touch of that musical instrument reminded him—he was coming here for a flute. Yet how could a musical instrument avail him? What he really needed was a weapon. Well, he should soon be finding out! Fortunately the path did not descend far. It reached a broad ledge that cut into the chasm, reducing it to a width that could be conveniently hurdled by the steeds. The path continued on down into the chasm, but they did not follow it. They jumped across the ugly crack and started up the other side. Stile was aware of a hot draft that came up erratically from the depths, smelling of sulfur. He did not like it.
They emerged at the top of that chasm, and continued on up the path. Now they were higher in the mountain range, nearing the top—and they rounded the crest, and the landscape leveled, and lo! it was only a larger foothill. Ahead the real mountains loomed, sloping up into the clouds. They were tall enough to maintain snow, but it was purple snow.
On this brief level spot was a mound, overgrown by turf and vines. The path led right to it; in fact there was a stone entranceway. “Methinks we have arrived,” Stile murmured, dismounting.
“Methinks thou shalt not swiftly depart,” a voice said behind him. Stile turned to find a small man in the path behind. He stood about four inches shorter than Stile, but was broader in proportion. His skin was an almost translucent blue, and his clothing was steel-gray. “Thou must be of the Elven Folk,” Stile said. “I come to beg a favor of the workers of platinum.”
“We do work platinum,” the elf agreed. “But we do no favors for outsiders. Thou art now our prisoner, and thy human companion.” He gestured with his shining sword. “Now proceed into the mound, the two of you. Thine animals will join our herds outside.”
Neysa turned on the arrogant elf, but Stile laid a cautioning hand on her back. “We came to petition; we must yield to them,” he murmured. “If they treat us ill, thou canst then act as thou seest fit. An thou dost find me fettered, free me to play my music.”
Neysa made an almost imperceptible nod with her horn. Once Stile had access to his music, he could bring his powers of magic into play, and would then be able to handle himself. So the risk was less than it seemed. He and the Lady suffered themselves to be herded into the mound. Inside it was gloomy, with only wan light filtering in through refractive vents. Several other armed elves were there, garbed like the first. Their leader stepped up and appraised Stile and the Lady as if they were newly purchased animals. He sniffed as he approached Stile. “This one be Elven,” he pronounced. “But the woman is human. Him we shall spare to labor at our forges; her we shall use as tribute to the beast.”
“Is this the way thy kind welcomes those who come peaceably to deal with thee?” Stile asked. There was no way he would permit the Lady Blue to be abused.
“Silence, captive!” the elf cried, striking at Stile’s face with a backhand swing of his arm.
The blow, of course, never landed. Stile ducked away from it and caught the elf’s arm in a punishing submission hold. “I can not imagine the elders of thy kind being thus inhospitable,” he said mildly. “I suggest that thou dost summon them now.”
“No need,” a new voice said. It was a frail, long-bearded old elf, whose face and hands were black and wrinkled. “Guards, begone! I will deal with this matter myself.” Stile let go his captive, and the young elves faded into the crevices and crannies of the chamber. The oldster faced Stile.
“I am Pyreforge, chief of the tribe of Platinum Mound Folk of the Dark Elves. I apologize for the inhospitability shown thee by our impetuous young. It is thy size they resent, for they take thee to be a giant of our kind.”
“A giant!” Stile exclaimed, amused. “I’m four feet eleven inches tall!”
“And I am four feet five inches tall,” Pyreforge said. “It is the odor of thy potion that deceives us, as well as thy size. To what do we owe this visit by the Lady and Blue Adept?”
Stile smiled ruefully. “I had thought not to be so obvious.”
“Thou art not. I was delayed researching my references for thy description. I pored all through the Elven species in vain. It was the unicorn that at last betrayed thee, though we thought Blue recently deceased.”
“Neysa would never—“
The old elf held up a withered hand. “I queried the ‘corn not. But no man save one rides the unicorn, or travels with the fairest of human ladies. That be the imposter Blue Adept—who I think will not be considered imposter long.”
Stile relaxed. “Oh. Of course. Those must be comprehensive references thou hast.”
“Indeed. Yet they are oft tantalizingly incomplete. Be it true that thou didst come recently on the scene in the guise of thy murdered self, and when the unicorns and were-wolves challenged thee performed two acts of magic, the first of which was inconsequential and the second enchantment like none known before, that established thee as the most powerful magician of the frame despite being a novice?”
“It may be true,” Stile agreed, taken aback. He had rather underestimated his magical strength on that occasion! Probably it had been the strength of his feeling that had done it, rather than any special aptness at magic. Then, perceiving that the Elder was genuinely curious, he amplified: “I am of Proton-frame, come to take up the mantle of my Phaze-self and set to right the wrong of his murder. When the unicorn Herd Stallion challenged me to show my magic, I made a spell to wall him in. When my unicorn steed yielded her ambition on my behalf, I made an oath of friendship to her. It had a broader compass than I expected.”
The Elder nodded. “Ah. And the ‘corns and ‘wolves have not warred since. Thou art indeed Adept.” “Yet not omnipotent. Now must I need meet the Herd Stallion again, at the Unolympics, and I am not his match without magic. The Oracle sent me to borrow the Platinum Flute.”
“Ah, now it comes clear. That would of course avail thee.” Yet the elf seemed cold.
“That I am glad to hear,” Stile said. “I have heard it said that music has charm to soothe the savage breast, but whether it soothe the breast of a beast—“
The Elder frowned. “Yet it is forbidden for us to yield this instrument, however briefly, to a human person, and doubly forbidden to lend it to an Adept. Knowest thou not its power?”
Stile shook his head. “I know only what the Oracle advised.”
“No need for mystery. The wielder of the Flute is immune from the negation of magic. There are other qualities about it, but that is the primary one.” Stile thought about that. For an ordinary person, the Flute would provide little advantage. But for a magic creature, such as a werewolf, it would protect his ability to shape-change, and that could on occasion be a matter of life and death. For an Adept—
With the Flute in his possession. Stile could draw on his full powers of magic, even within the magic-negating circle of unicorns. The Herd Stallion would not be able to stand against him. The Oracle had spoken truly; this was the instrument he needed.
But at the same time, he could understand why the Mound Folk did not want him to have it. The existence of various magic-nullifiers prevented the Adepts from being overwhelmingly powerful. If an Adept obtained possession of the Platinum Flute, there would be no effective limit to his will.
“I appreciate thy concern,” Stile said. “In fact, I agree with it. The likes of me should not possess the likes of this.”
The Lady Blue’s head turned toward him questioningly.
‘Thou dost not abuse thy power.”
“How could the Mound Folk be assured of that?” Stile asked her. “There is corruption in power. And if the Flute were taken from me by another Adept, what then would be the limit?”