text: Dor did not arrive inside Magician Humfrey's castle. He found himself standing just outside the moat. Something had gone wrong!
  
  No, he realized. He had been conjured correctly—but the Good Magician, who didn't like intrusions, had placed a barrier-spell in the way, to divert anyone to this place outside. Humfrey didn't like to talk to anyone who didn't get into the castle the hard way. Of course he wasn't supposed to make the King run the gauntlet—but obviously the old wizard was not paying attention at the moment. Dor should have called him on a magic mirror; he hadn't thought of it, in his eagerness to get going. Which meant he deserved what he had gotten—the consequence of his own lack of planning.
  
  Of course, he could probably yell loud enough to attract the attention of someone inside the castle so he could get admitted without trouble. But Dor had a slightly ornery streak. He had made a mistake; he wanted to work his way out of it himself. Rather, into it. He had forced his way into this castle once, four years ago; he should be able to do it now. That would prove he could recover his own fumbles—the way a King should.
  
  He took a good look at the castle environs. The moat was not clear and sparkling as it had been the last time he was here; it was dull and noisome. The shape of the castle wall was now curved and slanted back, like a steep conical mountain. It was supremely unimpressive—and therefore suspect.
  
  Dor squatted and dipped a finger in the water. It came up festooned with slime. He sniffed it. Ugh! Yet there was a certain familiarity about it he could not quite place. Where had he smelled that smell before?
  
  One thing was certain: he was not about to wade or swim through that water without first ascertaining exactly what lurked in it. Magician Humfrey's castle defenses were intended to balk and discourage, rather than to destroy—but they were always formidable enough. Generally it took courage and ingenuity to navigate the several hazards. There would be something in the moat a good deal more unpleasant than slime.
  
  Nothing showed. The dingy green gook covered the whole surface, unbroken by any other horror. Dor was not encouraged.
  
  "Water, are there any living creatures lurking in your depths?" he inquired.
  
  "None at all," the water replied, its voice slurred by the goop. Yet there was a tittery overtone; it seemed to find something funny in the question.
  
  "Any inanimate traps?"
  
  "None." Now little ripples of mirth tripped across the glutinous surface.
  
  "What's so funny?" Dor demanded.
  
  The water made little elongated splashes, like dribbles of spoiled mucus. "You'll find out."
  
  The trouble with the inanimate was that it had very shallow notions of humor and responsibility. But it could usually be coaxed or cowed. Dor picked up a rock and hefted it menacingly. "Tell me what you know," he said to the water, "or I'll strike you with this stone."
  
  "Don't do that!" the water cried, cowed. "I'll squeal! I'll spill everything I know, which isn't much."
  
  "Ugh!" the rock said at the same time. "Don't throw me in that feculent sludge!"
  
  Dor remembered how he had played the Magician's own defenses against each other, last time. There had been a warning sign, TRESPASSERS WILL BE PERSECUTED—and sure enough, when he trespassed he had been presented with a button with the word TRESPASSER on one side, and PERSECUTED on the other. The living-history tome that had recorded the episode had suffered a typo, rendering PERSECUTED into PROSECUTED for the sign, but not for the button, spoiling the effect of these quite different words. These things happened; few people seemed to know the distinction, and Dor's spelling had not been good enough to correct it. But this time there was no sign. He had to generate his own persecution. "Get on with it," he told the water, still holding the rock.
  
  "It's a zombie," the water said. "A zombie sea serpent."
  
  Now Dor understood. Zombies were dead, so it was true there were no living creatures in the moat. But zombies were animate, so there were no inanimate traps either. It made sudden sense—for Dor remembered belatedly that the Zombie Master was still here. When the Zombie Master appeared in the present Xanth, there had been a problem, since Good Magician Humfrey now occupied the castle the Zombie Master had used eight hundred years ago. The one had the claim of prior tenancy, the other the claim of present possession. Neither wanted trouble. So the two Magicians had agreed to share the premises until something better was offered. Evidently the Zombie Master had found nothing better. Naturally he helped out with the castle defenses; he was not any more sociable than Humfrey was.
  
  As it happened, Dor had had experience with zombies. Some of his best friends had been zombies. He still was not too keen on the way they smelled, or on the way they dropped clods of dank glop and maggots wherever they went, but they were not bad creatures in their place. More important, they were hardly smarter than the inanimate objects Dor's magic animated, because their brains were literally rotten. He was confident he could fool a zombie.
  
  "There should be a boat around here," he said to the rock. "Where is it?"
  
  "Over there, chump," the rock said. "Now will you let me go?"
  
  Dor saw the boat. Satisfied, he let the rock go. It dropped with a satisfied thunk to the ground and remained there in blissful repose. Rocks were basically lazy; they hardly ever did anything on their own.
  
  He went to the boat. It was a dingy canoe with a battered double paddle—exactly what he needed. Dor walked away.
  
  "Hey, aren't you going to use me?" the canoe demanded. Objects weren't supposed to talk unless Dor willed it, but they tended to get sloppy about the rules.
  
  "No. I'm going to fetch my friend the zombie."
  
  "Oh, sure. We see lots of that kind here. They make good fertilizer."
  
  When Dor was out of sight of the castle, he stopped and stooped to grub in the dirt. He smeared dirt on his face and arms and over his royal robes. Naturally he should have changed to more suitable clothing for this trip, but of course that was part of his overall carelessness. He had not planned ahead at all.
  
  Next, he found a sharp stone and used it to rip into the cloth of the robe. "Ooooh, ouch!" the robe groaned. "What did I ever do to you that you should slay me thus?" But the sharp stone only chuckled. It liked ripping off clothing.
  
  Before long, Dor was a tattered figure of a man. He scooped several double handfuls of dirt into a fold of his robe and walked back to the castle. As he approached the moat, he shuffled in the manner of a zombie and dropped small clods to the ground.
  
  He got into the canoe. "Oooooh," he groaned soulfully. "I hope I can make it home before I go all to pieces." And he used the paddle to push off into the scum of the moat. He was deliberately clumsy, though in truth he was not well experienced with canoes and would have been awkward anyway. The water slurped and sucked as the paddle dipped into the ooze.
  
