Wielding a Red Sword

by Piers Anthony

  He recovered his balance and touched the ice again. It was absolutely solid. He knocked at it with a knuckle, and it was hard.

  But then how had the Sword—?

  He lifted the Sword and poked the point slowly at the wall. It sank in without contact. He moved the blade about, and it swept through the wall without affecting it. What was this?

  He set his left hand against the cold wall, then passed the blade slowly down through it until the edge touched his hand. The Sword did not cut him, of course; the magic of his office protected him from his own weaponry. The edge nudged him and stopped.

  His hand was firm against the wall, while the Sword felt nothing except his hand. To his hand, the wall was solid ice; to the Sword, it was mere mist.

  How could he carve an entrance out of mist?

  Mym remembered how this palace had been unapproachable by the horse. Now it was untouchable by the Sword.

  He retreated a few paces, then unstrapped the harness and set the Sword and scabbard on the snow. He had no concern about losing the weapon; it would come at his beck, and no other person, mortal or immortal, could use it without his leave. It was not physical contact that bound the Sword to him, but the office.

  He located a hefty stone, picked it up, and carried it to the wall. The stone weighed about four kilograms and had a ragged point at one side; it would do as a sledgehammer.

  He smashed the stone into the wall. The ice cracked, sending radiating lines out in all directions. He struck again, and a chip of ice flaked off. Several more blows gouged out a small crater, then a larger one. Continuing effort broke a hole in it. He bashed away at the edges, until he was able to step through the opening and stand within the palace.

  It was as lovely inside as out. There were halls and chambers and stairs, all silent and clean. Light emanated from the ceiling, resembling the Northern Lights. Carpets of ice hung on the walls, with snowflake patterns within that formed pictures of snowscapes.

  He walked along those eerie halls, studying it all. Though this palace was cold and would be horrible for a normal person, he found it pleasant. But why had it been constructed? Solely to punish an errant soul? That seemed to be an awful amount of design and effort for a soul that could be made miserable by far simpler means. Yet it did seem to be the case.

  He found the central chamber. There, on a kind of pedestal, was a box, formed of transparent ice, and in the box was a bed, and in the bed was a lovely young woman, protected by a coverlet of puffy white snow.

  Something about this situation nagged at Mym's memory. He paused to search it out, and had it: the occidental children's story of the Slumbering Lovely. She had been enchanted to sleep for a century or so, until a prince of a later generation rescued her.

  Apparently it had been a mechanism for merging two lines of royalty when one was not eligible at the appropriate time.

  Well, he was, or had been a prince, and the demoness had called this one the Princess Ligeia. It seemed appropriate to rescue her. Certainly she was beautiful, and seemed to be about his own age, though of course there was no telling how long she had been here; she might be of his grandmother's generation. Did that matter? Not really; not if she had slept unaware for the intervening time, so remained young in outlook.

  He touched the box, discovering that a dome of ice covered the top, sealing in the Princess. Well, he could break it so as to be able to get to her and—how were slumbering lovelies awakened? By a kiss, as he recalled. Probably a euphemism for a rather more intimate contact. He could accommodate that.

  He tapped on the glassy dome. It rang, but did not break.

  The girl stirred. Her eyes opened. They were green, like deep ice. She saw him. Her mouth opened, and her bosom heaved so violently that the snow blanket bounced off, but there was no sound.

  "Don't worry," Mym said in English, as he doubted that this Nordic woman spoke his native language. "I am about to rescue you."

  But she sat up, throwing off the remaining cover, and kneeled on the bed opposite him. She wore a fetching pink nightie that only enhanced the delightful contours beneath. Her hair was so fair as to resemble frozen water, and her skin almost translucent. Lovely, indeed!

  Her bosom heaved again and her mouth worked, but still there was no sound. Evidently the ice enclosure was a perfect sonic barrier. She seemed to be violently protesting something.

  "But I'm not here to harm you," Mym shouted back. "I have come to rescue you! I am a friend." He put his mouth almost on the ice and repeated: "A FRIEND!"

