Instantly the Demon burst loose. The seeping magic of X(A/N)th’s immediate environment was as nothing compared to the full magic of his release. There was a blinding effulgence, a deafening noise, and an explosion that threw Bink across the cavern. He crashed jarringly into a wall. As his senses cleared be perceived the collapse of the cavern in slow-motion sight and sound. Huge stones crunched to the floor and shattered into sand. All the world seemed to be collapsing into the space left by the Demon, This was a demise Bink had not anticipated: not willful destruction by X(A/N)th, not the tedium of loss of magic, but careless extinction in the wake of the Demon’s departure. It was true: the Demon didn’t care.
Now, as the dust clouded in to choke him and the only light was from the sparks of colliding rocks, Bink wondered: what had he done? Why hadn’t he heeded the brain coral’s warning, and left the Demon alone? Why hadn’t he yielded to his love for Jewel, and—
Even in the ongoing carnage, while expecting momentary conclusion of his life, this made him pause in surprise. Love? Not so! He was out of love with Jewel!
That meant the magic really was gone. The love potion had been nullified. His talent would no longer protect him. The Land of Xanth was now one with Mundania.
Bink closed his eyes and cried. There was a great deal of dust in the air that needed washing out of his eyes, and he was wrackingly afraid, but it was more than that. He was crying for Xanth. He had destroyed the uniqueness of the world he knew; even if he survived this cave-in, how could he live with that?
He did not know how the society he had belonged to would react. What would happen to the dragons and tangle trees and zombies? How could the people live, without magic? It was as if the entire population had abruptly been exiled to the dreary realm of no-talents.
The action abated. Bink found himself grimed with rock powder, bruised, but with limbs and sword intact Miraculously, he had survived.
Had anyone else? He peered through the rubble. Dun light descended from a hole far above, evidently the Demon’s route of departure. X(A/N)th must simply have shot up and out, forging his path heedlessly through the rock. What power!
“Magician! Jewel!” Bink cried, but there was no answer. The fall of stone had been so complete that only his own section remained even partially clear. His talent must have saved him, just before it faded. He could not depend on it any more, however; it was evident that spells had been the first magic to go.
He stepped out over the rubble. More dust swirled up; it coated everything. Bink realized that though he thought he had been aware of the whole process of the Demon’s departure, he could actually have been unconscious for some time. So much dust had settled! Yet he had no bruise on his head, and no headache. Yet again, the physical and magical explosion of the Demon’s release could account for many incongruous effects.
“Magician!” he called again, knowing it was futile. He, Bink, had survived—but his friends had lacked his critical protection at the key moment. Somewhere beneath this slope of stone...
He spied a glint, a wan reflection, only a glimmer between two dusky rocks. He pried them apart, and there it was: the bottle containing Crombie. Strewn across it was a bit of rag. Bink picked up the bottle, letting the cloth fall—and saw that it was what remained of Grundy the golem. The little man-figure had owed its animation to magic; now he was just a limp wad of material.
Bink closed his eyes again, experiencing another chill seizure of grief. He had done what he had felt was right—but he had not truly reckoned the consequence. Fine points of morality were intangible; life and death were tangible. By what right had he condemned these creatures to death? Was it moral for him to slay them in the name of his morality?
He put the cloth in his pocket along with the bottle. Evidently the golem’s last act had been to grab the bottle, protecting it with his body. That had been effective, and so Grundy had given up his life for that of the griffin he served. He had cared, and therefore achieved his reality—just in time to have it dashed by circumstance. Where was the morality in that?
Startled by another thought, Bink drew out the bottle again. Was Crombie still in there? In what form? With magic gone, he could be dead—unless some magic remained corked in the bottle—
Better not open it! Whatever lingering chance Crombie had, resided in that bottle. If he were loosed and the magic dissipated into the air—would Crombie emerge as a man again, or a griffin, or a bottle-sized compressed mass? Bink had just gambled enormously, freeing the Demon; he was not about to gamble similarly with the life of his friend. He repocketed the bottle.
How drear it was, this depth of the hole. Alone with a bottle, and a defunct golem and his own mortification. The ethical principle on which he had based his decision was opaque to him now. The Demon Xanth had lain prisoner for over a thousand years. He could have lain for another century or so without harm, couldn’t he?
Bink discovered he was not at the bottom of the hole, after all. The rubble opened into a deeper hole, and at the bottom was dark water. The lake! But the level had lowered drastically; now the dank gray convolutions of a formerly submerged structure lay dimly revealed. The brain coral! It, too, was dead; it could not exist without the potent magic of the Demon.
“I fear you were right, Coral,” Bink said sadly. “You let me through, and I destroyed you. You and our world.”
He smelled smoke—not the clean fresh odor of a healthy blaze, but the smoldering foulness of incompletely burning vegetation. Evidently the Demon’s departure had ignited some brush, assuming there was brush down here underground. The intense magic must have done it, leaving behind a real fire. It probably would not burn far, here deep in the ground, but it certainly was stinking up the place.
Then he heard a delicate groan. Surely not the coral! He scrambled toward the sound—and found Jewel wedged in a vertical crevice, bleeding from a gash on the head, but definitely alive. Hastily he drew her out, half-carrying her to a brighter place. He propped her up against a rock and patted her face with his fingertips, trying to bring her to consciousness. She stirred. “Don’t wake me, Bink. Let me die in peace.”
“I’ve killed everyone else,” he said sullenly. “At least you will be able to—“
“To return to my job? I can’t do it without magic.” There was something strange about her. Bink concentrated and it came: “You don’t smell!”