  Now there was a stirring as the zombie sea monster moved. The slime parted and the huge, mottled, decaying head lifted clear of the viscous surface. Globules of slush dangled and dripped, plopping sickly into the water. The huge, sloppy mouth peeled open, revealing scores of loose brownish teeth set in a jaw almost stripped of flesh.
  
  "Hi, friend!" Dor called windily. "Can you direct me to my Master?" As he spoke he slipped forth a moist clod of dirt, so that it looked as if his lip were falling off.
  
  The monster hesitated. Its grotesque head swung close to inspect Dor. Its left eyeball came loose, dangling by a gleaming string. "Sooo?" the zombie inquired, its breath redolent of spoiled Limberger.
  
  Dor waved his arms, losing some more earth. One choice clod struck the monster on the nose with a dank squish. He was sorry he hadn't been able to find anything really putrid, like a maggoty rat corpse, but that was the luck of the game. "Whe-eere?" he demanded, every bit as stupid as a zombie. The big advantage to playing stupid was that it didn't take much intelligence. He knocked at his right ear and let fall another clod, as if a piece of his brain had been dislodged.
  
  At last the serpent caught on. "Theeere," it breathed, spraying out several loose fragments of teeth and bone with the effort. Its snout seemed to be afflicted with advanced gangrene, and the remaining teeth were crumbling around their caries.
  
  "Thaaanks," Dor replied, dropping another clod into the water. He took up the paddle again and scraped on toward the castle. "Hope I don't fall apart before I get there."
  
  He had won the first round. The sea serpent was in poor condition, as most zombies were, but could have capsized the boat and drowned Dor in slime without difficulty. Had its brain been a better grade of pudding, it might have done just that. But zombies did not attack their own kind; that was too messy. Even the completeness of Dor's own body, conspicuously healthy under the tatters and dirt, did not count too much against him; fresh zombies were complete. It took time for most of the flesh to fall off.
  
  He docked at the inner edge of the moat, where the castle wall emerged at its steep angle. Now Dor splashed a hole in the slime and cleared a section of halfway clean water he could wash in. His zombie ploy was over; he didn't want to enter the castle in this condition. The rents in his robe could not be repaired, but at least he would look human.
  
  He got out of the canoe, but found it hard to stand on the sloping wall. The surface was not brick or stone, as he had supposed, but glass—solid, translucent, seamless, cold hard glass. A mountain of glass.
  
  Glass. Now he grasped the nature of the second challenge. The slope became steeper near the top, until the wall was almost vertical. How could he scale that?
  
  Dor tried. He placed each foot carefully and found that he could stand and walk, slowly. He had to remain straight upright, for the moment he leaned into the mountain, as was his natural inclination, his feet began to skid. He could quickly get dumped into the awful moat if he let his feet slide out from under him. Fortunately, there was no wind; he could stand erect and step slowly up.
  
  He noticed, however, a small cloud in the sky. As he watched, it seemed to extend rapidly. Oops—that surely meant rain, which would wash him out. That was surely no coincidence; probably the touch of his foot on the glass had summoned the storm. He had to hike to the top of the mountain before the cloud arrived. Well, the distance was not far. With care and good foot-friction, he could probably make it.
  
  Then something came galloping around the mountain. It had four legs, a tail, and a funny horned head. But its chief oddity—
  
  It was heading right for Dor, those horns lowered. The creature was no taller than he, and the horns were small and blunt, but the body was far more massive. Dor had to jump to get out of its way—and lost his footing and slid down to the brink of the water before stopping, his nose barely clear of the slime.
  
  He stabilized himself while the zombie sea serpent watched with a certain aloof amusement. Dor wiped a dangle of goo from his nose. "What was that?"
  
  "The Sidehill Hoofer," the glass responded.
  
  "Something funny about that creature. The legs—"
  
  "Oh, sure," the glass said. "The two left legs are shorter than the two rights. That's so she can charge around the mountain in comfort. It's natural selection; lots of the better mountains have them."
  
  Shorter left legs—so the Hoofer could stay level while running on a slope. It did make a certain kind of sense. "How come I never heard of this creature before?" Dor demanded.
  
  "Probably because your education has been neglected."
  
  "I was tutored by a centaur!" Dor said defensively.
  
  "The centaur surely told you of the Sidehill Hoofer," the glass agreed. "But did you listen? Education is only as good as the mind of the student."
  
  "What are you implying?" Dor demanded.
  
  "I rather thought you were too dense to grasp the implication," the glass said with smug condescension.
  
  "You're a mountain of glass!" Dor said irately. "How bright can you be?"
  
  "Thought you'd never ask. I'm the brightest thing on the horizon." And a beam of sunlight slanted down, avoiding the looming cloud, causing the mountain to glow brilliantly.
  
  Dor had walked into that one! With the lifetime experience he had, he still fell into the trap of arguing with the inanimate. He changed the subject "Is the Hoofer dangerous?"
  
  "Not if you have the wit to stay out of her way."
  
  "I've got to climb to the top of this slope."
  
  "Extraordinary fortune," the glass said brightly.
  
  "What?"
  
  The glass sighed. "I keep forgetting that animate creatures can not match my brilliance. Recognizing your handicap, I shall translate: Lots of luck."
  
  "Oh, thank you," Dor said sarcastically.
  
  "That's irony," the glass said.
  
  "Irony—not glassy?"
  
  "Spare me your feeble efforts at repartee. If you do not get moving before that cloud arrives, you will be washed right into the sea."
  
  "That's an exaggeration," Dor grumped, starting back up the slope.
  
  "That is hyperbole." The glass began humming a tinkly little tune.
  
  Dor made better progress than before. He was getting the hang of it. He had to put his feet down flat and softly and will himself not to skid. But the Sidehill Hoofer came charging around the cone again, spooking him with a loud "Moooo!" and Dor slid down the slope again. He was no more partial to this bovine than he had been to Irene's sea cow.
  
  The cloud was definitely closer, and playful little gusts of wind emanated from it. "Oh, get lost!" Dor told it.
  
