text: They had surveyed prospective routes and decided to travel down the coast of Xanth. Dor's father Bink had once traveled into the south-center region, down to the great interior Lake Ogre-Chobee, where the curse-fiends lived, and he recommended against that route. Dragons, chasms, nickelpedes, and other horrors abounded, and there was a massive growth of brambles that made passing difficult, as well as a region of magic-dust that could be hazardous to one's mental health.
  
  On the other hand, the open sea was little better. There the huge sea monsters ruled, preying on everything available. If dragons ruled the wilderness land, serpents ruled the deep water. Where the magic ambience of Xanth faded, the Mundane monsters commenced, and these were worse yet. Dor knew them only through his inattentive geography studies— toothy alligators, white sharks, and blue whales. He didn't want any part of those!
  
  But the coastal shallows excluded the larger sea creatures and the solid-land monsters. Chances were that with a strong youth like the ogre Smash along, they could move safely through this region without raising too much commotion. Had that not been the case, the Elders would never have permitted this excursion, regardless of the need. As it was, they insisted that Dor take along some preventive magic from the Royal Arsenal—a magic sword, a flying carpet, and an escape hoop. Irene carried a selected bag of seeds that she could use to grow particular plants at need— fruits, nuts, and vegetables for the food, and watermelons and milkweed if they had no safe supply of liquid.
  
  They used a magic boat that would sail itself swiftly and quietly down any channel that was deep enough, yet was light enough to be portaged across sand bars. The craft was indefatigable; all they had to do was guide it, and in one full day and night it would bring them to Centaur Isle. This would certainly be faster and easier than walking. Chet, whose geographic education had not been neglected, had a clear notion of the coastal outline and would steer the boat past the treacherous shoals and deeps. Everything was as routine as the nervous Elders could make it.
  
  They started in midmorning from the beach nearest Castle Roogna that had been cleared of monsters. The day was clear, the sea calm. Here there was a brief bay between the mainland and a long chain of barrier islands, the most secure of all waters, theoretically. This trip should not only be safe, but also dull. Of course nothing in Xanth could be taken for granted.
  
  For an hour they traveled south along the bay channel. Dor grew tired of watching the passing islands, but remained too keyed up to rest. After all, it was a centaur Magician they were going to spy out—something never before known in Xanth, unless one counted Herman the Hermit Centaur, who hadn't really been a Magician, just a strongly talented individual who related to the Will-o'-Wisps.
  
  Smash, too, was restive; he was a creature of physical action, and this free ride irked him. Dor would have challenged him to a game of tic-tac-toe, an amusement he had learned from the child of one of the soldier settlers, but knew he would win every game; ogres were not much on intellect.
  
  Grundy the Golem entertained himself by chatting with passing fish and sea creatures. It was amazing, the gossip he came up with. A sneaky sawfish was cutting in on the time of the damselfish of a hammerhead, and the hammerhead was getting suspicious. Pretty soon he would pound the teeth out of the sawfish. A sea squirt was shoring himself up with the flow from an undersea fresh-water spring, getting tipsy on the rare liquid. A certain little oyster was getting out of bed at midnight and gambling with the sand dollars; he was building up quite an alluvial deposit at the central bank of sand. But when his folks found out, he would be gamboling to a different tune.
  
  Irene, meanwhile, struck up a dialogue with the centaur. "You're so intelligent, Chet. How is it that your magic is so, well, simple?"
  
  "No one is blessed with the selection of his personal talent," Chet said philosophically. He was lying in the middle of the boat, so as to keep the center of gravity low, and seemed comfortable enough. "We centaurs less than most, since only recently has our magic been recognized. My mother—"
  
  "I know Cherie thinks magic is obscene."
  
  "Oh, she is broad-minded about its presence in lesser creatures."
  
  "Like human beings?" Irene asked dangerously.
  
  "No need to be sensitive about it. We do not discriminate against your kind, and your magic does to a considerable extent compensate."
  
  "How come we rule Xanth, then?" she demanded. Dor found himself getting interested; this was better than fish gossip anyway.
  
  "There is some question whether humans are actually dominant in Xanth," Chet said. "The dragons of the northern reaches might have a different opinion. At any rate, we centaurs permit you humans your foibles. If you wish to point to one of your number and say, 'That individual rules Xanth,' we have no objection so long as that person doesn't interfere with important things."
  
  "What's so important?"
  
  "You would not be in a position to understand the nuances of centaur society."
  
  Irene bridled. "Oh, yeah? Tell me a nuance."
  
  "I'm afraid that is privileged information."
  
  Dor knew Chet was asking for trouble. Already, stray wild seeds in Irene's vicinity were popping open and sending out shoots and roots, a sure sign of her ire. But like many girls, she concealed it well. "Yet humans have the best magic."
  