“It was magic,” she said. She sighed. “If I’m alive, I’m alive, I suppose. But I really do wish you’d let me die.”
“Let you die! I wouldn’t do that! I—“
She glanced up at him cannily. Even through the blood-caked dust on her face, she was lovely. “The magic is gone. You don’t love me any more.”
“Still, I owe it to you to get you home,” Bink said. He looked up, trying to decide on the most feasible route, and did not see her enigmatic reaction.
They checked through the rubble a little longer, but could not find the Magician. Bink was relieved, in a fashion; now he could hope that Humfrey had survived, and had departed before him.
Bink peered up at the Demon’s exit. “We’ll never make it up there,” he said glumly. “Too much of it is sheer cliff.”
“I know a way,” Jewel said. “It will be difficult, without the diggle, but there are natural passages— oh!” She broke off suddenly.
There was a monster barring the way. It resembled a dragon, but lacked wings and fire. It was more like a very large serpent with legs.
“That’s a tunnel dragon—I think,” Jewel said. “But something’s missing.”
“The magic,” Bink said. “It’s changing into a mundane creature—and it doesn’t understand.”
“You mean I’ll change into a mundane woman?” she inquired, not entirely displeased.
“I believe so. There really is not much difference between a nymph and a —“
“They usually don’t bother people,” she continued uneasily. Before Bink could react, she added: “They’re very shy dragons.”
Oh. A nymphly nonsequitur. Bink kept his hand near his sword. “This is an unusual occasion.”
Sure enough, the legged serpent charged, jaws gaping wide. Though it was small for a land dragon, since it was adapted to squeeze through narrow passages, it was still a formidable creature. Its head was larger than Bink’s, and its body sinuously powerful. In the conditions of this cavern, Bink could not swing his sword freely, so he held it out ahead of him.
The serpent snapped at the blade—a foolish thing to do, since the charmed blade would likely cut its jaw in two. The teeth closed on it—and the blade was yanked out of Bink’s hand.
Then he remembered: without magic, the sword’s charm was gone. He had to make it work by himself— completely.
The serpent flung the sword aside and opened its jaws again. There was blood on its lower lip; the blade had done some minor damage. But now Bink faced the monster barehanded.
The head struck forward. Bink danced backward. But as the strike missed, and the head dropped low, Bink struck the serpent on the top of the head with his fist. The thing hissed in furious amazement as its chin-less chin bashed into the floor. But Bink’s foot was already on its neck, crushing it down. The serpent’s legs scraped across the stone as it tried to free itself. But Bink had it pinned.
“My sword!” he cried. Jewel hastily picked it up and extended it point-first toward him. Bink was already grabbing for it before he noticed, and then almost lost his balance and his captive as he aborted his grab. “Other way!” he snapped.
“Oh.” It had not occurred to her that he would need to take hold of the handle. She was a complete innocent about weapons. She took it gingerly by the blade and poked the hilt in his direction.
But as he took it, the serpent wrenched free. Bink jumped back, his sword ready.
The thing had had enough. It backed away—an awkward maneuver when slithering—then dived into a side-hole. “You’re so brave!” Jewel said.
“I was stupid to let it disarm me,” he said gruffly. He was not at all proud of the encounter; it had been fraught with clumsiness, not at all elegant. Just a stupid, indecisive brawl. “Let’s get on before I make a worse mistake. I brought you out of your home, and I’ll get you back there safely before I leave you. It’s only right.”
“Only right,” she repeated faintly.
“Something wrong?”
“What am I going to do without magic?” she flared. “Nothing will work!”
Bink considered. “You’re right. I have wrecked your livelihood. I’d better take you to the surface with me.”
She brightened, then dulled. “No, that wouldn’t work.”
“It’s all right. I told you the potion has no effect now. I don’t love you; I won’t be bothering you. You can settle in one of the villages, or maybe work in the King’s palace. It won’t be much without magic, but it has to be better than this.” He made a gesture, indicating the dismal caverns.
“I wonder,” she murmured.
They continued. Jewel did know the labyrinth of the caverns fairly well, once they were out of the Demon’s depths, and brought them steadily if circuitously upward. Beyond the immediate region of the Demon’s vacancy there had not been much damage. But everywhere the magic was gone, and the creatures were crazed. Rats tried to zap him with their rodent magic, and failed, and resorted to teeth. They were no more used to naked teeth as weapons than Bink was to using an uncharmed sword, so the sides were fair. He drove them back with slashing sweeps of his sword. There might be no magic in the blade, but the edge remained sharp and it could hurt and kill.
Still, it took a lot of energy to swing that sword, and his arm grew tired. There had been another charm to make the sword lighter and more responsive to direction, without making it self-willed like the one that had attacked Bink in the gardens of Castle Roogna. The rats crowded closer, staying just out of range and coming in to nip at his heels when he climbed. Jewel was no better off; she lacked even a knife of her own. and had to borrow Bink’s knife to defend herself. A monster could be killed but these smaller creatures seemed inexhaustible. They weren’t nickelpedes, fortunately, but they were reminiscent of them.
“The way—it will be dark in places,” Jewel said. “I hadn’t thought—without magic there’s no glow, no magic light. I’m afraid of the dark.”
There had been some residual glow, but it was fading. Bink looked at the rats, so close. “With reason,” he said. “We have to see what we’re fighting.” He felt naked without his talent, though it only protected him against magic—a protection that was irrelevant now. For practical purposes his situation was unchanged, since no magic threatened him. Not now or ever again. “Fire—we need fire for light. Torches— if we can make torches—“
“I know where some fire stones are!” Jewel said. But she reconsidered immediately. “Only I don’t think they are working, without magic.”