  "Fat chance!" it blew back, ruffling his hair with an aggravating intimacy.
  
  Dor went up the slope a third time, by dint of incautious effort getting beyond the slight gouge in the mountain worn by the Hoofer's pounding hooves. The glass hummed louder and finally broke into song: "She'll be coming 'round the mountain when she comes."
  
  Sure enough, the Sidehill Hoofer came galumphing around again, spied Dor, and corrected course slightly to charge straight at him. Her uneven legs pounded evenly on the incline, so that her two short horns were dead-level as they bore on him. Blunt those horns might be, but they were formidable enough in this situation.
  
  Oh, no! It was no accident that brought this creature around so inconveniently; she was trying to prevent him from passing. Naturally this was the third barrier to his entry into the castle.
  
  Dor jumped out of the way and slid down to the brink again, disgruntled. The Hoofer thundered by, disappearing around the curve.
  
  Dor wiped another dribble of slime off his nose. He wasn't making much progress! This was annoying, because he had passed his first challenge without difficulty and faced only two comparatively simple and harmless ones—to avoid the Hoofer and scale the slippery slope. Either alone was feasible; together they baffled him. Now he had perhaps ten minutes to accomplish both before the ornery raincloud wiped him out. Already the forward edge of the cloud had cut off the sunbeam.
  
  Dor didn't like leaning on his magic talent too much, but decided that pride was a foolish baggage at this point. He had to get inside the castle any way he could and get Good Magician Humfrey's advice—for the good of Xanth.
  
  "Glass, since you're so bright—tell me how I can get past the Hoofer and up your slope before the cloud strikes."
  
  "Don't tell him!" the cloud thundered.
  
  "Well, I'm not so bright any more, now that I'm in your shadow," the glass demurred. This was true; the sparkle was gone, and the mountain was a somber dark mass, like the quiet depths of an ocean.
  
  "But you remember the answer," Dor said. "Give."
  
  "Take!" the storm blew.
  
  "I've got to tell him," the glass said dolefully. "Though I'd much rather watch him fall on his as—"
  
  "Watch your language!" Dor snapped.
  
  "—inine posterior again and dip his nose in the gunk. But he's a Magician and I'm only silicon." The glass sighed. "Very well. Cogitate and masticate on—"
  
  "What?"
  
  "Give me strength to survive the monumental idiocy of the animate," the glass prayed obnoxiously. The cloud had let a gleam of sunlight through, making it bright again. "Think and chew on this: who can most readily mount the slope?"
  
  "The Sidehill Hoofer," Dor said. "But that's no help. I'm the one who—"
  
  "Think and chew," the glass repeated with emphasis.
  
  That reminded Dor of the way King Trent had stressed the importance of honesty, and that annoyed Dor. This mountain was no King! What business did it have making oblique allusions, as if Dor were a dunce who needed special handling? "Look, glass—I asked you a direct question—"
  
  "An indirect question, technically. My response reflects your approach. But surely you realize that I am under interdiction by another Magician."
  
  Dor didn't know what "interdiction" meant, but could guess. Humfrey had told the mountain not to blab the secret. But the cloud was looming close and large and dense with water, and he was impatient. "Hey, I insist that you tell me—"
  
  "That is of course the answer."
  
  Dor paused. This too-bright object was making a fool of him. He reviewed his words. Hey, I insist that you tell me—how was that the answer? Yet it seemed it was.
  
  "You'll never get it," the glass said disparagingly.
  
  "Hey, now—" Dor started angrily.
  
  "There you go again."
  
  Hey, now?
  
  Suddenly for got it. Hey—spelled H A Y. "Hay—now!" he cried. It was a homonym.
  
  The zombie sea serpent, taking that for an order, swam across the moat and reached out to take a clumsy bite of dry grass from the outer bank. It brought this back to Dor.
  
  "Thank you, serpent," Dor said, accepting the armful. He shook out the residual slime and dottle, and several more of the monster's teeth bounced on the glass. Zombies had an inexhaustible supply of fragments of themselves to drop; it was part of their nature.
  
  He started up the slope yet again, but this time he wanted to meet the Hoofer. He stood there with his hay, facing her.
  
  The creature came 'round the mountain—and paused as she sighted him. Her ears perked forward and her tongue ran over her lips.
  
  "That's right, you beautiful bovine," Dor said. "This hay is for you. Think and chew—to chew on while you think. I noticed that there isn't much forage along your beat. You must use a lot of energy, pounding around, and work up quite an appetite. Surely you could use a lunch break before the rain spoils everything."
  
  The Hoofer's eyes became larger. They were beautiful and soulful. Her square nose quivered as she sniffed in the odor of the fresh hay. Her pink tongue ran around her muzzle again. She was certainly hungry.
  
  "Of course, if I set it down, it'll just slide down the slope and into the moat," Dor said reasonably. "I guess you could fish it out, but slime-coated hay doesn't taste very good, does it?" As he spoke, a stronger gust of wind from the eager storm swirled through, tugging at the hay and wafting a few strands down to the goo of the moat. The Hoofer fidgeted with alarm.
  
  "Tell you what I'll do," Dor said. "I'll just get on your back and carry the hay, and feed it to you while you walk. That way you'll be able to eat it all, without losing a wisp, and no one can accuse you of being derelict in your duty. You'll be covering your beat all the time."
  
  "Mmmooo," the Hoofer agreed, salivating. She might not be bright, but she knew a good deal when she smelled it.
  
  Dor approached, gave her a good mouthful of hay, then scrambled onto her back from the uphill side. His left foot dragged, while his right foot dangled well above the surface of the glass, but he was sitting level. He leaned forward and extended his left hand to present another morsel of hay.
  
  The Hoofer took it and chewed blissfully, walking forward. When she finished masticating that—Dor realized he had learned a new word, though he would never be able to spell it—he gave her more, again left-handedly. She had to turn her head left to take it, and her travel veered slightly that way, uphill.
  
  They continued in this manner for a full circuit of the mountain. Sure enough, they were higher on the slope than they had been. His constant presentation of hay on the upward side caused the Hoofer to spiral upward. That was where he wanted to go.
  
