Stile Stile took the Lady Blue in his arms. "Thou dost know what we are about," he said. The Lady was fifty years old now, and her face was lined, but she remained beautiful to him. Her hair still fell to her waist, fair but seeming tinted with blue because of her blue gown and slippers. She stood slightly taller than he, because of his diminutive stature; it had never been an issue between them. After a pause, she murmured, "I know, my love." "I will return in a few days," he continued gravely. "Thou shallst have company." "True." But there was a tear on her cheek. He kissed her, then went outside the castle. There was Neysa, her head turning white, her socks falling down about her hooves but her hide glossy black between, and her muscles still firm. She remained a fine figure of a unicorn; as her kind put it, her hom retained its point. Stile mounted her bareback, and she trotted across the drawbridge over the moat. Neysa paused without being asked, so that Stile could turn and wave to the castle. A blue kerchief waved back from the window. Stile felt a pang, because all three of them knew that much more was afoot than this simple excursion. Then Neysa turned away, and trotted from the Blue Demesnes. They were on their way. "We have time," Stile remarked, reverting to the dialect of his origin, as he tended to do when alone with her. "Let's take the scenic route." Neysa played an affirmative note on her horn, and bore west. Stile, reminded by the sound, which resembled that of a harmonica, brought out his own harmonica and began to play. In a moment Neysa joined in, and they played a duet, as they had in the old days when both were young. The music was pretty, and there was an enhancement around them, because music summoned Stile's magic. He seldom used it these days, because a given spell could be invoked only once, and he preferred not to waste any. Magic, even for an Adept, was often the last resort. But it was all right to summon die ambience without drawing on it. After a while Stile paused in his playing. "I remember when you protested my power, old friend," he said. She played a laughing bit of melody. She had forgiven him his power a quarter century before, at the time he made his Oath of Friendship to her. From that time on, all the unicorns of her Herd, and all the werewolves of Kurrelgyre's Pack, had been her friends too, charmed by the peripheral power of that Oath. There had been no war between Herd and Pack, despite significant changes in their compositions as members grew and bred and migrated, and the Oath had become a minor legend. It had been the proof of his status as the Blue Adept, for only Adept magic could affect unicorns against their will. "Aye, I remember well," he continued, experiencing the nostalgia of old times. "I was an injured jockey from the frame of Proton, discovering the strange new world of Phaze. I decided I needed a steed, and you were there, you beautiful animal, the finest of your kind I had seen, and small like me. I loved you that moment, but you did not love me." Neysa played a note of agreement. Her horn was musical, but she could talk with it in her fashion, and he understood her well. All the advanced animals of Phaze could communicate well in other than the human mode, though not as well as they could by using it, because the conventions of notes UNICORN POINT | or growls or high sonics were less versatile than the completely developed human languages. "So then did I challenge thee, and mount thee and ride thee, and thou didst try to throw me off, and we careered all over Phaze!" he continued, playfully switching back to Phaze dialect. "I think I kept my place chiefly by luck—" Here she snorted derisively. "But then thou didst get set to leap from the high point, and I thought we both would die, and I let thee go—and won thee after all." And she agreed. "Then there came to me a woman, young and fair and small, and lo! it was thee in human guise, and I learned what it meant to befriend a unicom," he continued. "And now we be old, and I have my son Bane and thou thy filly Fleta, and they both be grown and have offspring in their fashion. Were we wrong to oppose their unions? How much mischief might we have avoided, had we accepted their pleas!" Neysa did not comment. She, with her unicom stubbornness, had not yet changed her mind about her position. They proceeded a while in silence. Stile mulling it over. His son Bane had managed to exchange identities with his opposite number in Proton, who happened to be a robot: the manufactured son of the humanoid robot Sheen, once Stile's lover. The robot youth, called Mach, had occupied a living human body for the first time, and fallen in love with the human form of Fleta before properly appreciating her nature. Across the frames, the robot and the unicorn—the impossibility of this relationship had been evident to all except the protagon-ists. Only the conniving Adverse Adepts, who sought to use the boys for their own purposes, had supported the union. Bane, in the robot body in Proton, had developed a similarly difficult relationship with an alien creature. Thus Stile had lost his son to the enemy. He had recognized his mistake, in retrospect, too late; the boys were working for the enemy, and Stile and his allies were suffering. "Yet now there be Flach," he said, vocalizing again, knowing that Neysa would have no trouble following. He pronounced the name "Flash"; it was the merger of Fleta and Mach, with the hard ch become soft. "The first man-unicom crossbreed, and a delight to us both. Perhaps in time he will develop abilities drawn from both our stocks. And little Nepe, in Proton—" Neysa's ears perked. She was listening