  "Certainly—if you value magic."
  
  "What would you centaurs say if my father started changing you into fruitflies?"
  
  "Fruit neat," Smash said, overhearing. "Let's eat!"
  
  "Don't be a dunce," Grundy said. "It's two hours yet till lunch."
  
  "Here, I'll start a breadfruit plant," Irene said. "You can watch it grow." She picked a seed from her collection and set it in one of the earth-filled pots she had brought along. "Grow," she commanded, and the seed sprouted. The ogre watched its growth avidly, waiting for it to mature and produce the first succulent loaf of bread.
  
  "King Trent would not do anything as irresponsible as that," Chet said, picking up on the question. "We centaurs have generally gotten along well with him."
  
  "Because he can destroy you. You'd better get along!"
  
  "Not so. We centaurs are archers. No one can get close enough to harm us unless we permit him. We get along because we choose to."
  
  Irene adroitly changed the subject. "You never told me how you felt about your own magic. All your brains, but all you can do is shrink rocks."
  
  "Well, it does relate. I render a stone into a calx. A calx is a small stone, a pebble used for calculating. Such calculus can grow complex, and it has important ramifications. So I feel my magic talent contributes—"
  
  "Monster coming," Grundy announced. "A little fish told me."
  
  "There aren't supposed to be monsters in these waters," Dor objected.
  
  Grundy consulted with the fish. "It's a sea dragon. It heard the commotion of our passage, so it's coming in to investigate. The channel's deep enough for it here."
  
  "We'd better get out of the channel, then," Dor said.
  
  "This is not the best place," Chet objected.
  
  "No place is best to get eaten, dummy!" Irene snapped. "We can't handle a water dragon. We'll have to get out of its way. Shallow water is all we need."
  
  "There are groupies in these shallows," Chet said. "Not a threat, so long as we sail beyond their depth, but not fun to encounter. If we can get farther down before diverging—"
  
  But now they saw the head of the dragon to the south, gliding above the water. Its neck cut a wake; the monster was traveling fast. It was far too big for them to fight.
  
  Smash, however, was game. Ogres were too stupid to know fear. He stood, making the craft rock crazily. "For me's to squeeze!" he said, gesturing with his meathooks.
  
  "All you could do is gouge out handfuls of scales," Irene said. "Meanwhile, it would be chomping the rest of us. You know an ogre has to have firm footing on land to tackle a dragon of any type."
  
  Without further argument, Chet swerved toward the mainland beach. But almost immediately the sand began to writhe. "Oh, no!" Dor exclaimed. "A sand dune has taken over that beach. We can't go there."
  
  "Agreed," Chet said. "That dune wasn't on my map. It must have moved in the past few days." He swerved back the other way.
  
  That was the problem about Xanth; very little was permanent. In the course of a day, the validity of a given map could be compromised; in a week it could be destroyed. That was one reason so much of Xanth remained unexplored. It had been traveled, but the details were not fixed.
  
  The dune, noting their departure, reared up in a great sandy hump, its most typical form. Had they been so foolish as to step on that beach, it would have rolled right over them, buried them, and consumed them at leisure.
  
  But now the water dragon was much closer. They cut across its path uncomfortably close and approached the island's inner shore. The dragon halted, turning its body to pursue them—but in a moment its nether loops ran aground in the shallows, and it halted. Jets of steam plumed from its nostrils; it was frustrated.
  
  A flipper slapped at the side of the boat. "It's a groupie," Grundy cried. "Knock it off!"
  
  Smash reached out a gnarled mitt to grasp the flipper and haul the thing up in the air. The creature was a fattish fish with large, soft extremities.
  
  "That's a groupie?" Irene asked. "What's so bad about it?"
  
  The fish curled about, got its flippers on the ogre's arm, and drew itself up. Its wide mouth touched Smash's arm in a seeming kiss.
  
  "Don't let it do that!" Chet warned. "It's trying to siphon out your soul."
  
  The ogre understood that. He flung the groupie far over the water, where it landed with a splash.
  
  But now several more were slapping at the boat, trying to scramble inside. Irene shrieked. "Just knock them away," Chet said. "They can't take your soul unless you let them. But they'll keep trying."
  
  "They're coming in all over!" Dor cried. "How can we get away from them?"
  
  Chet smiled grimly. "We can move into the deep channel. Groupies are shallow creatures; they don't stir deep waters."
  
  "But the dragon's waiting there!"
  
  "Of course. Dragons eat groupies. That's why groupies don't venture there."
  
  "Dragons also eat people," Irene protested.
  