  The storm was almost upon them. It had not been fooled! Dor leaned forward, squeezing with his knees, and the Hoofer unconsciously speeded up. The second circuit of the mountain was much faster, because of the accelerated pace and the narrower diameter at this elevation, and the third was faster yet. But Dor's luck, already overextended, was running out. His supply of hay, he saw, would not last until the top—and the rain would catch them anyway.
  
  He made a bold try to turn liabilities into assets. "I'm running out of hay—and the storm is coming," he told the Hoofer. "You'd better set me down before it gets slippery; no sense having my weight burden you."
  
  She hesitated, thinking this through. Dor helped the process. "Anywhere will do. You don't have to take me all the way to the base of the mountain. Maybe there at the top, where I'll be out of your way; it's certainly closer."
  
  That made good cow-sense to her. She trotted in a rapidly tightening spiral to the pinnacle, unbothered by the nearly vertical slope, where Dor stepped off. "Thanks, Hoofer," he said. "You do have pretty eyes." His experience with Irene had impressed upon him the advantage of complimenting females; they all were vain about their appearance.
  
  Pleased, the Hoofer began spiraling down. At that point, the storm struck. The cloud crashed into the pinnacle; the cloud substance tore asunder and water sluiced out of the rent. Rain pelted down, converting the glass surface instantly to something like slick ice. Wind buffeted him, whistling past the needle-pointed apex of the mountain that had wounded the cloud, making dire screams.
  
  Dor's feet slipped out, and he had to fling his arms around the narrow spire to keep from sliding rapidly down. The Hoofer had trouble, too; she braced all four feet—but still skidded grandly downward, until the lessening pitch of the slope enabled her to achieve stability. Then she ducked her head, flipped her tail over her nose, and went to sleep standing. The storm could not really hurt her. She had nowhere to go anyway. She was secure as long as she never tried to face the other way. He knew that when the rain abated, the Sidehill Hoofer would be contentedly chewing her cud.
  
  So Dor had made it to the top, conquering the last of the hurdles. Only—what was he to do now? The mountain peaked smoothly, and there was no entrance. Had he gone through all this to reach the wrong spot? If so, he had outsmarted himself.
  
  The water sluicing from the cloud was cold. His tattered clothing was soaked through, and his fingers were turning numb. Soon he would lose his grip and slide down, probably plunking all the way into the gook of the moat. That was a fate almost worse than freezing!
  
  "There must be a way in from here!" he gasped.
  
  "Of course there is, dumbbell," the spire replied. "You're not nearly as sharp as I am! Why else did you scheme your way up here? To wash off your grimy body? I trust I'm not being too pointed."
  
  Why else indeed! He had just assumed this was the correct route, because it was the most difficult one. "Okay, brilliant glass—your mind has more of a cutting edge than mine. Where is it?"
  
  "Now I don't have to tell you that," the glass said, chortling. "Any idiot, even one as dull as you, could figure that out for himself."
  
  "I'm not just any idiot!" Dor cried, the discomfort of the rain and chill giving him a terrible temper.
  
  "You certainly aren't! You're a prize idiot."
  
  "Thank you," Dor said, mollified. Then he realized that he was being as gullible as the average inanimate. Furious, Dor bashed his forehead against the glass—and something clicked. Oops—had he cracked his skull?
  
  No, he had only a mild bruise. Something else had made the noise. He nudged the surface again and got another click.
  
  Oho! He hit the glass a third time—and suddenly the top of the mountain sprang open, a cap whose catch had been released. It hung down one side on stout hinges, and inside was the start of a spiral staircase. Victory at last!
  
  "That's using your head," the glass remarked.
  
  Dor scrambled into the hole. He entered headfirst, then wrestled himself around to get his feet on the steps. Then he hauled the pointed cap of the mountain up and over, at last closing off the blast of the rain. "Curses!" the cloud stormed as he shut it out.
  
  He emerged into Humfrey's crowded study. There were battered leather-bound tomes of spells, magic mirrors, papers, and a general litter of indecipherable artifacts. Amidst it all, almost lost in the shuffle, stood Good Magician Humfrey.
  
  Humfrey was small, almost tiny, and grossly wrinkled. His head and feet were almost as large as those of a goblin, and most of his hair had gone the way of his youth. Dor had no idea how old he was and was afraid to ask; Humfrey was an almost ageless institution. He was the Magician of Information; everything that needed to be known in Xanth, he knew—and he would answer any question for the payment of one year's service by the asker. It was amazing how many people and creatures were not discouraged by that exorbitant fee; it seemed information was the most precious thing there was.
  
  "About time you got here," the little man grumped, not even noticing Dor's condition. "There's a problem in Centaur Isle you'll have to attend to. A new Magician has developed."
  
  This was news indeed! New Magicians appeared in Xanth at the rate of about one per generation; Dor had been the last one born. "Who is he? What talent does he have?"
  
  "He seems to be a centaur."
  
  "A centaur! But most of them don't believe in magic!"
  
  "They're very intelligent," Humfrey agreed.
  
  Since centaurs did have magic talents—those who admitted it—there was no reason why there could not be a centaur Magician, Dor realized. But the complications were horrendous. Only a Magician could govern Xanth; suppose one day there were no human Magician, only a centaur one? Would the human people accept a centaur King? Could a centaur King even govern his own kind? Dor doubted that Cherie Centaur would take orders from any magic-working centaur; she had very strict notions about obscenity, and that was the ultimate. "You didn't tell me his talent."
  
  "I don't know his talent!" Humfrey snapped. "I've been burning the midnight magic and cracking mirrors trying to ascertain it—but there seems to be nothing he does."
  
  "Then how can he be a Magician?"
  
  "That is for you to find out!" Obviously the Good Magician was not at all pleased to admit his inability to ascertain the facts in this case. "We can't have an unidentified Magician-caliber talent running loose; it might be dangerous."
  
  Dangerous? Something connected. "Uh—would Centaur Isle be to the south?"
  
  "Southern tip of Xanth. Where else would it be?"
  
