Free Juxtaposition by Piers Anthony Page A

thou that,” she agreed. “One can never be quite certain with demons.”
    They crested the high peak and followed the curtain to an icebound hollow in a pass on the north side. “Here, belike, can we find my friend,” the Lady said.   Stile placed the warning spell, and another to keep warm—a warner and a warmer, as the Lady put it—and they rode out. There was a cave in the ice, descending into the mountain. They approached this, and the snow demons appeared.
    “I seek Freezetooth,” the Lady proclaimed. “Him have I befriended.” And in an amazingly short time, they were in the cold hall of the snow-chief.
    Freezetooth was largely made of snow and ice. His skin was translucent, and his hair and beard were massed, tiny icicles. Freezing fog wafted out of his mouth as he spoke.   But he was affable enough. Unlike most of his kind, he could talk. It seemed that most demons did not regard the human tongue as important enough to master, but a chief had to handle affairs of state and interrogate prisoners.  
    “Welcome, warm ones,” he said with a trace of delicately suppressed aversion. “What favor do you offer for the privilege of nighting at my glorious palace?” Glorious palace? Stile glanced about the drear, ice shrouded cave. It was literally freezing here—otherwise the snow-demons would melt. Even protected by his spell, Stile felt cold.
    ‘I have done thy people many favors in past years,” the Lady reminded Freezetooth indignantly, small sparks flashing from her eyes. That was a trick of hers Stile always admired, but several snow-demons drew hastily back in alarm.
    “Aye, and in appreciation, we consume thee not,” the chief agreed. “What hast thou done far us lately, thou and thy cohorts?”
    “This cohort is the Blue Adept,” she said, indicating Stile.
    There was a ripple through the cave, as of ice cracking under stress. Freezetooth squinted, his snowy brow crusting up in reflection.
    “I do recall something about a white foal—“ Stile placed the allusion. His alternate self, the former Blue Adept, had helped the Lady Blue rescue her white foal from the snow-demons, who did not now realize that the identity of the Blue Adept had changed. It hardly mattered, really.
    “That foal would have died with thy people, being no snow-mare, though she looked it. But there was an ava lanche—“
    “An accident,” Freezetooth said quickly.  
    “An accident,” Stile agreed, though they both knew better. The demons had tried to kill the Blue Adept—and had received a harsh lesson. Surely they did not want another.   But there was no need to antagonize them.    “What favor didst thou crave?”
    Now there was a canny glint in the demon’s frozen eye.
    ‘”Come converse privately. Adept, male to male.” In a private chamber the demon confessed his desire: he loved a lovely, flowing, brilliantly hued fire-spirit. His “flame” was literally a flame.
    The problem was immediately apparent. Freezetooth could not approach his love without melting. If she cooled to his temperature, her fire would extinguish and she would perish. Forbidden fruit, indeed!
    Fortunately the remedy was within the means of Adept magic. Stile generated a spell to render Freezetooth invulnerable to heat. The flames would feel as deliciously cold as they were in fact hot.
    The demon chief departed hastily to rendezvous with his love. Stile and his party were treated well by the remaining demons, who were no longer chilled by the wintry glare of their lord. The finest snowbanks were provided for sleeping on, in the most frigid and windy of the chambers.   Without Stile’s warmth-spell, it would have been disaster.   As it was, they started to melt down into the snow, and Stile had to modify his spell to prevent that. Once every thing had been adjusted, the facilities were quite comfort able.
    In the morning Freezetooth was back, and his icicles positively scintillated. No need to ask how his evening had worked