  "That might be considered a disadvantage," the centaur agreed. "If you have a better solution, I am amenable to it."
  
  Irene opened her bag of seeds and peered in. "I have watercress. That might help."
  
  "Try it!" Dor exclaimed, sweeping three sets of flippers off the side of the boat. "They're overwhelming us!"
  
  "That is the manner of the species," Chet agreed, sweeping several more off. "They come not single spy, but in battalions."
  
  She picked out a tiny seed. "Grow!" she commanded, and dropped it in the water. The others paused momentarily in their labors to watch. How could such a little seed abate such a pressing menace?
  
  Almost immediately there was a kind of writhing and bubbling where the seed had disappeared. Tiny tendrils writhed outward like wriggling worms. Bubbles rose and popped effervescently. "Cress!" the mass hissed as it expanded.
  
  The groupies hesitated, taken aback by this phenomenon. Then they pounced on it, sucking in mouthfuls.
  
  "They're eating it up!" Dor said.
  
  "Yes," Irene agreed, smiling.
  
  In moments the groupies began swelling up like balloons. The cress had not stopped growing or gassing, and was now inflating the fish. Soon the groupies rose out of the water, impossibly distended, and floated through the air. The dragon snapped at those who drifted within its range.
  
  "Good job, I must admit," Chet said, and Irene flushed with satisfaction. Dor experienced a twinge of jealousy and a twinge of guilt for that feeling. There was nothing between Chet and Irene, of course; they were of two different species. Not that that necessarily meant much, in Xanth. New composites were constantly emerging, and the chimera was evidently descended from three or four other species. Irene merely argued with Chet to try to bolster her own image and was flattered when the centaur bolstered it for her. And if there were something between them, why should he, Dor, care? But he did care.
  
  They could not return to the main channel, for the dragon paced them alertly. It knew it had them boxed. Chet steered cautiously south, searching out the deepest subchannels of the bay, avoiding anything suspicious. But the island they were skirting was coming to an end; soon they would be upon the ocean channel the water dragon had entered by. How could they cross that while the dragon lurked?
  
  Chet halted the boat and stared ahead. The dragon took a stance in mid-channel, due south, and stared back. It knew they had to pass here. Slowly, deliberately, it ran its long floppy tongue over its gleaming chops.
  
  "What now?" Dor asked. He was King; he should be leader, but his mind was blank.
  
  "I believe we shall have to wait until nightfall," Chet said.
  
  "But we're supposed to make the trip in a day and night!" Irene protested. "That'll waste half the day!"
  
  "Better waste time than life, green-nose," Grundy remarked.
  
  "Listen, stringbrain—" she retorted. These two had never gotten along well together.
  
  "We'd better wait," Dor said reluctantly. "Then we can sneak by the dragon while it's sleeping and be safely on our way."
  
  "How soundly do dragons sleep?" Irene asked suspiciously.
  
  "Not deeply," Chet said. "They merely snooze with their nostrils just above the water. But it will be better if there is fog."
  
  "Much better," Irene agreed weakly.
  
  "Meanwhile, we would do well to sleep in the daytime," Chet said. "We will need to post one of our number as a guard, to be sure the boat doesn't drift. He can sleep at night, while the others are active."
  
  "What do you mean, he?" Irene demanded, "There's too much sexism in Xanth. You think a girl can't guard?"
  
  Chet shrugged with his foresection and flicked his handsome tail about negligently. "I spoke generically, of course. There is no sexual discrimination among centaurs."
  
  "That's what you think," Grundy put in. "Who's the boss in your family—Chester or Cherie? Does she let him do anything he wants?"
  
  "Well, my mother is strong-willed," Chet admitted.
  
  "I'll bet the fillies run the whole show at Centaur Isle," Grundy said. "Same as they do at Castle Roogna."
  
  "Ha. Ha. Ha." Irene said, pouting.
  
  "You may guard if you wish," Chet said.
  
  "You think I won't? Well, I will. Give me that paddle." She grabbed the emergency paddle, which would now be needed to keep the boat from drifting.
  
  The others settled down comfortably, using pads and buoyant cushions. Chet's equine portion was admirably suited for lying down, but his human portion was more awkward. He leaned against the side of the boat, head against looped arms.
  
  "Say—how will I sleep when we're nudging past that dragon?" Irene asked. "My sleeping turn will come then."
  
  There was a stifled chuckle from Grundy's direction. "Guess one sexist brought that on herself. Just don't snore too loud when we're passing under its tail. Might scare it into—"
  
  She hurled a cushion at the golem, then settled resolutely into her guard position, watching the dragon.
  
  Dor tried to sleep, but found himself too wound up. After a while he sat upright. "It's no use; maybe I'll sleep tomorrow," he said.
  