to something. Stile paused, so as to give her a better chance; her ears were better than his. It was probably nothing significant; still, it was always best to be alert, because there were more monsters than in the past, and not all of them had learned proper respect for either unicorns or Adepts. Neysa elevated her nose to sniff the breeze. She made a musical snort of perplexity. Evidently this was not routine. "Do you wish me to intercede?" Stile asked. As an Adept, he could handle just about any threat from anything less than another Adept, and at present the Adepts were not harrying each other despite their enmities. But the unicorn was independent, true to the nature of her species. She preferred to handle this herself. She broke into a trot, and then into a gallop, moving at the velocity only her kind could manage. Stile crouched low, hanging on to her mane, enjoying this run as much as he had her easy walk. They broke into open country, much as they had a quarter century before, covering ground at a rate beyond the powers of any horse. The magic of the unicorn was not merely in her hom! This time she was trying not to throw him off, but to outdistance something. What could it be, that caused her to react this way? Stile looked around, craning his head to see the ground behind them. But their pursuer was not on the ground. It was in the air, flying strongly. A small dragon? No, the shape was wrong, and the mode of flight; it seemed to have birdlike wings and a running body. He ran through his mental repertoire of monsters, but could not find a match. This one seemed alien to Phaze. What could it be? No wonder Neysa was concerned; she did not trust anything unfamiliar. He continued his effort to place the creature. It had to be something^. It had a body like that of a panther or lion, and a head like that of a bird of prey. It reminded him of the old heraldic devices in the history texts— "Griffin!" he exclaimed. "That's a griffin! Head and wings of an eagle, body of a lion!" Neysa made a musical toot of agreement and continued running at speed. She had known it by the sound and smell. "But there are no griffins in Phaze!" he exclaimed after a moment. UNICORN POINT Yet there it was, and gaining on them. A classic heraldic monster. Obviously it did exist here. Stile's brain was now racing at almost Neysa's pace. Sparks were flying up from her heating hooves, and figurative sparks were emanating from his head. There were only a few ways that such a creature could be in Phaze. Was it possible that all the surveys of the wildlife of the frame had been wrong, and had overlooked this creature? He doubted that; those surveys had been competent and conducted magically. The griffin might be an illusion, crafted by another Adept. But he doubted that too, because Neysa had heard it and scented it; it would require an extremely thorough illusion to cover sound, smell and sight in a manner that would convince a unicorn. So it was probably a form assumed by some other creature. A number of Phaze creatures could change their forms. There were the unicorns, each typically having two forms in addition to the equine one. The werewolves, who changed from wolf to man and back. The vampires, who were bats and men. And the Adepts, who could do almost anything they chose. But though the animals could change forms as many times as they wished, they were limited to those few they had mastered, and Stile knew of none who had elected a non-Phaze form. The Adepts could take any form, but only once. Thus it would be necessary to find new variants of the spell to achieve the same alternate form, which seemed like too much trouble. However, a single appearance in this form might be enough, depending on its purpose. Why should an Adept assume the form of a griffin to chase another Adept? Was one of the Adverse Adepts breaking the truce? Trying to take him out anonymously, using this shape in case Stile escaped and tried to identify the perpetrator? That was possible, for some Adepts had few ethical scruples, but unlikely, because the Adverse Adepts already had the upper hand and were likely to win the complete power they sought, in time. They had succeeded in tilting the balance of power in their favor when they had given Mach and Fleta sanctuary. Now Mach and Bane were both working for them, and their facility with magic in this frame, and with science in the other, was inevitably growing. Stile and his allies were waging little more than a holding action at this point, staving off the reckoning. Why should the enemy try to kill him, when this would only stir up his allies to desperate measures, and change nothing? Yet there was the griffin, closing the gap between them. "Neysa, I believe I should intercede," he said. But she remained stubborn; she wanted to pull this out herself. She was angling toward the Lattice, that dread, demon-infested pattern of cracks in the ground. She had done that during their first encounter, trying to shake him loose; could she shake loose a flying predator? Since he wasn't sure how to proceed, he let her try; if the griffin actually caught them, he would invoke a spell that would set back even an Adept. The truth was that a single Adept could seldom really harm another Adept; their magic tended to cancel out. That was another reason it was easier to abide by the truce; violation was not likely to be effective. The shadow of the monster was coming close, and the griffin itself was descending, its front talons reaching down. Stile readied his spell, but withheld it; he did not want to affront Neysa by demonstrating a lack of faith in her effort. Now she had reached the Lattice, and her hot hooves were clattering