  Dor didn't want to admit that he had neglected that part of his geography. Cherie had made nonhuman history and social studies optional, since Dor was human; therefore he hadn't studied them. He had learned about the ogre migration only because Smash had been curious. His friend Chet lived in a village not far north of the Gap Chasm, in easy galloping range of Castle Roogna via one of the magic bridges. Of course Dor knew that there were other colonies of centaurs; they were scattered around Xanth just as the human settlements were. He just hadn't paid attention to the specific sites. "Crombie the soldier pointed out the greatest threat to Xanth there. Also a job I need to attend to. And a way to get help to rescue King Trent. So it all seems to fit."
  
  "Of course it fits. Everything in Xanth makes sense, for those with the wit to fathom it. You're going to Centaur Isle. Why else did you come here?"
  
  "I thought it was for advice."
  
  "Oh, that. The Elders' face-saving device. Very well. Gather your juvenile friends. You'll be traveling incognito; no conjuring or other royal affectations. You can't roust out this hidden Magician if he knows you're coming. So the trip will take a week or so—"
  
  "A week! The Elders won't let me be away more than a day!"
  
  "Ridiculous! They made no trouble about King Trent going to Mundania for a week, did they?"
  
  "Because they didn't know," Dor said. "He didn't tell them."
  
  "Of course he told them! He consulted with me, and for the sake of necessary privacy I agreed to consult with the Elders and let him know if they raised any objections—and they didn't."
  
  "But my grandfather Roland says he was never told," Dor insisted. "The truth is, he is somewhat annoyed."
  
  "I told him myself. Here, verify it with the mirror." He gestured to a magic mirror on the wall. Its surface was finely crazed; evidently this was one of the ones that had suffered in the course of Humfrey's recent investigation of the centaur Magician.
  
  "When did Magician Humfrey tell Elder Roland about King Trent's trip to Mundania?" Dor asked it carefully. One had to specify things exactly, for mirrors' actual depth was much less than their apparent depth, and they were not smart at all despite their ability to answer questions. "Garbage in, garbage out," King Trent had once remarked cryptically, apparently meaning that a stupid question was likely to get a stupid answer.
  
  The tail of a centaur appeared in the marred surface. Dor knew that meant NO. "It says you didn't," he said.
  
  "Well, maybe I forgot," Humfrey muttered. "I'm too busy to keep up with every trifling detail." And the front of the centaur appeared—a fetching young female.
  
  No wonder there had been no protest from the Elders! Humfrey, distracted by other things, had never gotten around to informing them. King Trent, believing the Magician's silence meant approval from the Elders, had departed as planned. Trent had not intentionally deceived them. That gratified Dor; it had been difficult to think of the King as practicing deliberate deception. Trent had meant his words about honesty.
  
  "I believe the Elders will veto my trip," Dor said. "Especially after—"
  
  "The Elders can go—"
  
  "Humfrey!" a voice called warningly from the doorway. "Don't you dare use such language on this day. You've already cracked one mirror that way!"
  
  So that was how the mirror had suffered! Humfrey had uttered too caustic a word when balked on news of the new Magician.
  
  Dor looked to the voice. It came from the nothingness that was the face of the Gorgon, an absolutely voluptuous, statuesque, shapely, and buxom figure of a lovely woman whose face no one could look at. Humfrey had put a temporary spell on it, ten or fifteen years ago, to protect society from the Gorgon's involuntary magic while he worked out a better way to solve the problem. It seemed he had never gotten around to that solution either. He was known to be a bit absent-minded.
  
  Humfrey's brow wrinkled as if bothered by a pink mosquito. "What's special about this day?"
  
  She seemed to smile. At least, the little serpents that were her hair writhed in a more harmonious manner. "It will come to you in due course, Magician. Now you get into your suit. The good one that you haven't used for the past century or so. Make the moth unball it for you." Her faceless-ness turned to Dor. "Come with me, Your Majesty."
  
  Perplexed, Dor followed her out of the room. "Uh, am I intruding or something?"
  
  She laughed, sending jiggles through her flesh. Dor squinted, to prevent his eyeballs from popping. "Hardly! You have to perform the ceremony."
  
  Dor's bafflement intensified. "Ceremony?"
  
  She turned and leaned toward him. It embarrassed him to look into her empty head, so he glanced down—and found himself peering through the awesome crevice of her burgeoning cleavage, Dor closed his eyes, blushing.
  
  "The ceremony of marriage," the Gorgon murmured. "Didn't you get the word?"
  
  "I guess not," Dor said. "A lot of words seem to get mislaid around here."
  
  "True, true. But you arrived on schedule anyway, so it's all right. Only the King of Xanth can make it properly binding on that old curmudgeon. It has taken me a good many years to land him, and I mean to have that knot tied chokingly tight."
  
  "But I've never—I know nothing about—" Dor opened his eyes again, and goggled at the mountains and valley of her bosom, and at the empty face, and retreated hastily back into darkness. Too little and too much, in such proximity!
  
  "Do not be alarmed," the Gorgon said. "The sight of me will not petrify you."
  
  That was what she thought. It occurred to him that it was not merely the Gorgon's face that turned a man to stone. Other parts of her could do it to other parts of him. But he forced his eyes open and up, from the fullness to the emptiness, meeting her invisible gaze. "Uh, when does it happen?"
  
  "Not long after the nuptials," she said. "It will be a matter of pride with me to handle it without recourse to any potency spell."
  
  Dor found himself blushing ferociously. "The—I meant the ceremony."
  
  She pinched his cheek gently with her thumb and forefinger. "I know you did, Dor. You are so delightfully pristine. Irene will have quite a time abating your naiveté."
  
  So his future, too, had been mapped out by a woman—and it seemed all other women knew it. No doubt there was a female conspiracy that continued from generation to generation. He could only be thankful that Irene had neither the experience nor the body of the Gorgon. Quite. Yet.
  
  They emerged into what appeared to be a bedroom. "You'll have to change out of those soaking things," the Gorgon said. "Really, you young people should be more careful. Were you playing tag with a bayonet plant? Let me just get these tatters off you—"
  
  "No!" Dor cried, though he was shivering in the wet and ragged robe.
  
