Free Under A Velvet Cloak by Piers Anthony

Fey didn’t bother to generate the illusion at other times, as it required magical energy she didn’t care to waste. She went to see the cook, who wasn’t aware of her, and the coachman. He was working on a wagon wheel, and suddenly stepped across the room for a nail. And collided with Kerena.
    “What?” he asked, amazed as his arms swung around her. “Am I going blind? I see nothing.” One hand closed on her left buttock, through the cloth; the other found her right breast, similarly.
    “You rogue!” Kerena exclaimed. “You heard me coming!”
    “Aye, miss,” he agreed, letting her _go. _”And got a good feel, too.”
    She had to laugh. “You’re used to magic, around here. But suppose you’d done that to the Fey?”
    “She’d have sprouted spines and stabbed me. But I know you apart by your tread and smell.”
    Here was a learning opportunity. “Teach me to mask those, and I’ll give you more than a feel.”
    The man was happy to cooperate. Soon she was managing to step without sound, as she could do in the dark forest, and knew that a thorough body wash would diminish her smell for several hours if she didn’t sweat much. She rewarded him with an invisible sexual clasping that left him more than satisfied. It was after all her stock in trade. The coachman had left her alone, surely on the Fey’s order, but would not have been a man had he not had a serious hankering for her body.
    She returned to her room, and tried to remove the cloak And failed; it would not come off. She realized that she did not know how to turn off the spell. She remained cloaked and invisible.
    She went to the Fey. “Please, I need to know how to end the invisibility.”
    “You have had your question for today,” the woman snapped. “Save it for tomorrow.”
    “But I’m stuck this way!”
    “You should have considered that before invoking it, you silly girl. Never get into something you don’t know how to get out of.”
    It was excellent advice, albeit a bit late. Also a stiff lesson. She would not make that mistake again. Kerena returned to her room. She used her chamber pot, and saw that when she left it, her refuse was visible, no longer masked by the cloak. But she herself could not leave it similarly.
    She slept imperfectly, angry with herself for making such a stupid error. But the cloak was comfortable enough, keeping her warm. In the morning she tried to put something on beneath it, but was unable; it clung too tightly to her body. She would have to remain nude until she nullified the spell.
    She went back to the Fey. “Repeat the invocation, exactly as you made it,” the woman said, not waiting for the question. “It is an on~off latch.”
    “Thank you, mistress.” Kerena retreated to her room, repeated the invocation, and became visible. Now she was able to remove the cloak.
    “Next, master protection,” the Fey told her later that day. “It should shield you against arrow, blade, or club. That can be useful on occasion.”
    Kerena went to her room, romanced the cloak, then whispered her impromptu ditty: “Wield a shield, yield the field.” It didn’t make a lot of sense, but she trusted the cloak to respond to her meaning.
    It did. She did not disappear, and the cloak felt no different, but when she went to the coachman she verified it. “Strike me and you can have me,” she told him.
    “Magic?”
    “I hope so.”
    He curled his fist and tried a cautious punch, not wanting to hurt her. It sheered off harmlessly. He tried again, with greater force; his fist bounced back at him. He tried a third time, with a carriage stay; it jarred from his hand as if caught on an invisible rail. “Can’t touch you,” he said. “Too bad for me.”
    “Let’s find out.” She opened the cloak, exposing her nude body, and stepped into him. Now there was contact. It was the cloak that fended him off, not her body. “Take me anyway; I appreciate your assistance.”
    He did not argue. In a moment his member was