on its pattern of little cracks. Those cracks were widening into crevices, and the crevices to deep clefts, as they pene-trated to the center of the region. Soon Neysa was stepping across enlarging gaps, and then jumping over them. The gaps were now broader than the landing places, and the ratio continued to shift. That was the devastating thing about the Lattice; the farther it went, the worse it got. There was a way across it, but that way was devious, like a route through a maze, and could not be navigated blindly. The griffin hovered above as if uncertain how to proceed; perhaps it was not familiar with this network. Then it folded its wings and dropped down toward them. Neysa leaped down into a channel, surprising Stile. Now the walls of it rose up on either side. In a moment the two of them were below the level of the surface, and the griffin could not follow, because its wingspan was far too broad. Neysa had succeeded in avoiding it! But at a price. Now the demons of this domain showed, and they were not friendly to man or unicorn. They ducked into cross-passages to avoid the spearing unicorn point, but only just far enough to let Neysa pass; then they closed in behind. She could of course run on through and up and out UNICORN POINT J the far side of the Lattice—but the griffin hovered above, evidently waiting for that. Had they played into its trap? "Maybe if we go on through, I can throw a spell at the griffin as we come out," Stile suggested. "There has to be Adept involvement, so—" She sounded a note of agreement. They both knew that they could not afford to dally long here in the Lattice, for the demons would surround them and set up a barrier to stop the plunging unicorn. Then they would have to deal with the demons, and it would be messy, because this was the demons' home territory. But this intrusion had caught the demons by surprise, so they had not yet massed or organized sufficiently, and would not be able to do so before Neysa galloped on out. They passed the nadir of the Lattice, and began the gradual incline toward the escape at the far side. Stile watched the griffin above, ready to time his spell so as to stun it as their heads came out of the chasm. Suddenly Neysa faltered. Her stride broke, and she ground to a painful halt. Stile was almost thrown from her back, because he had been watching the sky rather than the Lattice, and had not seen the obstruction. Now his eyes wrenched down —and there was no obstruction. The demons were advancing, appearing from all the inter-locking crevices of the demon warren. This was evidently no surprise to them! "Neysa—what happened?" he cried, dismounting. He could see that she was in pain. She changed form, becoming a woman of about his own age, petite and fit and attractive, but graying in the forehead, exactly as in her mare form. "Founder," she breathed in anguish. Now he saw that her hands were held awkwardly, the fingers gnarling, the joints swelling. Her feet, also, were swol-len. She was in serious trouble. "Change to firefly form," he urged her. "That will take the weight off your feet." But demons were closing in, and some had nets; they were prepared for this also. Stile sighed. He knew better than to try to reason with this type of demon. He would have to back them off with magic. He took a breath. Abruptly the demons froze in place. Stile gaped; he hadn't done it! This was very powerful magic; who had interceded? The griffin landed just above. It changed form. Suddenly a young man stood there, hair tousled, handsome. "Bane!" Stile cried, surprised and relieved. "No, Mach," the man replied. "I am sorry; I did not mean to drive you into the Lattice. I see Neysa ran afoul of the demons' founder spell. My fault; I will abate it," "Mach!" Stile said. Normally he could tell them apart, though they used the same body; their manners differed. His distraction of the moment had dulled his perception. "Why were you pursuing us?" "You can be hard to locate, Adept," Mach said with a smile. "The other Adepts watch you, of course, but I never bothered to spy on you. I prefer to search you out at need. So I assumed a form I knew you would recognize as alien to Phaze. But then you wanted to make a game of it, so I played that game. I did not realize that would put Neysa in the way of the founder spell." A game! Stile realized that he had been dull; he should have realized that. Had he just taken the trouble to sing an identification spell, instead of letting Neysa run— "Dam Neysa, if I may ..." Mach said. Abruptly the woman straightened, her pain gone, her hands and feet un-kinking. The Robot Adept had freed her without showing any sign of magic; no sung spell, no gesture. It was a power Stile could only envy. Originally Mach had been clumsy with magic, his attempted spells going awry, but after the Red Adept had trained him with the Book of Magic he had become the most powerful of all the Adepts, Bane included. He should have been on Stile's side—had Stile not blundered ca- lamitously. Neysa resumed her unicorn form, and Stile mounted. They moved out of the Lattice. Mach awaited them at the edge. "I thought we weren't associating," Stile said with a smile as they emerged. "Aren't you on the other side?" "Would I be, if we had the past five years to live over?" "No." Indeed, the major reason for Stile's opposition to Mach's union with Fleta had been nullified by events. He had needed an heir who was Adept, and offspring by that heir who would also be Adept, so as to have the continuing power to hold off the Adverse Adepts. He had thought that there could be no offspring of man and unicorn, and that a robot could not become Adept. Had he known what was to happen,