  But still she seemed not to understand. She shook her head violently back and forth in negation, her silken tresses flying out like fancy skirts. Her mouth formed exaggerated Os. She seemed to be speaking English, crying "No! No!"

  Could he have encountered a captive Princess who didn't want to be rescued? A moment's consideration convinced him that that was not the case. Probably she had been tormented by demons in the forms of rescuers, much in the manner Gaea had been, so assumed that he was another such. Naturally she didn't want to be grasped by a demon.

  "I'm Mars, the Incarnation of War!" he cried, mouthing the words carefully. "The real one!"

  She seemed to understand. "Mars," she mouthed. But then she shook her head in even more violent negation. "No! No!"

  Mym reconsidered. If she knew he was genuine, why did she remain negative? Had Lila deceived him about this Princess's desire to be rescued? Did Ligeia dislike him personally? Neither seemed likely. The demoness seemed never to have lied to him before, and this particular deception would be pointless. And the Princess could hardly dislike a man she didn't know. Also, her reaction did not seem to be one of dislike, but rather one of concern.

  Aha! If he broke into the box, as he had the palace itself, the flying shards of ice might cut her. Also, the box might protect her from the cold, and a sudden opening might freeze her. He could not be sure that her blanket really was snow; it might have been fashioned to look that way for artistic effect. That could certainly concern her.

  But he could warm her with his cloak. He demonstrated that to her, opening the cloak, showing that there was room in it for two.

  She nodded, again seeming to understand. But then again she shook her head in negation.

  He tapped again on the ice. It was solid, but if he broke it at the end, the shards should not reach her. She could even shield herself with her blanket.

  He struck the ice harder. It rang, but did not break. The princess watched, seeming unalarmed by this. Good enough.

  He found a solid ice lump and used it to bash at the box. The contact was hard, but the ice would not crack. So he returned to the entrance he had broken and picked up the sledge-rock. This would do it!

  He returned, hefting the rock. Ligeia remained sitting on her bed, now passive. He slammed the rock into the ice—but this ice was harder than that of the palace wall, amazingly, and neither cracked nor flaked.

  After several attempts, he realized that this was not going to do it. He could not break in this way.

  Mym set down the rock and paced about the chamber, trying to think of his next step. How could he rescue a woman from an unbreakable container? There had to be a way; after all, she had been sealed into it, so unless it had been constructed around her, there was a way to get by it.

  She was, he reminded himself, not a mortal person, but a damned soul. Obviously Satan intended to see that no one got her out and gave her a fair hearing. But how could physical substance imprison a bodiless spirit?

  Obviously it was possible, both because she was captive and because the structures of the Incarnations could serve as a barrier to demons, who were evidently as versatile as spirits in physical movement. Perhaps there was some spiritual barrier that seemed solid to souls, though mortals didn't notice it. But he, as an Incarnation, should be able to pass it, and to convey her past it, when she was in contact with him. It was the physical barrier that balked him, not the spiritual one.

  That being the case, how could he
circumvent the physical barrier, without breaking it?

  Abruptly the answer came to him. He could make himself either visible or invisible to mortals, solid or vaporous. He could do the same here.

  He reached down to touch the Sword—and remembered that he had left it outside in the snow. Careless of him!

  "Sword," he murmured, holding out his hand.

  The great Red Sword appeared in it, scabbard and all. Then Mym willed himself insubstantial and put his hand to and through the icy cover.

  Ligeia's eyes widened as she saw this. Mym extended his hand toward her, holding it open, pausing.

  The Princess hesitated, then slowly extended her own little hand. The two hands touched—and passed through each other without resistance.

  Here was another dilemma! Though Mym could make himself as insubstantial as a ghost, and Ligeia was a ghost, the two of them were not in the same frame. Maybe in the residences of the Incarnations spirits could seem as solid as mortals, but this was open territory, and such interaction was not possible. So he was physically barred when he was solid, and spiritually barred when he was insubstantial. He still could not really touch her and, therefore, could not rescue her.