  She laughed again, her bosom vibrating. "I understand. You are such a darling boy! I'll send in the Zombie Master. You must be ready in half an hour, it's all scheduled." She turned and swept out, leaving Dor relieved, bemused, and guiltily disappointed. A woman like that could play a man like a musical instrument!
  
  In a moment the gaunt but halfway handsome Zombie Master arrived. He shook hands formally with Dor. "I will never forget what I owe you, Magician," he said.
  
  "You paid off any debt when you made Millie the Ghost happy," Dor said, gratified. He had been instrumental in getting the Zombie Master here, knowing Millie loved him; but Dor himself had profited greatly from the experience. He had, in a very real sense, learned how to be a man. Of course, it seemed that he had forgotten much of that in the ensuing years— the Gorgon had certainly set him in his place!—but he was sure the memory would help him.
  
  "That debt can never be paid," the Zombie Master said gravely.
  
  Dor was not inclined to argue. He was glad be had helped this Magician and Millie to get together. He remembered that he had promised to invite them both to visit Castle Roogna so that the ghosts and zombies could renew acquaintance.
  
  "Uh—" Dor began, trying to figure out how to phrase the invitation.
  
  The Zombie Master produced an elegant suit of clothing tailored to Dor's size, and set about getting him changed and arranged. "Now we must review the ceremony," he said. He brought out a book. "Millie and I will organize most of it; we have been through this foolishness before. You just read this service when I give the signal."
  
  Dor opened the book. The title page advised him that this text contained a sample service for the unification of Age-Old Magicians and Voluptuous Young Maidens. Evidently the Gorgon had crafted this one herself. The service was plain enough; Dor's lines were written in black, the groom's in blue, the bride's in pink.
  
  Do you, Good Magician Humfrey, take this lovely creature to be your bride, to love and cherish as long as you shall live? Well, it did make sense; the chances of him outliving her were remote. But this sort of contract made Dor nervous.
  
  Dor looked up. "It seems simple enough, I guess. Uh, if we have a moment—"
  
  "Oh, we have two or three moments, but not four," the Zombie Master assured him, almost smiling.
  
  Dor broke into a full smile. This Magician had been cadaverously gaunt and sober when Dor had first known him; now he was better fleshed and better tempered. Marriage had evidently been good for him. "I promised the ghosts and zombies of Castle Roogna that your family would visit soon. I know you don't like to mix with ordinary people too much, but if you could see your way clear to—"
  
  The Magician frowned. "I did profess a deep debt to you. I suppose if you insist—"
  
  "Only if you want to go," Dor said quickly. "These creatures—it wouldn't be the same if it wasn't voluntary."
  
  "I will consider. I daresay my wife will have a sentiment."
  
  On cue, Millie appeared. She was as lovely as ever, despite her eight hundred and thirty-odd years of age. She was less voluptuous than the Gorgon, but still did have her talent. Dor became uncomfortable again; he had once had a crush on Millie. "Of course we shall go," Millie said. "We'll be glad to, won't we, Jonathan?"
  
  The Zombie Master could only acquiesce solemnly. The decision had been made.
  
  "It's time," Millie said. "The bride and groom are ready."
  
  "The bride, perhaps," the Zombie Master said wryly. "I suspect I will have to coerce the groom." He turned to Dor. "You go down to the main chamber; the wedding guests are assembling now. They will take their places when you appear."
  
  "Uh, sure," Dor agreed. He took the book and made his way down a winding stair. The castle layout differed from what it had been the last time he was here, but that was only to be expected. The outside defenses changed constantly, so it made sense that the inner schematic followed.
  
  But when he reached the main chamber, Dor stood amazed. It was a grand and somber cathedral, seemingly larger than the whole of the castle, with stately columns and ornate arches supporting the domed glass ceiling. At one end was a dais whose floor appeared to be solid silver. It was surrounded by huge stained-glass windows, evidently another inner aspect of the exterior glass mountain. A jeweled chandelier supported the sun, which was a brilliantly golden ball, borrowed for this occasion. Dor had always wondered what happened to the sun when clouds blocked it off; perhaps now he knew. What would happen if they didn't finish the ceremony before the storm outside abated and the sun needed to be returned?
  
  The guests were even more spectacular. There were hundreds of them, of all types. Some were human, some humanoid, and most were monsters. Dor spied a griffin, a dragon, a small sphinx, several merfolk in a tub of sea water, a manticora, a number of elves, goblins, harpies, and sprites; a score of nickelpedes, a swarm of fruitflies, and a needle cactus. The far door was dwarfed by its guardian—Crunch the Ogre, Smash's father, as horrendous a figure of a monster as anyone cared to imagine.
  
  "What is this?" Dor asked, astonished.
  
  "All the creatures who ever obtained answers from the Good Magician, or interacted significantly with him during the past century," the nearest window explained.
  
  "But—but why?"
  
  A grotesque bespectacled demon detached himself from conversation with a nymph. "Your Majesty, I am Beauregard, of the Nether Contingent. We are assembled here, in peace, not because we necessarily love the Good Magician, but because not one of us would pass up the chance to see him finally get impressed into bondage himself—and to the most fearsome creature known to magic. Come; you must take your place." And the demon guided Dor down the center aisle toward the dais, past as diversified an assortment of creatures as Dor had ever encountered. One he thought he recognized—Grundy the Golem, somehow spirited here for the unique occasion. How had all these creatures gotten past the castle defenses? No one had been around when Dor himself had braved them.
  
  "Oh, you must be King Dor!" someone cried, for turned to discover a handsome woman whose gown was bedecked with a fantastic array of gems.
  
  "You must be Jewel!" he exclaimed, as a diamond in her hair almost blinded him. It was the size of his fist, and cut in what seemed like a million facets. "The one with the barrel of gems—Crombie's wife."
  
  "How did you ever guess?" she agreed, flashing sapphires, garnets, and giant opals. "You favor your father, Dor. So good of you to come in his stead."
  