  Irene was pleased to have his company. She sat cross-legged opposite him, and Dor tried not to be aware that in that position her green skirt did not fully cover her legs. She had excellent ones; in that limited respect she had already matched the Gorgon. Dor liked legs; in fact, he liked anything he wasn't supposed to see.
  
  She sprouted a buttercup plant while Dor plucked a loaf from the breadfruit, and they feasted on fresh bread and butter in silence. The dragon watched, and finally, mischievously, Dor rolled some bread into a compact wad and threw it at the monster. The dragon caught it neatly and gulped it down. Maybe it wasn't such a bad monster; maybe Grundy could talk to it and arrange for safe passage.
  
  No—such a predator could not be trusted. If the dragon wanted to let them pass, it would go away. Better strategy would be to keep it awake and alert all day, so that it would be tired at night.
  
  "Do you think this new centaur Magician will try to take over Xanth?" Irene asked quietly when it seemed the others were asleep.
  
  Dor could appreciate her concern. Chet, who was a friend, was arrogant enough about centaur-human relations; what would be the attitude of a grown centaur with the power of a Magician? Of course the Magician would not be grown right now; it must be new-birthed. But in time it could become adult, and then it could be an ornery creature, like Chet's sire Chester, but without Chester's redeeming qualities. Dor knew that some centaurs did not like human beings; those tended to stay well clear of Castle Roogna. But Centaur Isle was well clear, and that was where this menace was. "We're on our way to investigate this matter," he reminded her. "There is help for King Trent there, too, according to Crombie's pointing. Maybe we just need to figure out how to turn this situation positive instead of negative."
  
  She shifted her position slightly, unconsciously showing a little more of her legs, including a tantalizing flash of inner thigh. "You are going to try to help my father, aren't you?"
  
  "Of course I'm going to try!" Dor said indignantly, hoping that if there was any flush on his face, she would assume it was because of his reaction to her words, rather than her flesh. Dor had in the past seen some quite lovely nymphs in quite scanty attire—but nymphs didn't really count. They were all well formed and scantily attired, so were not remarkable. Irene was a real girl, and that type ranged from lovely to ugly—in fact, his mother Chameleon covered that range in the course of each month—and Irene did not normally display a great deal of her body at a time. Thus each glimpse, beyond a certain perimeter, was special. But more special when the display was unintentional.
  
  "I know if my father doesn't come back, you'll stay King."
  
  "I'm not ready to stay King. In twenty years, maybe, I'll be able to handle it. Right now I just want King Trent back. He's your father; I think he's my friend."
  
  "What about my mother?"
  
  Dor grimaced. "Even Queen Iris," he said. "I'd rather face a lifelike illusion of a dragon than the real thing."
  
  "You know, I never had any real privacy till she left," Irene said. "She was always watching me, always telling on me. I hardly dared even to think for myself, because I was afraid she'd slip one of her illusions into my mind and snitch on me. I used to wish something would happen to her— not anything bad, just something to get her out of my hair for a while. Only now that it has—"
  
  "You didn't really want her gone," Dor said. "Not like this."
  
  "Not like this," she agreed. "She's a bitch, but she is my mother. Now I can do anything I want—and I don't know what I want." She shifted position again. This time the hem of her skirt dropped to cover more of her legs. It was almost as if her reference to privacy from her mother's snooping around her mind had brought about privacy from Dor's surreptitious snooping around her body. "Except to have them back again."
  
  Dor found he liked Irene much better this way. Perhaps her prior sharpness of tongue, back when her parents had been in Xanth, had been because of that constant feeling of being watched. Anything real might have been demeaned or ridiculed, so she never expressed anything real. "You know, I've had the opposite problem. I have privacy—but no one around me does. Because there's not much anybody does that I can't find out about. All I have to do is ask their furniture, or their clothing. So they avoid me, and I can't blame them. That's why I've found it easier to have friends like Smash. He wears nothing but his hair, and he thinks furniture is for bonfires, and he has no embarrassing secrets anyway."
  
  "That's right!" she said. "I have no more privacy with you than I do with my mother. How come I don't feel threatened with you?"
  
  "Because I'm harmless," Dor said with a wry chuckle. "Not by choice; it's just the way I am. The Gorgon says you have me all wrapped up anyway."
  
  She smiled—a genuine, warm smile he liked a lot. "She snitched. She would. She naturally sees all men as creatures to be dazzled and petrified. Good Magician Humfrey never had a chance. But I don't know if I even want you. That way, I mean. My mother figures I've got to marry you so I can be Queen—but that's her desire, not necessarily mine. I mean, why would I want to grow up just like her, with no real power and a lot of time on my hands? Why make my own daughter as miserable as she made me?"
  