  Mym shook his head. Surely Satan was laughing now! What a fiendish situation! To have the damsel in distress so near to rescue, yet untouchable. Would he have to go home, leaving her unrescued?

  No, he refused to do that. There had to be a way to bring her out of that box, and he intended to find that way.

  He paced the floor some more, pondering. She was a spirit, a damned soul. He was a mortal, but he had a soul of his own. If he could just set his body aside for a moment, much as he had his horse and his Sword—

  And there it was. As an Incarnation, he could do that, he knew. Gaea had mentioned something about the ability to discorporate. She had said there was a risk, but of course there was an element of risk in most things, sometimes directly proportional to their benefit. Whatever the risk, if this could do the job here, it should be worth it.

  He sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall, so that he needed no effort for support. Then he willed himself out of his body.

  And he did rise out of it, with no trouble at all. He stood, stepped forward, turned about, and saw his body propped there, unbreathing, lifeless for the moment. But it would reanimate the moment he returned to it, and the returning would be as easy as phasing in to any other body, as he had done so often before. That phasing had to be a variant of this; his physical body made impalpable, while his soul intergrated with the other.

  He turned again and approached the box. The Princess's gaze passed from his body to his soul, perceiving both—and abruptly her agitation redoubled. "No! No! No!" she cried soundlessly, gesturing frantically.

  "But this is the way I can rescue you," he replied. "I will just take your hand and bring you out. You will have your chance at last."

  She put up her hands, spread out in a stop-stop gesture. She shook her head so violently that her hair became a whirling halo. Her whole aspect cried denial.

  Mym paused, perplexed. "Are you afraid of me again? you weren't a moment ago!"

  When he paused, she paused. But still she pushed him back, figuratively, with her hands. She did not want him to come to her.

  "Don't you want to be rescued?" Mym asked, knowing she could not hear the words.

  But it seemed that she did understand the gist. Her hands spread in a gesture of helplessness. She seemed to want to convey something to him, but lacked the means to do it.

  "Then let me enter, so I can hear you," he said reasonably. "Then you can tell me. If there is good reason for me not to rescue you, then I will certainly not force it upon you. I'm only trying to help." He took another step.

  Again she reacted with desperate negation. But this time he did not pause; he had to get close enough to explain his position to her, to ease her concern. Perhaps she did have reason not to be rescued; he would consider it carefully. His leading hand passed through the ice without resistance, then his arm to the shoulder. It was working.

  She screamed—and as his head passed through, the tail end of that scream suddenly manifested.

  He reached out and took her hand, and this time the contact was real. They were two spirits now, and felt to each other exactly the way two solid mortals would, for they were equivalently solid. "Ligeia," he said. "Please, listen to me. I shall not force anything upon you."

  She burst into tears.

  Mym sat on the bed and took her in his arms. She was warm and very soft; she smelled of spring flowers and new-mown hay, and her tears were wet against his shoulder. It was amazing how physical the spirit realm seemed! He patted her on the back. "There, there," he said. "It's all right, now. I have come to take you away from this."

  Suddenly she raised her head and her flowing green eyes met his. "But you can't!" she exclaimed.

  "I won't—if you don't want me to," he said reassuringly. "Just explain how you feel, and I will honor it."

  "Oh, I tried to stop you!" she wailed. "But you wouldn't listen!"

  "I couldn't hear you," he explained. "But now I can. Just tell me what—"

  "Oh, you don't understand," she said. "You just don't understand!"

  "But I'm trying to," he said reasonably.

  "Oh, you poor man!" The tears resumed their flow.

  "I have no problem," he protested. "Come, let's step out of here, and then we can talk."

  He leaned forward, extending one hand to the ice wall of the box to get his balance. The hand banged.

  He looked at it, then tried again. It banged again. The ice was now solid to him.

  "But only my spirit is here!" he said, wonderingly. "I just passed through it!"