  Dor remembered that this woman had loved his father. Perhaps that explained why Bink wasn't here; a meeting, even after all these years, could be awkward. "Uh, I guess so. Nice to meet you, Jewel."
  
  "I'm sorry my daughter Tandy couldn't meet you," Jewel said. "It would be so nice—" She broke off, and again Dor suspected he understood why. Jewel had loved Bink; Dor was Bink's son; Tandy was Jewel's daughter. It was almost as if Dor and Tandy were related. But how could that be said?
  
  Jewel pressed a stone into his hand. "I was going to give this to Bink, but I think you deserve it. You will always have light."
  
  Dor glanced down at the gift. It shone like a miniature sun, almost too bright to gaze at directly. It was a midnight sunstone, the rarest of all gems. "Uh, thanks," he said lamely. He didn't know how to deal with this sort of thing. He tucked the gem into a pocket and rejoined Beauregard, who was urging him on. As he reached the dais and mounted it, the hubbub diminished. The ceremony was incipient.
  
  The music started, the familiar theme played only at nuptials. It gave Dor stage fright. He had never officiated at an affair like this before; the opportunities for blundering seemed limitless. The assembled creatures became absolutely quiet, waiting expectantly for the dread denouement. The Good Magician Humfrey was finally going to get his!
  
  There was a scuffle to the side. The groom appeared in a dark suit that looked slightly motheaten; perhaps the guardian moth had not balled it properly. He was somewhat disheveled, and obliquely compelled by the Zombie Master. "I survived it; so can you!" the best man whispered, audible throughout the chamber. Somewhere in the Stygian depth of the audience, a monster chuckled. The expression on Humfrey's face suggested that he was in serious doubt about survival. More members of the audience grinned, showing assorted canine teeth; they liked this.
  
  The music got louder. Dor glanced across and saw that the organist was a small tangle tree, its tentacles writhing expertly over the keys. No wonder there was a certain predatory intensity to the music!
  
  The Zombie Master, dourly handsome in his funereal-tailed suit, straightened Humfrey's details, actually brushing him off with a little whisk broom. Then he put Humfrey in a kind of armlock and marched him forward. The music surged vengefully.
  
  One demon in the front row twitched its tail and leaned toward another. "A creature doesn't know what happiness is," he said, "until he gets married."
  
  "And then it's too late!" half a dozen others responded from the next row back. There was a smattering of applause.
  
  Magician Humfrey quailed, but the best man's grip was as firm as death itself. At least he had not brought his zombies to this ceremony! The presence of the walking dead would have been too much even for such a wedding.
  
  Now the music swelled to sublime urgency, and the bridal procession appeared. First came Millie the Ghost, radiant in her maid-of-honor gown, her sex appeal making the monsters drool. Dor had somehow thought that an unmarried person was supposed to fill this office, but of course Millie had been unmarried for eight centuries, so it must be all right.
  
  Then the bride herself stepped out—and if the Gorgon had seemed buxom before, she was amazing now. She wore a veil that shrouded the nothingness of her face, so that there was no way to tell by looking that she was not simply a ravishingly voluptuous woman. Nevertheless, few creatures looked directly at her, wary of her inherent power. Not even the boldest dragon or tangle tree would care to stare the Gorgon in the face.
  
  Behind her trooped two cherubs, a tiny boy and girl. Dor thought at first they were elves, but realized they were children—the three-year-old twins that Millie and the Zombie Master had generated. They certainly looked cute as they carried the trailing end of the bride's long train. Dor wondered whether these angelic tots had manifested their magic talents yet. Sometimes a talent showed at birth, as had Dor's own; sometimes it never showed, as had Dor's father's—though he knew his father did have some sort of magic that King Trent himself respected. Most talents were in between, showing up in the course of childhood, some major, some minor.
  
  Slowly the Gorgon swept forward, in the renewed hush of dread and expectation. Dor saw with a small start that she had donned dark glasses, a Mundane import, so that even her eyes behind the gauzy veil seemed real.
  
  Now at last Humfrey and the Gorgon stood together. She was taller than he—but everyone was taller than Humfrey, so it didn't matter. The music faded to the deceptive calm of the center of a storm.
  
  The Zombie Master nodded to Dor. It was time for the King to read the service, finally tying the knot.
  
  Dor opened the book with trembling fingers. Now he was glad that Cherie Centaur had drilled him well in reading; he had the text to lean on, so that his blank mind couldn't betray him. All he had to do was read the words and follow the directions and everything would be all right. He knew that Good Magician Humfrey really did want to marry the Gorgon; it was just the ceremony that put him off, as it did all men. Weddings were for women and their mothers. Dor would navigate this additional Kingly chore and doubtless be better off for the experience. But his knees still felt like limp noodles. Why did experience have to be so difficult?
  
  He found the place and began to read. "We are gathered here to hogtie this poor idiot—"
  
  There was a stir in the audience. The weeping matrons paused in mid-tear, while males of every type smirked. Dor blinked. Had he read that right? Yes, there it was, printed quite clearly. He might have trouble spelling, but he could read well enough. "To this conniving wench—"
  
  The demons sniggered. A snake stuck its head out over the Gorgon's veil and hissed. Something was definitely wrong.
  
  "But it says right here," Dor protested, tapping the book with one forefinger. "The gride and broom shall—"
  
  There was a raucous creaking sound that cut through the chamber. Then the Zombie Master's whisk broom flew out of his pocket and hovered before Dor.
  
  Astonished, Dor asked it: "What are you doing here?"
  
  "I'm the broom," it replied. "You invoked the gride and broom, didn't you?"
  
  "What's a gride?"
  
  "You heard it. Awful noise."
  
  So a gride was an awful noise. Dor's vocabulary was expanding rapidly today! "That was supposed to be a bride and groom," Dor said. "Get back where you belong."
  
  "Awww. I thought I was going to get married." But the broom flew back to the pocket.
  
  Now Millie spoke. "Lacuna!" she said.
  
  One of the children jumped. It was the little girl, Millie's daughter.
  
  "Did you change the print?" Millie demanded.
  
  Now Dor caught on. The child's talent—changing printed text! No wonder the service was fouled up!
  
