Free Juxtaposition by Piers Anthony

moved well on toward the termination of the plain to the north.   At dusk they came to the White Mountain range. Here the peaks rose straight out of the plain in defiance of normal geological principles; probably magic had been involved in their formation.
    The curtain blithely traveled up the slope at a steep angle. It would have been difficult to navigate this route by daylight; at night the attempt would be foolhardy. “And there are snow-demons,” the Lady said as an afterthought.   Stile pondered, then conjured a floating ski lift. It contained a heated stall for two equines, complete with a trough filled with fine grain, and a projecting shelf with several mugs of nutri-cocoa similar to what was available from a Proton food machine. Clip could have converted to hawk-form and flown up, but the cold would have hindered him, and this was far more comfortable. Unicorn and horse stepped into the stalls and began feeding, while Stile and the Lady mounted for their repast. Eating and sleeping while mounted was no novelty; it was part of the joy of Phaze.
    They rode serenely upward as if drawn by an invisible cable. “Yet I wonder where this magic power comes from?” Stile mused. “I realize that the mineral Phazite is the power source for magic, just as its other-frame self, Protonite, is the basis for that scientific, energy-processing society. But why should certain people, such as the Adepts, channel that power better than others? Why should music and doggerel verse implement it for me, while the Green Adept needs special gestures and the White Adept needs mystic symbols? There is a certain channelization here that cannot be coincidental. But if it is natural, what governs it? If it is artificial, who set it up?”
    “Thou wert ever questioning the natural order,” the Lady Blue said affectionately. “Asking whence came the Proton objects conjured to this frame, like the harmonica, and whether they were turning up missing from that frame, making us thieves.”
    So his other self had speculated similarly! “I wonder if I could conjure a source of information? Maybe a smart demon, like the one Yellow animates with a potion.”
    “Conjure not demons, lest they turn on thee,” she warned, and Clip gave an affirmative blast on his horn.  
    “Yes, I suppose there are no shortcuts,” Stile said. “But one way or another, I hope to find the answer.”
    “Mayhap that is why mischief lurks for thee at the West Pole,” the Lady said, not facetiously. “Thou canst not let things rest, any more in this self than in thine other.” That was quite possible, he thought. It was likely to be the curious child with a screwdriver who poked into a power outlet and got zapped, while the passive child escaped harm. But man was a carious creature, and that insatiable appetite for knowledge had led him to civilization and the stars. Progress had its dangers, yet was necessary—
    Something rattled against the side of the gondola stall, startling them. Clip shifted instantly to hawk-form, dropping Stile so suddenly to the floor that he stumbled face first into the food trough as if piggishly hungry. Hinblue eyed him as he lifted his corn- and barley-covered face, and made a snort that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.  
    “Et tu. Brute,” Stile muttered, wiping off his face while the Lady tittered.
    Soon Clip returned from his survey of the exterior situation, metamorphosing to man-form. “Snow-demons,” he said. “Throwing icicles at us.”
    Stile made a modification spell, and the chamber drew farther out from the mountainside, beyond reach of icicles.   So much for that. “Yet this will complicate our night’s lodging,” Stile commented.
    “Nay, I know a snow-chief,” the Lady said. “Once the demons were enemies of my Lord Blue, but we have healed many, and this one will host us graciously enough, methinks.”
    “Mayhap,” Stile said dubiously. “But I shall set a warning spell against betrayal.”
    “Do