  "Maybe you will have a son," Dor offered. This was an intriguing new avenue of exploration.
  
  "You're right. You're harmless. You don't know a thing." She finished her bread and tossed the crumbs on the water. They floated about, forming evanescent picture patterns before drifting away.
  
  Somehow the afternoon had passed; the sun was dropping into the water beyond the barrier island. There was a distant sizzle as it touched the liquid, and a cloud of steam; then it was extinguished.
  
  The others woke and ate. Then Chet guided the boat to the island shore. "Anything dangerous to people here?" Dor asked it.
  
  "Only boredom," the island replied. "Nothing interesting ever happens here, except maybe a seasonal storm or two."
  
  That was what they wanted: a dull locale. They took turns leaving the boat in order to attend to sanitary needs. Irene also took time to grow a forgetme flower.
  
  As the darkness closed, Dor reviewed the situation. "We're going to sneak by that dragon in the night. Irene will harvest some forgetme flowers to discourage memory of our passage; that way the reactions of fish in the area will not betray us. But that won't help us if the dragon sees us or hears us or smells us directly. We don't have any sight-or sound-blanking plants; we didn't anticipate this particular squeeze. So we must go extremely carefully."
  
  "I wish I were string and clay again," Grundy said. "Then I couldn't be killed."
  
  "Now we do have some other resources," Dor said. "The magic sword will make any person expert the moment he takes it in his hand. It won't help much against a pouncing dragon, but any lesser creature will be balked. If we get in serious trouble, we can climb through the escape hoop. The problem with that is that it leads to the permanent storage vat of the Brain Coral, deep under the earth, and the Coral doesn't like to release creatures. It happens to be my friend, but I'd rather not strain that friendship unless absolutely necessary. And there is the flying carpet—but that can only take one person at a time, plus Grundy. I think it could support Smash, but not Chet, so that's not ideal."
  
  "I wouldn't fit through the hoop either," Chet said.
  
  "Yes. So you, Chet, are the most vulnerable one in this situation, because of your mass. So we need to plan for another defense." Dor paused, for Irene was looking at him strangely. "What's the matter?"
  
  "You're glowing," she said.
  
  Startled, Dor checked himself. Light was streaming from one of his pockets. "Oh—that's the midnight sunstone Jewel gave me so I'll always have light. I had forgotten about it."
  
  "We don't want light at the moment," she pointed out. "Wrap it up." She handed him a piece of cloth.
  
  Dor wrapped the gem carefully, until its glow was so muted as to be inconsequential, and put it back in his pocket. "Now," he continued. "Irene has some seeds that will grow devastating plants—she really is Magician level, regardless of what the Elders say—but most of those plants would be as dangerous to us as to the enemy. We'd have to plant and run."
  
  "Any that would block off the water so the dragon couldn't pursue?" Chet asked.
  
  "Oh, yes," Irene said, glowing at Dor's compliment about her talent. "The kraken weed—"
  
  "I see what Dor means," the centaur said quickly. "I don't want to be swimming in the same ocean with a kraken!"
  
  "Or I could start a stunflower on the island here, but it would be likely to stun us, too." She considered. "Aha! I do have some popcorn. That's harmless, but it makes an awful racket. That might distract the dragon for awhile."
  
  "Grow me some of that," Chet said. "I'll throw it behind me if I have to swim."
  
  "Only one problem," she said. "I can't grow that at night. It's a dayplant."
  
  "I could unwrap the sunstone," Dor offered.
  
  "That's too small, I think. We'd need a lot of light, radiating all about, not gleaming from tiny facets."
  
  "What can you grow naturally at night?" Chet asked grimly.
  
  "Well, hypno-gourds do well; they generate their own light, inside. But you wouldn't want to look in the peephole, because—"
  
  "Because I'd be instantly hypnotized," Chet finished. "Grow me one anyway; it might help."
  
  "As you wish," she agreed dubiously. She leaned over the side of the boat to drop a seed on the shore. "Grow," she murmured.
  
  "Now if there is trouble," Dor said, "you, Irene, get on the flying carpet. You can drop a kraken seed near the dragon, while the rest of us use the hoop or swim for it. But we'll do our best to escape the notice of the dragon. Then we can proceed south without further trouble."
  
  There was no objection. They waited until the hypno-gourd had fruited, producing one fine specimen. Chet wrapped it in cloth and tucked it in the boat. The craft started moving, nudging silently south toward the channel while the occupants hardly dared breathe. Chet guided it in an eastward curve, to intersect the main channel first, so that he could avoid the monster that was presumably waiting due south. In this silent darkness, they could not see it any more than it could see them.
  