  "That's what I was trying to tell you," Ligeia said. "It's one-way ice. A soul can enter, as I did, as you did—but it can't leave. We can't get out. I tried so hard to warn you!"

  "Can't get out?" he asked, bemused.

  "This is Satan's trap," she explained. "This is a capsule of Hell. No one can escape it, except into the rest of Hell."

  "I'm trapped in Hell?" Suddenly Gaea's warning returned to him—Satan would not meet him in an arena of his choosing. Now he would have to meet Satan in the arena of Satan's choosing—Hell itself.

  The capsule began to move. It descended through the floor, carrying the two of them with it.

  They were headed for Hell proper.

  Chapter 14 - HELL

  The capsule stopped at a facility very like an airport, coming to rest beside a large glassy building. An accordionpleated ramp extended out to touch the capsule; there was a click, and the ice dissolved at the point of contact.

  "We're here," Ligeia said. "Oh, I wish—" But she didn't finish, and Mym understood why. What use were wishes in Hell?

  "You knew this would happen?" Mym asked as they set foot on the walk.

  "The moment I saw you," she agreed, her tears in the process of being replaced by fatalism. "Satan told me I was going for a—oh, never mind. I was a fool, yet again."

  "A hearing?" Mym asked. "And instead you were bait for a trap."

  She nodded grimly and preceded him to the building.

  He realized that she could be lying. But what was the point? Whether demoness or genuine damned soul, she had done the job, and he had been caught. He preferred to believe that she was as much a victim of Satan's deception and cruelty as he.

  Satan was waiting in the terminal. "Welcome to Hell, Mars!" he said jovially, stepping forward with his hand extended. Mym considered refusing the hand, but concluded that civility was better than antagonism, even in Hell. He shook the hand.

  "I can't say I am completely pleased to be here," Mym said. "What is the point of this device?"

  "Merely to get your attention, my dear associate," Satan said, smiling. "I am sure that you and I shall come to a perfect understanding."

  "I hope so," Mym said. "It has been my impression that one Incarnation does not interfere with the busine
ss of another on a casual basis; there could be a consequence."

  If Satan reacted to the thinly veiled threat, he gave no sign. "Incarnations should always cooperate," he agreed. "Come, share the hospitality of My domain, and we shall converse."

  "If I may go, now—" Ligeia murmured. "By no means. My dear," Satan replied. "This man is a prince; we shall not foist off on him the company of a woman beneath his station. You shall be his escort while he visits."

  "But I really would prefer not to—"

  "Your preference, My dear, is a matter of indifference to Me. I suggest that you put a suitably fair face on the matter."

  Evidently reluctant, she nevertheless nerved herself and smiled at Mym. "It seems I must," she said. "I assure you, sir, that my reticence does not reflect on you. Are you really a prince?"

  "I was, in life," Mym agreed. "That is behind me, now. Are you really a princess?"

  "In life," she echoed.

  "Excellent," Satan said. "The Old Smoky House has palatable fare; shall we dine there?"

  "It seems we shall," Mym said. He was sure that Satan could not hold him in Hell against his will, but not sure how he was to escape it. He was still too new in this office, so did not yet know how to use his Incarnative powers to their full extent. Until he figured out his best course of action, it was best to make no dramatic and possibly pointless gestures.

  Ligeia took his arm, and they followed Satan to another chamber. This was set up like a contemporary occidental restaurant, with dim lighting and soft music and elegantly garbed waiters and waitresses. It surprised Mym to see such an establishment in Hell, but obviously it belonged. He was sure that neither demons nor damned souls required food for sustenance, but if it made them more comfortable to honor the amenities of life, that was all right. Of course, most of the souls resident in Hell probably did not actually get to eat; probably Satan tortured them by allowing them only to smell the good food.

  "Shall we have steak?" Satan inquired, surveying the menu.

  "The flesh of a cow?" Mym asked.

  "Um, true," Satan said. "You are from India. Perhaps a nice fancy curry then?"