  The Zombie Master grimaced. "Kids will be kids," he said dourly. "We should have used zombies to carry the train, but Millie wouldn't have it. Let's try it again."
  
  Zombies to attend the bride! Dor had to agree with Millie, privately; the stench and rot of the grave did not belong in a ceremony like this.
  
  "Lacuna, put the text back the way it was," Millie said severely.
  
  "Awww," the child said, exactly the way the whisk broom had.
  
  Dor lifted the book. But now there was an eye in the middle of the page. It winked at him. "What now?" he asked.
  
  "Eh?" the book asked. An ear sprouted beside the eye.
  
  "Hiatus!" Millie snapped, and the little boy jumped. "Stop that right now!"
  
  "Awww." But the eye and ear shrank and disappeared, leaving the book clear. Now Dor knew the nature and talent of the other twin.
  
  He read the text carefully before reading it aloud. It was titled A Manual of Simple Burial. He frowned at Lacuna, and the print reverted to the proper text: A Manual of Sample Wedding Services.
  
  This time he got most of the way through the service without disruption, ignoring ears and noses that sprouted from unlikely surfaces. At one point an entire face appeared on the sun-ball, but no one else was looking at it, so there was no disturbance.
  
  "Do you, Good Magician Humfrey," he concluded, "take this luscious, faceless female Gorgon to be your—" He hesitated, for the text now read ball and chain. Some interpolation was necessary. "Your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to squeeze till she—uh, in health and sickness, for the few measly years you hang on before you croak—uh, until you both become rotten zombies—uh, until death do you part?" He was losing track of the real text.
  
  The Good Magician considered. "Well, there are positive and negative aspects—"
  
  The Zombie Master elbowed him. "Stick to the format," he muttered.
  
  Humfrey looked rebellious, but finally got it out. "I suppose so."
  
  Dor turned to the Gorgon. "And do you, you petrifying creature, take this gnarled old gnome—uh—" The mischievous text had caught him again. A monster in the audience guffawed. "Take Good Magician Humfrey—"
  
  "I do!" she said.
  
  Dor checked his text. Close enough, he decided. "Uh, the manacles—" Oh, no!
  
  Gravely the Zombie Master brought forth the ring. An eye opened on its edge. The Zombie Master frowned at Hiatus, and the eye disappeared. He gave the ring to Humfrey.
  
  The Gorgon lifted her fair hand. A snakelet hissed. "Hey, I don't want to go on that finger!" the ring protested. "It's dangerous!"
  
  "Would you rather be fed to the zombie sea serpent?" Dor snapped at it. The ring was silent. Humfrey fumbled it onto the Gorgon's finger. Naturally he got the wrong finger, but she corrected him gently.
  
  Dor returned to the manual. "I now pronounce you gnome and monst— uh, by the authority vested in me as King of Thieves—uh, of Xanth, I now pronounce you Magician and Wife." Feeling weak with relief at having gotten this far through despite the treacherous text, Dor read the final words. "You may now miss the gride." There was the awful banshee noise. "Uh, goose the tide." There was a sloppy swish, as of water reacting to an indignity. "Uh—"
  
  The Gorgon took hold of Humfrey, threw back her veil, and kissed him soundly. There was applause from the audience, and a mournful hoot from the distance. The sea monster was signaling its sorrow over the Good Magician's loss of innocence.
  
  Millie was furious. "When I catch you, Hi and Lacky—" But the little imps were already beating a retreat.
  
  The wedding party adjourned to the reception area, where refreshments were served. There was a scream. Millie looked and paled, for a moment resembling her ghostly state. "Jonathan! You didn't!"
  
  "Well, somebody had to serve the cake and punch," the Zombie Master said defensively. "Everyone else was busy, and we couldn't ask the guests."
  
  Dor peered. Sure enough, zombies in tuxedos and formal gowns were serving the delicacies. Gobbets of rot were mixing with the cake, and yellowish drool was dripping in the punch. The appetite of the guests seemed to be diminishing.
  
  The assembled monsters, noting that Humfrey had not been turned to stone despite being petrified, were now eager to kiss the bride. They were in no hurry to raid the refreshments. A long line formed.
  
  Millie caught Dor's elbow. "That was very good, Your Majesty. I understand that my husband is to substitute for you during your journey to Centaur Isle."
  
  "He is?" But immediately the beauty and simplicity of it came clear. "He's a Magician! He would do just fine! But I know he doesn't like to indulge in politics."
  
  "Well, since we are going there for a visit anyway, to see the zombies and ghosts, it's not really political."
  
  Dor realized that Millie had really helped him out. Only she could have persuaded the Zombie Master to take the office of King even temporarily. "Uh, thanks. I think the ghosts will like the twins."
  
  She smiled. "The walls will have ears."
  
  That was Hi's talent. "They sure will!"
  
  "Let's go join the monsters," she said, taking his arm. Her touch still sent a rippling thrill through him, perhaps not just because of her magic talent. "How is Irene? I understand she will one day do with you what we women have always done with Magicians."
  
  "Did it ever occur to any of you scheming conspirators that I might have other plans?" Dor asked, nettled despite the effect she had on him. Perhaps he was reacting in order to counter his illicit liking for her. She certainly didn't seem like eight hundred years old!
  
  "No, that never occurred to any of us," she said. "Do you think you have a chance to escape?"
  
  "I doubt it," he said. "But first we have to deal with this mysterious Magician of Centaur Isle. And I hope King Trent comes back soon."
  
  "I hope so, too," Millie said. "And Queen Iris. She was the one who helped bring me back to life. She and your father. I'm forever grateful to them. And to you, too, Dor, for returning Jonathan to me."
  
  She always referred to the Zombie Master by his given name. "I was glad to do it," Dor said.
  
  Then a mishmash of creatures closed in on them, and Dor gave himself up to socializing, perforce. Everyone had a word for the King. Dor wasn't good at this; in fact, he felt almost as awkward as Good Magician Humfrey looked. What was it really like, getting married?
  
  "You'll find out!" the book he still carried said, chuckling evilly.