  But the dragon had outsmarted them. It had placed a sunfish in this channel that operated on a similar principle to the sunstone, but it was thousands of times as large. When they came near, the fish suddenly glowed like the sun itself, blindingly. The rounded fin projected above the surface of the water, and its light turned night to day.
  
  "Oh, no!" Dor cried. He had so carefully wrapped his sunstone—and now this was infinitely worse.
  
  There was a gleeful honk from the dragon. They saw its eyes glowing as it forged toward them. Water dragons did not have internal fire; the eyes were merely reflecting the blaze of the sunfish.
  
  "Plant the kraken!" Dor cried.
  
  "No!" Chet countered. "We can make it to the mainland shallows!"
  
  Sure enough, the boat glided smoothly across the channel before the dragon arrived. The monster was silhouetted before the sunfish, writhing in frustration. It had planned so well, and just missed victory. It honked. "Curses!" Grundy translated. "Foiled again!"
  
  "What about the sand dune?" Irene asked worriedly.
  
  "They are usually quiescent by night," Chet said.
  
  "But this isn't night any more," she reminded him, her voice taking on a pink tinge of hysteria.
  
  Indeed, the dark mound was rippling, sending a strand of itself toward the water. The sand had enough mass, and the water was so shallow, that it was possible for the dune to fill it in. The ravenous shoreline was coming toward them.
  
  "If we retreat from the dune, we'll come within reach of the dragon," Chet said.
  
  "Feed goon to dune," Smash suggested.
  
  "Goon? Do you mean the dragon?" Dor asked. The ogre nodded.
  
  "Say, yes!" Irene said. "Talk to the dune, Dor. Tell it we'll lure the dragon within its range if it lets us go."
  
  Dor considered. "I don't know. I'd hate to send any creature to such a fate—and I'm not sure the dune can be trusted."
  
  "Well, string it out as long as you can. Once the dune tackles the dragon, it won't have time to worry about small fry like us."
  
  Dor eyed the surging dune on one side, the chop-slurping dragon on the other, and noted how the region between them was diminishing. "Try reasoning with the dragon first," he told Grundy.
  
  The golem emitted a series of honks, grunts, whistles, and tooth-gnashings. It was amazing how versatile he was with sounds—but of course this was his magic. In a moment the dragon lunged forward, trying to catch the entire boat in its huge jaws, but falling short. The water washed up in a small tsunami. "I asked it if it wouldn't like to let a nice group of people on the King's business like us go on in peace," Grundy said. "It replied—"
  
  "We can see what it replied," Dor said. "Very well; we'll go the other route." He faced the shore and called: "Hey, dune!"
  
  Thus hailed, the dune was touched by Dor's magic. "You calling me, tidbit?"
  
  "I want to make a deal with you."
  
  "Ha! You're going to be consumed anyway. What kind of deal can you offer?"
  
  "This whole boatload is a small morsel for the likes of you. But we might arrange for you to get a real meal, if you let us go in peace."
  
  "I don't eat, really," the dune said. "I preserve. I clean and secure the bones of assorted creatures so that they can be admired millennia hence. My treasures are called fossils."
  
  So this monster, like so many of its ilk, thought itself a benefactor to Xanth. Was there any creature or thing, no matter how awful, that didn't rationalize its existence and actions in similar fashion? But Dor wasn't here to argue with it. "Wouldn't you rather fossilize a dragon than a sniveling little collection of scraps like us?"
  
  "Oh, I don't know. Snivelers are common, but so are dragons. Size is not as important for the fossil record as quality and completeness."
  
  "Well, do you have a water dragon in your record yet?"
  
  "No, most of them fall to my cousin the deepsea muck, just as most birds are harvested by my other cousin, the tarpit. I would dearly like to have a specimen like that."
  
  "We offer you that water dragon there," Dor said. "All you need to do is make a channel deep enough for the dragon to pass. Then we'll lure it in—and then you can close the channel and secure your specimen for fossilization."
  
  "Say, that would work!" the dune agreed. "It's a deal."
  
  "Start your channel, then. We'll sail down it first, leading the dragon. Make sure you let us go, though."
  
  "Sure. You go, the dragon stays."
  
  "I don't trust this," Irene muttered.
  
  "Neither do I," Dor agreed. "But we're in a bind. Chet, can you apply your calculus?"
  
  "The smallest of stones can be considered calculi," Chet said. "That is to say, sand. Now sand has certain properties . . ." He trailed off, then brightened. "You have sea-grass seed?" he asked Irene.
  
  "Lots of it. But I don't see how—" Then her eyes glowed. "Oh, I do see! Yes, I'll be ready, Chet!"
  