“Do you know where there’s dry grass—I mean straw—something we could twist up tight and bum? And—but I don’t know how the Mundanes make fire, so—“
“I know where there’s magic fire—“ She broke off. Oh, this is awful! No magic—“ She looked as if about to cry. As Bink knew, real sternness of character was not to be found in nymphs. They seemed to have been fashioned by magic to accommodate man’s casual dreams, not his serious ones.
Yet he had cried, too, when he first grasped the immensity of what he had done. How much of his perception of the nature of nymphs was human-chauvinistic?
“I know,” Bink cried, surprising himself. “There was something burning—I smelled it before. If we went there—picked up some of whatever’s burning—“
“Great!” she agreed, with a flash of nymph-enthusiasm. Or female enthusiasm, he corrected his impression mentally.
They soon found it by following their noses: the remains of a magic garden the goblins must have tended, now sere and brown. The dead foliage was smoldering, and the smoke formed layers in the upper reaches of the garden cave. The goblins, of course, were far removed from this region; they had been so afraid of the fire that they had not even tried to put it out.
Bink and Jewel gathered what seemed like the best material, forming it into an irregular rope, and lit the end. The thing guttered and flared and went out in a cloud of awful-smelling smoke. But after several tries they got it working better; it was enough to have it smolder until they needed an open flame, which they could blow up anytime. Jewel carried it; it gave her a feeling of security she sorely needed, and Bink had to have his hands free for fighting.
Now the worst of the enemies were the goblins, who evidently resented the intrusion into their garden. There had been no direct evidence of them before— but of course they had been on the diggle, with protective magic and much light. In the absence of light the goblins grew bolder. They seemed to have been bred from men and rats. Now that the magic was gone, the man-aspect was diminishing and the rat-aspect was becoming more pronounced. Bink realized that this was evident mostly in their habits; physically they still resembled brutish little men, with big soft feet and small hard heads.
The difficulty with the goblins was that they had the intelligence of men and the scruples of rodents. They slunk just out of sight, but they were not cowards. It was simply that no one, three, or six of them could stand up to Bink’s sword, and there was not room for a greater number of them to approach him at one time. So they stayed clear—without giving up.
“I think they know I freed the Demon,” Bink muttered. “They’re out for revenge. I don’t blame them.”
“You did what you believed was right!” Jewel flared.
He put his arm about her slender waist. “And you are doing what you believe is right, helping me reach the surface—even though we both know I was wrong. I have destroyed the magic of Xanth.”
“No, you weren’t wrong,” she said. “You had empathy for the Demon, and—“
He squeezed her. “Thank you for saying that. Do you mind if I—“ He stopped. “I forgot! I’m not in love with you any more!”
“I don’t mind anyway,” she said. But he let her go, embarrassed. There was an evil cackle of laughter from a goblin, Bink stooped to pick up a stone to hurl at the creature, but of course it missed.
Bink armed himself with a number of rocks, and hurled one every time he saw a goblin. Soon he got remarkably accurate, and the goblins gave him a wider berth. Stones had a special magic that had nothing to do with real magic; they were hard and sharp and plentiful, and Bink had a much better arm than any goblin possessed. Still, they did not give up. Beauregard’s warning had been accurate: Bink had not encountered goblins as brave and tenacious as these before.
Bink wanted to rest, for he was tired, but dared not. If he rested, he might sleep, and that could be disaster. Of course he could have Jewel watch while he slept— but she was after all only a nymph—rather, a young woman, and he was afraid the goblins would overwhelm her in such a situation. Her fate in goblin hands would probably be worse than his.
He glanced at her covertly. This rough trek was taking its toll. Her hair had lost its original sparkle and hung in lusterless straggles. She reminded him somewhat of Chameleon—but not in her beauty phase. They dragged on, and made progress. Near the surface the ascent became more difficult. “There’s not much communication with the topworld,” Jewel gasped. “This is the best route—but how you climb it without wings or a rope I don’t know.”
Bink didn’t know either. If this had been a convenient route, Crombie’s talent would have pointed it out on the way in. The day sky was visible through a crack in the ground above—but the walls sloped in from the broader cavern-space below, and they were slick with moisture. Impossible to climb, without magic.
“We can’t stay here long,” Jewel said worriedly. ‘”There’s a tangle tree near the exit, and its roots can get ornery.” She stopped short, startled. “I’m still doing it! Without magic—“
That was why Crombie’s talent hadn’t pointed this way, he realized. A tangler! But the bad magic was gone with the good. “Let’s go!” he cried.
He found the tangle roots and ripped them out of the rock, and severed them where they would not come free. Quickly he knotted them into a strong if ragged rope. Tangle roots were strong; they were made for holding struggling prey fast. No question: this rope would hold his weight!
“But how can we get it up there?” Jewel asked anxiously.
“There’s a major tangle root-trunk crossing at the narrowest section,” Bink said. “See, right up there.”
He pointed.
She looked. “I never noticed! I must have been here half a dozen tunes before, teasing the tangler and wondering what the world above was like. I was supposed to be planting gems...” Her nymphly confession trailed off. “You certainly are observant.”
“You certainly are complimentary. Don’t worry; you will get to see the surface world this time. I won’t leave you until you’re safe on the surface and in good hands. Maybe at the magic-dust village.”
She looked away, not answering. He glanced at her, peering through the smoke of the smoldering weed rope she held, concerned. “Did I say something wrong?”
She looked back at him with sudden decision. “Bink, you remember when we first met?”
