Stile placed the allusion. His alternate self, the former Blue Adept, had helped the Lady Blue rescue her white foal from the snow-demons, who did not now realize that the identity of the Blue Adept had changed. It hardly mattered, really.
"That foal would have died with thy people, being no snow-mare, though she looked it. But there was an avalanche-"
"An accident," Freezetooth said quickly.
"An accident," Stile agreed, though they both knew better. The demons had tried to kill the Blue Adept — and had received a harsh lesson. Surely they did not want another. But there was no need to antagonize them. "What favor didst thou crave?"
Now there was a canny glint in the demon's frozen eye. "Come converse privately, Adept, male to male."
In a private chamber the demon confessed his desire: he loved a lovely, flowing, brilliantly hued fire-spirit. His "flame" was literally a flame.
The problem was immediately apparent. Freezetooth could not approach his love without melting. If she cooled to his temperature, her fire would extinguish and she would perish. Forbidden fruit, indeed!
Fortunately the remedy was within the means of Adept magic. Stile generated a spell to render Freezetooth invulnerable to heat. The flames would feel as deliciously cold as they were in fact hot.
The demon chief departed hastily to rendezvous with his love. Stile and his party were treated well by the remaining demons, who were no longer chilled by the wintry glare of their lord. The finest snowbanks were provided for sleeping on, in the most frigid and windy of the chambers. Without Stile's warmth-spell, it would have been disaster. As it was, they started to melt down into the snow, and Stile had to modify his spell to prevent that. Once everything had been adjusted, the facilities were quite comfortable.
In the morning Freezetooth was back, and his icicles positively scintillated. No need to ask how his evening had worked out! He insisted that his close friend the Adept stay for a proper feast that evening.
It occurred to Stile that this hospitality could be useful. "Do thou remain here while I perform a necessary chore in Proton," he told the Lady. "I must attend the final Round of the Tourney, but should be back by noon."
"I know, my love. Is it selfish of me to hope that thou dost lose that Game and find thyself confined to Phaze?"
He kissed her. "Yes, it is selfish. Sheen depends on me."
"Ah, yes — I forget the Lady Sheen. Methinks I shall consider her options whilst thou art gone."
Stile wasn't certain what that would lead to. The Lady Blue could cross the curtain, but Sheen could not function in Phaze. "Until noon," Stile said, then spelled himself to his usual curtain crossing.
4. Poem (SF)
Stile's opponent for the finals was a serf woman two years younger than he: Rue, a twenty-year-tenure veteran of the Game. Like himself, she had not qualified at the top of her age ladder; but also like himself, she was the best of her decade. She was one of the half-dozen serf players Stile was not eager to meet in the Tourney. He thought he could beat her, but he wasn't sure.
Rue had luck as well as skill, for she had lost no Rounds. That meant that a single victory for her would bring her the prize, while one for Stile would merely bring him even. To beat Rue twice in succession — that would be difficult.
They played the grid. Stile got the letters. Rue was good at all manner of tool and machine games, being in superb health; he was well skilled in these areas, too, and could take her in most tool games, but would be at a disadvantage in machine-assisted games. She would expect him to go for TOOL or ANIMAL, so instead he went for A. NAKED. If she went for 4. ARTS, as he expected, this would foul her up.
But she had done the unexpected too, going for 3. CHANCE. With two chances to his one, the advantage would be with her on the straight gamble — if that was the way she wanted to play it. As evidently she did.
They played the subgrid, and finished with a very simple guessing game; each had to pick a number, and if the total of the two numbers was even, Stile won. Even, in this coding, was male; odd was female. This game was so simple it would be played on the grid. Each would enter his/her number, the total flashing on both screens only when both were entered.
Would she choose her own code, an odd number? People tended to, unconsciously, feeling more at home with their own. If she chose odd and he chose even, she would win.
Obviously he should choose odd, to cancel her odd. But, as obviously, she would anticipate that and choose even. Then the result would be odd, and she would still win. It seemed she stood to win regardless.
It came back to the subjective. Given no advantage between alternatives, a person normally selected what pleased him emotionally. Rue, in doubt, should go for odd. Therefore Stile overruled his preference for even and chose the number of letters in his name: five. He entered this on the grid and locked it; no way to change his mind now.
Rue had not yet made up her mind. Now the onus was hers, and they both knew it, and the broadcast audience knew it. She could win or lose by her decision; Stile was passive. The pressure was on her.
"Ten seconds until forfeit," the voice of the Game Computer announced.
Rue grimaced and punched in her number. She was pretty enough, with auburn hair, an extremely fit body, and only a few age creases forming on face and neck. She was thirty-three years old, her youth waning. If she won this one, she would be eligible for rejuvenation, and Stile suspected she desired that more than the actual wealth of Citizenship.
The total showed eight. Rue had chosen the letters of her own name. Even — and Stile had won.
Stile kept his face impassive. He had been lucky — but was keenly aware of the fickleness of that mistress. Rue blanched a little, but knew her chances remained even. Now they were tied, with thirteen victories and one loss each.
There was no break between Rounds this time, since there were no complexities about scheduling. They played the grid again immediately.
Ibis time Stile got the numbers. He certainly was not going for CHANCE, though it had just salvaged his drive. It had not won him anything beyond that, for as a finalist he had already achieved the prize of life tenure as a serf. The only real step forward he could make was to Citizenship, and now at last it was within his means. One single win-
He selected 4. ARTS, knowing that she would be playing to avoid his strong points elsewhere. The arts cut across other skills, and Rue was noted for her intellectual velocity and proficiency with machine-assisted games. Machine art would be a tossup, but he was willing to fight it out there.
But she surprised him again, choosing A. NAKED. So it was 1A, Naked Arts. Stile did not like this; he had had a very bad time in this box in his critical match with the Red Adept, and had pulled it out only by means of a desperation ploy.
They played the subgrids, and finished, to his abrupt delight, with EXTEMPORANEOUS POETRY. Stile had always fancied himself a poet; he had a ready flair for rhyme and meter that had served him in excellent stead in Phaze. But true poetry was more than this — and now he would be able to do something significant when and where it counted.
The Game Computer printed a random list of a dozen words. "Thirty minutes to incorporate these terms into poems," it announced. "Highest point scores given for the use of one key word per line, in order; in the terminal position, rhymed. Technical facility fifty percent; content fifty percent. A panel of judges, including one male Citizen, one female Citizen, male serf, female serf, and the Game Computer, will decide the rating of each effort on the basis of zero to one hundred. The higher composite score prevails. Proceed."
This was more restrictive than Stile liked, but he remained well satisfied. It was not that he thought he had an easy victory, he knew that Rue, too, had facility with words, perhaps greater than his own. She was an extremely quick-witted woman — which was of course one reason she had made it to the Tourney finals. She could cobble together a poem as readily as he could. But at least this particular contest would be decided on skill, not luck.