  The sand began to hump itself into twin mounds, opening a narrow channel of water between them. Chet guided the boat directly down that channel. The dragon, perceiving their seeming escape, honked wrathfully and gnashed its teeth.
  
  "Express hope the dragon doesn't realize how deep this channel is," Dor told Grundy. "In dragon talk."
  
  Grundy smiled grimly. "I know my business!" He emitted dragon noises.
  
  Immediately the dragon explored the end of the channel, plunging its head into it. With a glad honk it writhed on into the inviting passage.
  
  Soon the dragon was close on their wake. Its entire body was now within the separation in the dune. "Now—close it up!" Dor cried to the dune.
  
  The dune did so. Suddenly the channel was narrowing and disappearing as sand heaped into it. Too late the dragon realized its peril; it tried to turn, to retreat, but the way out was blocked. It honked and thrashed, but was in deep trouble in shallow water.
  
  However, the channel ahead of the boat was also filling in. "Hey, let us out!" Dor cried.
  
  "Why should I let perfectly good fossil material go?" the dune asked reasonably. "This way I've got both you and the dragon. It's the haul of the century!"
  
  "But you promised!" Dor said plaintively. "We made a deal!"
  
  "Promises and deals aren't worth the breath it takes to utter them—and I don't even breathe."
  
  "I knew it," Chet said. "Betrayal."
  
  "Do your stuff, Irene," Dor said.
  
  Irene brought out two handfuls of seeds. "Grow!" she yelled, scattering them widely. On either side the grass sprouted rapidly, sending its deep roots into the sand, grabbing, holding.
  
  "Hey!" the dune yelled, much as Dor had, as it tripped over itself where the grass anchored it.
  
  "You reneged on our agreement," Dor called back. "Now you pay the penalty." For the sand in this region was no longer able to move; the grass had converted it to ordinary ground.
  
  Enraged, the dune made one final effort. It humped up horrendously in the region beyond the growing grass, then rolled forward with such impetus that it spilled into the channel, filling it.
  
  "It's swamping the boat!" Dor cried. "Abandon ship!"
  
  "Some gratitude!" the boat complained. "I carry you loyally all over Xanth, risking my keel, and the moment things get rough, you abandon me!"
  
  The boat had a case, but they couldn't afford to argue it. Heedless of its objection, they all piled out as the sand piled in. They ran across the remaining section of grass-anchorage while the boat disappeared into the dune. The sand was unable to follow them here; its limit had been reached, and already the blades of grass were creeping up through the new mound, nailing it down. The main body of the dune had to retreat and concentrate on the thrashing dragon that bid fair to escape by coiling out of the vanished channel and writhing back toward the sea.
  
  The party stood at the edge of the bay. "We lost our boat," Irene said. "And the flying carpet, and escape hoop, and food."
  
  "And my bow and arrows," Chet said mournfully. "All I salvaged was the gourd. We played it too close; those monsters are stronger and smarter than we thought. We learn from experience."
  
  Dor was silent. He was the nominal leader of this party; the responsibility was his. If he could not manage a single trip south without disaster, how could he hope to handle the situation when he got to Centaur Isle? How could he handle the job of being King, if it came to that?
  
  But they couldn't remain here long, whether in thought or in despair. Already the natives of the region were becoming aware of them. Carnivorous grass picked up where the freshly planted sea grass left off, and the former was sending its hungry shoots toward them. Vines trembled, bright droplets of sap-saliva oozing from their surfaces. There was a buzzing of wings; something airborne would soon show up.
  
  But now at last the sunfish dimmed out, and night returned; the day creatures retreated in confusion, and the night creatures stirred. "If there's one thing worse than day in the wilderness," Irene said, shivering, "it's night. What do we do now?"
  
  Dor wished he had an answer.
  
  "Your plants have saved us once," Chet told her. "Do you have another plant that could protect us or transport us?"
  
  "Let me see." In the dark she put her hand in her bag of seeds and felt around. "Mostly food plants, and special effects . . . a beerbarrel tree—how did that get in here? . . . water locust . . . bulrush—"
  
  "Bulrushes!" Chet said. "Aren't those the reeds that are always in a hurry?"
  
  "They rush everywhere," she agreed.
  
  "Suppose we wove them into a boat or raft—could we control its motion?"
  
  "Yes, I suppose, if you put a ring in the craft's nose. But—"
  
  "Let's do it," the centaur said. "Anything will be better than waiting here for whatever is creeping up on us."
  
  "I'll start the bulrushes growing," she agreed. "We can weave them before they're mature. But you'll have to find a ring before we can finish."
  
  "Dor and Grundy—please question your contacts and see if you can locate a ring," the centaur said.
  