He laughed. “How could I forget! You were so beautiful, and I was so grimy—almost as grimy as we both are now! And I had just taken the—“ He shrugged, not wanting to get into the embarrassing matter of the love potion again. “You know, I’m almost sad that’s over. You’re an awfully nice nymph, and without your help—“
“You loved me then, and I didn’t love you,” she said. “You were devious, and I was simple. You lured me in close, then grabbed me and kissed me.”
Bink fidgeted. “I’m sorry, Jewel. I—it won’t happen again.”
“That’s what you think,” she said, and flung her arms about him and planted a passionate kiss on his half-open mouth. Dirty as she was, it was still a remarkable experience; almost he felt the tug of the love potion again. He had loved her before without knowing her; now he knew her and understood her nymphly limitations and respected her for trying so hard to overcome them, and he liked her more than was entirely proper. A genuine affection had been developing beneath the artificial love, and that affection remained. What would Chameleon think, if she saw this embrace?
Jewel released him. “Turnabout’s fair play,” she said. “I am more complex than I was a few hours ago, and you are simpler. Now get on up your rope.”
What did she mean by that? Bemused, Bink weighted the rope with a solid rock and lofted it up toward the root-trunk. It fell short, because of the weight of the rope. He tried again, harder, but the rope was still too heavy. It dragged steadily, its weight becoming greater as the rock got higher. Finally he made a wad out of the rope and hurled the mass of it up; this time it got there—and fell back, having failed to pass over the root. But he was making progress, and after several more tries he got it over. The rock fell down, hauling the rope after it. It snagged before the rock came down within reach, but several jerks on the other end of the rope freed it. Bink knotted the ends together, forming a complete loop of rope that could not come loose.
“I can climb this first, then you can sit in the loop and I’ll haul you up,” he said. He knew there was no chance of her climbing by herself; her arms were too delicate. “Blow the torch up high, so the goblins won’t come too close.”
She nodded. Bink took a few deep breaths, feeling his worn system revving up in anticipation of this final effort. Then he took hold and began to climb the rope.
It started out better than he had feared, but soon got worse. His arms tired quickly, since they had been none too fresh to begin with. He clamped his legs about the rope, hanging on, to give his arms a rest, but they recovered reluctantly. Oh for some healing elixir! Still, Jewel was waiting, and so were the rats and goblins; he could not afford to delay too long. Excruciatingly he dragged himself up with smaller and smaller wrenches. His breath rasped, his head felt light, and his arms seemed to turn into waterlogged wood just beyond the elbows, but he kept moving.
So suddenly it seemed a miracle, he was at the top. Maybe his mind had simply gone a bit dead too, cutting out the agony of the continuing effort, and revived when he arrived. He clung to the big root, which was somewhat furry: the better to grip its prey, perhaps, He had never, before this adventure, anticipated gladly embracing a tangle tree!
He flung a leg over, missed, and felt himself falling. It was almost a relief, this relaxation! But the rope was still there, and he wrapped himself about it and hung, panting. So little to go, so hard to do!
There was a knot up near the apex. Bink braced his feet against it and used his relatively fresh leg muscles to push him up, and somehow scrambled around the root. Now he perceived that rough bark underlay the fur on top, making it good for clinging to, good for scrambling. He clung and scrambled, and finally inched over to the top of it and lay there, panting weakly, too worn out even to feel proper relief.
“Bink!” Jewel cried from below. “Are you all right?”
That roused him. His labor was far from over! “I should be asking you that! Are the rats staying back? Can you get in the seat, to come up?” He didn’t know how he would pull up her weight in his present state, but he couldn’t tell her that
“I’m not all right. I’m not coming up.”
“Jewel! Get up the rope! The rats can’t reach you there, if you pull the end up after you!”
“It’s not the rats, Bink. I’ve lived down here all my life; I can handle the rats and even the goblins, as long as I have my light. It’s you. You are a handsome man.”
“Me? I don’t understand!” But he was beginning to. She was not referring to his present appearance, which was homelier than Chester’s face. (Oh, noble centaur —in what state was be now?) The signs had been there; he had merely refused to interpret them.
“When you took the potion, you remained an honest person,” Jewel called. “You were strong, stronger than any nymph could be. You never used the potion as an excuse to betray your quest or your friends. I respected and envied that quality in you, and tried to use it as a model. The only exception was that one kiss you stole, so I stole it back. I love you, Bink, and now—”
“But you never drank that potion!” he protested. “And even if you had, now that the magic is gone—“
“I never drank that potion,” she agreed. “Therefore the loss of magic could not take my love away. Growth was forced upon me, driving out my nymphly innocence. Now I can perceive reality, and I know there can be no antidote but time, for me. I cannot go with you.”
“But you have no life down there!” Bink cried, appalled. His love for her had been magic; hers for him was real. She loved better than he had. Her nymph-hood was, indeed, behind her. “There must be some way to work it out—“
“There is, and I am utilizing it. When I saw how you sacrificed me when the spell was on you, I knew there could be no hope at all when it was off. It is ironic that my love bloomed only when you gave me up, because you gave me up. Because you were true to your principles and your prior commitment. Now I shall be true to mine. Farewell, Bink!”
“No!” he cried. “Come out of there! There has to be some better way—“
But the rope was sliding and bumping over the root. She had untied it at the bottom part of the loop and was drawing it free. He grabbed for it, too late. The end passed over the root and dropped into the darkness.
“Jewel!” he cried. “Don’t do this! I don’t love you, but I do like you. I—“ But that was a dead end. She was right: even when he had loved her, he had known he could not have her. That was unchanged.
There was no answer from below. The nymph had done the honorable thing, and gone her way alone, freeing him. Exactly as he would have done, in that circumstance.
