had conjured in preparation for this moment. “This amulet—it is expended. I want it restored to provide me heat from the cold.”
“Amulets are not my business,” she snapped. “Thou shouldst apply to her who makes them.”