  They started in, Dor questioning the nonliving, Grundy the living. Neither could find a ring in the vicinity. The weaving of the growing bulrushes proceeded apace; it seemed Chet and Irene were familiar with the technique and worked well together. But already the rushes were thrashing about, trying to free themselves to travel. The mass of the mat-raft was burgeoning; soon it would be too strong to restrain.
  
  "Bring ring," Smash said.
  
  "We're trying to!" Dor snapped, clinging to a corner of the struggling mat. The thing was hideously strong.
  
  "Germ worm," the ogre said insistently. His huge hairy paw pushed something at Dor. The object seemed to be a loop of fur.
  
  A loop? "A ring!" Dor exclaimed. "Where did you get it?"
  
  "Me grow on toe," Smash explained. "Which itch."
  
  "You grew the ring on your toe—and it itched?" Dor was having trouble assimilating this.
  
  "Let me check," Grundy said. He made a funny sizzle, talking with something, then laughed. "You know what that is? A ringworm!"
  
  "A ringworm!" Dor cried in dismay, dropping the hideous thing.
  
  "If it's a ring, we need it," Chet said. "Before this mat gets away."
  
  Chagrined, Dor felt on the ground and picked up the ringworm. He passed it gingerly to the centaur. "Here."
  
  Chet wove it into the nose of the craft, then jerked several long hairs from his beautiful tail and twined them into a string that he passed through the ring. Suddenly the bulrush craft settled down. "The nose is sensitive," Chet explained. "The ring makes it hurt when jerked, so even this powerful entity can be controlled."
  
  "Some come!" Smash warned.
  
  Rather than wait to discover what it was that could make an ogre nervous, the others hastened to lead the now-docile bulrush boat to the water. Once it was floating, they boarded carefully and pushed off from the shore. The craft was not watertight, but the individual rushes were buoyant, so the whole business floated.
  
  Something growled in the dark on the shore—a deep, low, throbbing, powerful, and ugly sound. Then, frustrated, it moved away, the ground shuddering. A blast of odor passed them, dank and choking. No one inquired what it might be.
  
  Now Chet gave the bulrushes some play. The raft surged forward, churning up a faintly phosphorescent wake. Wind rushed past their faces.
  
  "Can you see where we're going?" Irene asked, her voice thin.
  
  "No," Chet said. "But the bulrushes travel best in open water. They won't run aground or crash into any monsters."
  
  "You trust them more than I do," she said. "And I grew them."
  
  "Elementary calculation of vegetable nature," the centaur said.
  
  "May I lean against your side?" she asked. "I didn't sleep today, and your coat is so soft—"
  
  "Go ahead," Chet said graciously. He was lying down again, as the woven fabric of the raft could not support his weight afoot. The rushes had swelled in the water, and Dor had succeeded in bailing it out; they were no longer sitting in sea water. Dor had not slept either, but he didn't feel like leaning against Chet's furry side.
  
  The stars moved by. Dor lay on his back and determined the direction of travel of the raft by the stars' apparent travel. It wasn't even; the bulrushes were maneuvering to find the course along which they could rush most freely. They did seem to know where they were going, and that sufficed for now.
  
  Gradually the constellations appeared, patterns in the sky, formations of stars that shifted from randomness to the suggestion of significance. There seemed to be pictures shaping, representations of creatures and objects and notions. Some resembled faces; he thought he saw King Trent peering down at him, giving him a straight, intelligent look.
  
  Where are you now? Dor asked wordlessly.
  
  The face frowned. I am being held captive in a medieval Mundane castle, it said. I have no magic power here. You must bring me magic.
  
  But I can't do that! Dor protested. Magic isn't something a person can carry, especially not into Mundania!
  
  You must use the aisle to rescue me.
  
  What aisle? Dor asked, excited.
  
  The centaur aisle, Trent answered.
  
  Then a waft of ocean spray struck Dor's face, and he woke. The stellar face was gone; it had been a dream.
  
  Yet the message remained with him. Center Isle? His spelling disability made him uncertain, now, of the meaning. How could he use an island to seek King Trent? The center of what? If it was centaur, did that mean Chet had something essential to do with it? If it was an aisle, an aisle between what and what? If this were really a message, a prophecy, how could he apply it? If it were merely a random dream or vision, a construct of his overtired and meandering mind, he should ignore it. But such things were seldom random in Xanth.
  
  Troubled, Dor drifted to sleep again. What he had experienced could not have been a nightmare, for it hadn't scared him, and of course the mares could not run across the water. Maybe it would return and clarify itself.
  
  But the dream did not repeat, and he could not evoke it by looking at the stars. Clouds had sifted across the night sky.