There was nothing he could do now but go home. “Farewell, Jewel!” he called, hoping she would hear. “You may not have my love, but you do have my respect. You are a woman now.”
He rested, listening, but heard nothing more from her. Finally he got off the root and looked about. He was in a deep cleft that he now recognized as a section of the Gap, the great chasm that cleft the Land of Xanth in twain. The tree was anchored in the bottom, but reached up toward the top, and a branch extended over the rim. In the absence of magic, the tree was safe to climb. In fact, the terrain would hold few direct threats for him now. He could proceed directly to the King’s palace, arriving there within a day.
He spied some inert bugs. They were lying in a patch of sunlight, their pincers twitching. Bink felt compassion, and nudged them gently toward the nearest shadow with one foot. Poor little things!
Then he recognized them. These were nickelpedes, shorn of their magic! What a fall they had taken!
But when he swung himself from the last tentacle of the tangler and reached the surface, he discovered it to be unfamiliar. This crevice ran north-south, not east-west, unless the loss of magic had somehow turned the sun around. It had to be a different chasm, not the Gap. He was lost after all.
Now that he thought about it, he doubted he could have come as far north as the Gap. So he was probably somewhere south of it, and south of the palace. His best bet was to travel north until he encountered the Gap, or some other familiar landmark.
The trek was more difficult than he had anticipated. There was no hostile magic, true—but there was also no beneficial magic. The nature of the landscape had changed fundamentally, becoming mundane. There were no flying fruits, no shoe-trees or jean-bushes to replace his ragged apparel, no watermelons to drink from. He had to find ordinary food and water, and hardly knew what to look for. The animals, stunned by their loss of magic, avoided him; they weren’t smart enough to realize that he, too, had been shorn of magic. That was a blessing.
It was late afternoon. How many hours or days he had spent below he could not be sure, but here in the sight of the sun he would be able to keep track again. He would have to spend the night in the forest. It seemed safe enough; be could climb a tree.
He looked for a good one. Many of the trees of this forest seemed dead; perhaps they were merely dormant, in this new winter of the absence of magic. It might take months or years for the full ravages of that winter to become known. Some trees flourished; they must be the mundane varieties, freed from the competition of magic. Would he be better off in a healthy mundane tree, or a defunct magical one?
Bink shivered. It was getting chill, and he could find no blanket bushes. However, it was not merely temperature that affected him. He was tired and lonely and full of remorse for what he had done. Tomorrow he would have to face his friends at the palace and tell them—
But surely they would already have guessed his guilt. It was not confession that bothered him, but punishment. Jewel had been wise to avoid him; he had no future at home.
There seemed to be a certain vague familiarity about this region. There were trails through the brush like those of ant lions, and brambles, and regions of odoriferous plants—
“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “Where we intersected the magic highway to the magic-dust village!”
He peered up through the languishing foliage. There it was—a walkway fashioned from logs and vines, suspended from the stoutest trees. It made no loops in air, but of course it wasn’t magic now.
He climbed aboard the lowest loop and walked along it. The thing seemed dangerously insecure, sagging beneath his weight and swinging sidewise alarmingly, but it held. In due course it brought him to the village.
He had feared a scene of gloom. Instead, the entire village seemed to be celebrating. Another great bonfire was blazing, and men and women of all types were dancing around it.
Men? How had they gotten here? This was a village of women! Could it be another Wave of conquest from Mundania, with the brutish men reveling in this village of helpless women?
Yet there seemed to be no threat. The men were happy, of course—but so were the women. Bink walked on into the village, looking for Trolla, its leader.
A man spied him as he stepped off the hanging walk. “Hello, friend!” the man called. “Welcome home! Who’s your widow?”
“Widow?” Bink asked blankly.
“Your woman—before the gorgon got you. She’ll be overjoyed to have you back.”
The gorgon! Suddenly Bink understood. “You’re the stone men! Freed by the loss of magic!”
“And you weren’t?” The man laughed. “You’d better come see the head man, then.”
“Trolla,” Bink said. “If she’s still here—“
“Who’s looking for Trolla?” someone demanded. It was a huge, ugly troll. Well, an average troll; they were all huge and ugly.
Bink’s hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. “I only want to talk with her.”
“’Sokay,” the troll said genially. He cupped his mouth with his hands. “Bitch, get over here!”
A dozen young women glanced his way, startled, thinking he meant them. Bink covered a smile. “Uh, the gorgon,” he said. “What happened to her?”
“Oh, we were going to string her up, after we, you know...” the troll said. “She was a good-looking slut, except for those snaky tangles in her hair. But she jumped into the lake, and before we realized there weren’t any more monsters in it, she was too far off to catch. Last we saw she was headed north.”
North. Toward Magician Humfrey’s castle. Bink was glad she had escaped, but knew she would not find Humfrey at home. That was another aspect of the tragedy Bink had wrought.
Trolla, responsive to the summons, was arriving. “Bink!” she exclaimed. “You made it!”
“I made it,” he agreed gravely. “I abolished magic from the Land of Xanth. I converted it to Mundania. Now I return home to pay the penalty.”
“The penalty!” the troll cried. “You freed us all! You’re a hero!”
This was an aspect Bink hadn’t considered. “Then you aren’t angry at the loss of magic?”
“Angry?” Trolla cried. “Angry that my husband is back, good enough to eat?” She hugged the troll to her in an embrace that would have cracked normal ribs. He was well able to sustain this, though he seemed momentarily uneasy about something.
A female griffin glided up. “Awk?” she inquired.
“And here’s the one who guided you, released from the midas-spell,” Trolla said. “Where is your handsome griffin?”
Bink thought it best not to tell about the bottle. “He is...confined. He was actually a transformed man. He spoke well of the lady griffin, but he...sends his regrets.”
The griffiness turned away, disappointed. Apparently she did not have a male of her own. Perhaps she would find a male of her land soon—though with the alteration of form that was slowly taking place in such magical creatures, Bink wondered whether that male would be more like an eagle or more like a lion. Or would the present griffins retain their shapes, while their offspring would be eagles and lions? Suppose Crombie emerged from the bottle, but retained his griffin form; would he then find this griffiness worthwhile? If so, what would their offspring be? The loss of magic posed as many questions as the presence of magic!
“Come, we shall fete you royally tonight, and you shall tell us the whole story!” Trolla said.
“I, uh, I’m pretty tired,” Bink demurred. “I’d rather not tell the story. My friend the Good Magician—is missing, and so is the centaur, and the memories—“
“Yes, you need distraction,” Trolla agreed. “We do have a few leftover females, daughters of older villagers. They are very lonely at the moment, and—“
“Uh, no thanks, please,” Bink said quickly. He had broken too many hearts already! “Just some food, and a place to spend the night, if there’s room—“
“We’re short of room; our population has just doubled. But the girls will tend to you. It will give them something to do. They’ll be glad to share their rooms.” Bink was too tired to protest further. But as it turned out, the “girls” were an assortment of fairies and lady elves who paid him flattering attention, but were not really interested in him as a man. They made a game out of feeding him odds and ends, each one putting her morsel in his mouth with her own little hands, twittering merrily. They wouldn’t let him have a plate; everything had to be trotted in from another room, piecemeal. Then he lay in a bed made out of thirty small colored pillows, while the fairies flitted around, the breeze from their gossamer wings fanning him. They could no longer fly, of course, and soon their wings would fall off as they reverted to mundane forms, but at the moment they were cute. He went to sleep counting the creatures that leaped merrily over him in the course of their game of follow-the-leader.
But in the morning he had to face reality again: the bleak journey home. He was glad his quest had done at least this little bit of good; perhaps his talent had planned it this way, before being nullified by the loss of magic, so as to provide him with a good, safe place for this night. But as for the rest of Xanth—what hope remained for it?
The griffiness accompanied him for a distance, guiding him again, and in a surprisingly brief time he was up to the dead forest: halfway familiar territory. It was no longer so different from the rest of the wilderness. He thanked her, wished her well, and continued on alone, northward.
The loneliness closed in about him. The lack of magic was so pervasive and depressing! All the little amenities he was accustomed to were gone. There were no blue toads sitting on their squat vegetable stools, no Indian pipes wafting their sweet smoke aloft. No trees moved their branches out of his way, or cast avoidance-spells on him. Everything was hopelessly Mundane. He felt tired again, and not merely from the march. Was life really worthwhile, without magic?
Well, Chameleon would be locked in her “normal” phase, the one he liked best: neither pretty nor smart, but rather nice overall. Yes, he could live with that for some time before it got dull, assuming that he was allowed to—
He paused. He heard a clip-clop, as of hooves on a beaten path. An enemy? He hardly cared; it was company’
“Hallooo!” he cried.
“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice. He charged toward it
There, standing on a beaten path, was a lady centaur. She was not especially pretty; her flanks were dull, her tail tangled with burrs (naturally a lady would not be able to curse them off), and her human torso and face, though obviously feminine, were not well proportioned. A colt followed her, and he was not only unhandsome, he was downright homely, except for his sleek hindquarters. In fact he resembled— “Chester!” Bink exclaimed. “That’s Chester’s coltl”
“Why, you’re Bink,” the filly said. Now he recognized her: Cherie, Chester’s mate. Yet she was in no way the beauty he had ridden before. What had happened?
But he had enough sense to express himself obliquely. “What are you doing here? I thought you were staying in the centaur village until—“ But that was a trap, too, for Chester would never return.
“I’m trotting to the palace to find out what is responsible for the miracle,” she said. “Do you realize that obscenity has been banished from Xanth?”
Bink remembered: Cherie considered magic obscene, at least when it manifested in centaurs. She tolerated it as a necessary evil in others, for she regarded herself as a liberal-minded filly, but preferred to discuss it only clinically.
Well, he had the detail on it! He was glad that at least one person liked the change. “I’m afraid I’m responsible.”
“You abolished magic?” she asked, startled.
“It’s a long story,” Bink said. “And a painful one. I don’t expect others to accept it as well as you will.”
“Get on my back,” she said. “You travel too slow. I’ll take you in to the palace, and you can tell me the whole story. I’m dying to know!”
She might be dying literally, when she learned the truth about Chester. But he had to tell her. Bink mounted and hung on as she broke into a trot. He had anticipated a daylong march, but now this would be unnecessary; she would get them to the palace before dark.
He told her the story. He found himself going into more detail than strictly necessary, and realized this was because he dreaded the denouement—where Chester had fought his dreadful battle and lost. True, he might have won, had the evil eye intended for Bink not stunned him—but that would be scant comfort to her. Cherie was a widow—and he had to be the one to tell her.
His narrative was interrupted by a bellow. A dragon hove into view—but it was a miserable monster. The once-bright scales had faded into mottled gray. When it snorted fire, only dust emerged. The thing was already looking gaunt and ill; it depended on magic for its hunting.
Nevertheless, the dragon charged, intent on consuming centaur, rider, and colt. Bink drew his sword, and Cherie skittered lightly on her feet, ready to kick. Even a bedraggled dragon of this size was a terror.
Then Bink saw a scar on the dragon’s neck. “Say— don’t I know you?” he exclaimed.
The dragon paused. Then it lifted its head in a signal of recognition.
“Chester and Crombie and I met this dragon and made a truce,” Bink said. “We fought the nickelpedes together.”
“The nickelpedes are harmless now,” Cherie said. “Their pincers have lost their—“ She pursed her lips distastefully. “Their magic. I trotted right down inside the Gap and stepped on them and they couldn’t hurt me.”
Bink knew. “Dragon, magic is gone from Xanth,” Bink told it. “You’ll have to learn to hunt and fight without your fire. In time you will change into your dominant mundane component, or your offspring will. I think that would be a large snake. I’m sorry.”
The dragon stared at him in horror. Then it whipped about and half-galloped, half-slithered off.
“I’m sorry too,” Cherie said. “I realize now that Xanth isn’t really Xanth, without magic. Spells do have their place. Creatures like that—magic is natural to them.” This was a considerable concession, for her.
Bink resumed his narrative. He could stall no longer, so nerved himself and said what he had to. “So I have Crombie here in the bottle,” he concluded. And waited, aware of the awful tenseness in her body.
“But Chester and Humfrey—“
“Remain below,” he said. “Because I freed the Demon.”
“But you don’t know they are dead,” she said, her body still so tense that riding her was uncomfortable. “They can be found, brought back—“
“I don’t know how,” Bink said glumly. He didn’t like this at all.
“Humfrey’s probably just lost; that’s why you couldn’t find his body. Dazed by the collapse. Without his informational magic he could be confused for a goblin. And Chester—he’s too ornery to—to—he’s not dead, he’s just pickled. You said that was a preservative lake—“
“So I did,” Bink agreed. “I—but it was drained, so that I could see the convolutions of the brain coral.”
“It wasn’t drained all the way! He’s down there, deep below, I know it, like the griffin in the bottle. We can find him, revive him—“
Bink shook his head. “Not without magic.”
She bucked him off. Bink flew through the air, saw the ground coming at his head, knew that his talent would do nothing—and landed in Cherie’s arms. She had leaped to catch him at the last moment “Sorry, Bink. It’s just that obscenity bothers me. Centaurs don’t...” She righted him and set him on his feet, never completing her statement. She might not be beautiful now, but she had the centaur strength.
Strength, not beauty. She had been a magnificently breasted creature, in the time of magic; now she remained ample, but she sagged somewhat, as most human or humanoid females of similar measurement did. Her face had been delightfully pert; now it was plain. What could account for the sudden change— except the loss of magic?
“Let me get this straight,” Bink said. “You feel all magic is obscene—“
“Not all magic, Bink. For some of you it seems to be natural—but you’re only human. For a centaur it is a different matter. We’re civilized.”
“Suppose centaurs had magic too?”
Her face shaped into controlled disgust. “We had better be on our way before it gets too late. There is a fair distance yet to cover.”
“Like Herman the hermit, Chester’s uncle,” Bink persisted. “He could summon will-o’-the-wisps.”
“He was exiled from our society,” she said. Her expression had a surly quality that reminded him of Chester.
“Suppose other centaurs had magic—“
“Bink, why are you being so offensive? Do you want me to have to leave you here in the wilderness?” She beckoned to her colt, who came quickly to her side.
“Suppose you yourself had a magic talent?” Bink asked. “Would you still consider it obscene?”
“That does it!” she snorted. “I will not endure such obnoxious behavior, even from a human. Come, Chet.” And she started off.
“Damn it, filly, listen to me!” Bink cried. “You know why Chester came on my quest? Because he wanted to discover his own magic talent. If you deny magic in centaurs, you deny him—because he does have magic, good magic, that—“
She spun about, raising her forehooves to strike him down. A filly she might be, but she could kill him with a single blow.
Bink danced back. “Good magic,” he repeated. “Not anything stupid, like turning green leaves purple, or negative, like giving people hotfeet. He plays a magic flute, a silver flute, the most lovely music I ever heard. Deep inside he’s an awfully pretty person, but he’s suppressed it because—“
“I’m going to stomp you absolutely flat!” she neighed, smashing at him with both forefeet “You have no right even to suggest—“
But he was cool, now, while she was half-blinded by rage. He avoided her strikes as he would those of a savage unicorn, without ever turning his back or retreating more than he had to. He could have stabbed her six times with his sword, but never drew it This debate was all academic now, since magic was gone from Xanth, but he was perversely determined that she should admit the truth. “And you, Cherie—you have magic too. You make yourself look the way you want to look, you enhance yourself. It’s a type of illusion, restricted to—“
She struck at him with both forefeet at once, in a perfect fury. He was affronting her deepest sensitivities, telling her that she herself was obscene. But he was ready, anticipating her reactions, avoiding them. His voice was his sword, and he intended to score with it. He had had too much of delusion, his own especially; he would wipe the whole slate clean. In a way, it was himself he was attacking: his shame at what he had done to Xanth when he freed the Demon. “I challenge you,” he cried. “Look at yourself in a lake. See the difference. Your magic is gone!”
Even in her fury, she realized she was not getting anywhere. “All right I’ll look!” she cried. “Then I’ll kick you to the moon!”
As it happened, they had passed a small pond recently. They returned to it in silence, Bink already starting to be sorry for what he was doing to her, and the lady centaur looked at herself. She was certain what she would find, yet honest enough to have her certainty disrupted by the fact. “Oh, no!” she cried, shocked. “I’m homely, I’m hideous, I’m uglier than Chester!”
“No, you’re beautiful—with magic,” Bink insisted, wanting to make up for the revelation he had forced on her. “Because magic is natural to you, as it is to me. You have no more reason to oppose it than you do any other natural function, like eating or breeding or—“
“Get away from me!” she screamed. “You monster, you—“ In another fit of fury she stamped her hoof in the pond, making a splash. But the water only settled back, as water did, and the ripples quieted, and the image returned with devastating import.
“Listen, Cherie!” Bink cried. “You pointed out that Chester can be rescued. I’m just building on that. I don’t dare open Crombie’s bottle because the process requires magic, and there is none. Chester must stay in the lake for the same reason, in suspended animation. We need magic. It doesn’t matter whether we like it. Without it, Chester is dead. We can’t get anywhere as long as you—“
With extreme reluctance, she nodded agreement. “I thought nothing would make me tolerate obscenity. But for Chester I would do anything. Even—“ She gulped, and twitched her tail. “Even magic. But—“
“We need a new quest!” Bink said with sudden inspiration as he washed himself in the pond. “A quest to restore magic to the Land of Xanth! Maybe if we all work together, humans and centaurs and all Xanth’s creatures, we can find another Demon—“ But he petered out, realizing the futility of the notion. How could they summon X(A/N)th or E(A/R)th or any other super-magical entity? The Demons had no interest in this realm.
“Yes,” Cherie agreed, finding hope as Bink lost it. “Maybe the King will know how to go about it. Get on my back; I’m going to gallop.”
Bink remounted her, and she took off. She did not have the sheer power Chester had, but Bink had to cling to her slender waist to stay on as she zoomed through the forest.
“And with magic, I’ll be beautiful again...” she murmured into the wind, wistfully.
Bink, tired, nodded sleepily as Cherie charged on through the desolate wilderness. Then he was almost pitched off as she braked.
They faced a huge shaggy pair of creatures. “Make way, you monsters!” Cherie cried without rancor. They were, after all, monsters. “This is a public easement; you can’t block it!”
“We not block it, centaur lass,” one monster said. “You give way to let we pass.”
“Crunch the Ogre!” Bink exclaimed. “What are you doing so far from home?”
“You know this monster?” Cherie asked Bink.
“I certainly do! What’s more, now I can understand him without translation!”
The ogre, who now resembled a brute of a man, peered at Bink from beneath his low skull. “You man we met, the one on quest? Me on gooeymoon with she loved best.”
“Gooeymoon?” Cherie murmured.
“Oh, so that’s Sleeping Beauty!” Bink said, contemplating the ogress. She was as ugly a creature as he cared to imagine. Yet beneath her hair, which resembled a mop just used to wipe up vomit, and her baggy coarse dress, she seemed to have rather more delicate contours than one might expect in an ogress. Then he remembered: she was no true ogress, but an actress, playing a part in one of the fiend’s productions. She could probably look beautiful if she tried. Why, then, was she not trying? “Uh, one question—“
The female, no dummy, caught his gist before he got it out. “True, me once have other face,” she told Bink. “Me glad get out of that rat race. Me find man better than any fiend; me like it best, by he be queened.”
So the prima donna had found a husband worthy of her attention! After meeting the fiends, Bink found himself in agreement with her choice. She was maintaining the ogress guise, which was in any event merely a physical reflection of her normal personality, while teaching Crunch to speak more intelligibly. One savvy lady fiend, there! “Uh, congratulations,” Bink said. Aside, he explained to Cherie. “They married on our advice. Humfrey and Crombie and Chester and the golem and I. Except that Humfrey was asleep. It was quite a story.”
“I’m sure,” Cherie agreed dubiously.
“Yes, me bash he good,” the fair she-ogre said. “He head like wood.”
“Ogres are very passionate,” Bink murmured.
Cherie, after her initial surprise, was quick to catch on. “How do you keep his love?” she inquired with a certain female mischief. “Doesn’t he like to go out adventuring?”
Bink realized she was thinking of Chester, perhaps unconsciously.
“Me let he go, me never say no,” the ogress said, full of the wisdom of her sex. “When he come back, me give he crack.” She struck the ogre with a horrendous backhand wallop by way of example. Just as well, for Bink had been about to misunderstand the reference. “Make he feel like beast, then give he feast.”
Crunch’s face contorted into a smile of agreement. He was obviously well satisfied. And probably better off, Bink thought, than he might have been with a natural ogress, who would have taken his nature for granted. Whatever faults the actress might have, she certainly knew how to handle her male.
“Does the loss of magic interfere with your lifestyle?” Bink inquired. Both ogres looked at him blankly.
“They never noticed!” Cherie exclaimed. “There’s true love for you!”
The ogre couple went on its way, and Cherie resumed her run. But she was thoughtful. “Bink, just as a rhetorical example—does a male really like to feel like a beast?”
“Yes, sometimes,” Bink agreed, thinking of Chameleon. When she was in her stupid-beautiful phase, she seemed to live only to please him, and he felt extremely manly. But when she was in her smart-ugly phase, she turned him off with her wit as well as her appearance. In that respect she was smarter when she was stupid than when she was smart. Of course now all that was over; she would stay always in her “normal” phase, avoiding the extremes. She would never turn him off—or on.
“And a centaur—if he felt like a real stallion at home—“
“Yes. Males need to feel wanted and needed and dominant, even when they aren’t. Especially at home. That ogress knows what she’s doing.”
“So it seems,” Cherie agreed. “She’s a complete fake, a mere actress, yet he’s so happy he’d do anything for her. But lady centaurs can act too, when they nave reason...” Then she was silent as she ran.