Part 16 (1/2)

Now Irene picked the seed out of her panty band. ”Still wearing that same pair, I see,” Grundy remarked innocently. ”Aren't they getting a little old by now?”

”My panties match my complexion,” Irene said with what she hoped was humor. She was not about to explain the niceties of maintaining changes of clothing. It had been bad enough when her present clothes had gotten soaked during the night, forcing her to grow subst.i.tutes while these dried. She did not normally wear her underclothing several days in a row. The golem knew that; he just wanted to force her to talk about t.i.tillating things in the presence of Xavier. There were levels and levels of Grundy's mischief. ”Now let's get on down the mountain.” She turned to face the trunk of the main ivy plant, clinging to the side of the knoll.

This was another problem. She had a good-sized bag to carry, and it weighed a fair amount. She could heft it with one hand--but she needed two hands to climb down the vine. She didn't dare drop the bag down first; it would burst apart when it struck below, and the seeds would be lost when they scattered. What was she to do now?

Xavier saw the problem. ”I can carry the bag for you, miss. It don't weigh much, for me.”

Irene looked at him, considering. He remained a fine, muscular man. But he, too, would need two hands for climbing, so couldn't safely carry the bag down. He might have held on to something less bulky with his teeth, but not this.

Fortunately, Grundy came up with the answer. ”One of you go down a bit, and the other hand down the bag. Then the other can climb below and take the bag again. Stair-step it down. It'll take time, but the bag will get there.”

”Yeah, sure, that'll work!” Xavier agreed, removing his gaze from Irene's torso. He clambered over the brink and grasped the vines, readily lowering himself. When his head was just below the brink, he hooked his left hand firmly in the ivy and reached up with his right. ”Hand it down!” he called.

”He means the bag,” Grundy informed Irene. She didn't bother to glare at him this time; she handed it down. Xavier had no trouble holding the bag, as long as he didn't have to move.

Now it was time for her. She didn't relish descending a vertical vine in her panties, but really, it was not worse than wearing a bathing suit. When she had been a teenager, she had believed that the mere sight of those celebrated green panties would drive men mad, so naturally she had taken every opportunity to proffer fleeting glimpses of them. Now she was in her--alas--late twenties, and long past such illusions. If only she had known what was coming, she would have come prepared!

Prepared--how? If she had not worn a skirt, she could not have caught these seeds. It would have seemed silly to bring a big bag. So maybe it was just as well, the way it had happened.

No sense dawdling. She swung her legs over the edge and found footholds in the vine. She knew Xavier was looking up at her legs, but that could not be helped; besides, he was worried that she might fall. In moments she would be below him, anyway.

She paused, glancing back up at the Tree of Seeds and the monstrous sapient bird perched on it. ”Farewell, Simurgh, and thank you!” she called.

FAREWELL, GOOD WOMAN, the bird responded. REMEMBER THE NATURE OF THE SEEDS YOU CARRY. REMEMBER THE NATURE OF THE SEEDS YOU CARRY.

Scant chance she would forget! These seeds represented wealth beyond her fondest prior imaginings!

Irene resumed her descent, knowing that she would probably never again meet the like of the Simurgh.

Chapter 10: Cyclopean Eye.

In the morning. Ivy and Hugo and Stanley peeked over the edge of their ledge to spy out the worst. It was confirmed. A monster slept across the cave entrance.

They looked about the rest of the cave, seeking some other exit. There was none. This was a one-entrance domicile, and the monster blocked that one.

”Can we sneak out past him?” Ivy asked.

”Before he wakes?” Hugo inspected the monster. It was humanoid, hairy and huge. There was no gap between it and the walls of the mouth of the cave. ”We'd have to climb over its legs,” he said. ”I don't think it would sleep long, then.”

”Maybe he'll go away soon,” Ivy said.

But as she spoke, the giant rolled over, so that his horrendously ugly face was toward them, and opened his eye.

”Uh-oh,” Hugo said.

It was a fair comment, for the giant saw them. ”Ho!” he roared with a voice like mottled thunder and scrambled to his feet. The cave entrance was high enough to admit two and a half ordinary people standing on each other's heads, but the hairy pate of the giant barely cleared it. ”Midgets in cave!” the gaping mouth roared.

”Run for it!” Hugo cried in a fit of inspiration.

They tried. They slid-scrambled down to the floor--but the only place to run was toward the monster, and his huge, hairy, k.n.o.bbly legs barred the way. His enormous eye seemed to flash as it watched them, and his gigantic wooden club, formed from the trunk of a medium ironwood tree, hovered menacingly. The three of them lost what little nerve they had remaining and backed away.

But the giant followed them, poking forward with the club. ”What you do in cave?” he roared, causing sand to rattle loose and sift down from the ceiling.

Ivy was terrified, but she knew her friends were brave. ”We must fight him!” she declared. ”We'll make him let us go!”

Hugo exchanged an incredulous glance with Stanley. The logic of women was indecipherable! Then he turned a blank face to Ivy. ”Fight him?”

”Throw fruit at him!” she said encouragingly.

”But my fruit is rotten!”

”No it isn't!”

He remembered. ”That's right; it isn't any more! But rotten fruit is okay for this!” He conjured a huge super ripe tomato and hurled it at the giant. It struck about halfway up, splattering the crude animal-skin clothing with drippy red tomato-brains.

”And you, Stanley, with your superhot steam--you can toast his toes!” she said encouragingly.

The little dragon pumped up his steam. It was indeed superhot now, and he found his courage returning. If Ivy thought he could fight the giant effectively, maybe he could. He braced himself, aimed his snout precisely, and issued a searing jet of white-hot steam that heated the giant's callused, warty, big left toe.

The giant paused, taking a moment to realize that something was wrong. It was, after all, a long way from his toe to his head, and the pain took time to travel through the poorly maintained nerve channels. The aroma of cooking meat wafted up from the affected digit.

The giant sniffed. He licked his lips with a long sloppy tongue. That smelled good!

Then the pain plowed through the sludge clogging the last nerve channel and reached the pain center.

He roared again. Stalact.i.tes picked up the impulse, vibrating like tuning forks, and a pile of old fish scales jumped, registering two notches on the earthquake scale. The wind from the roar blew the little dragon head over tail, interfering with his aim; his remaining breath of steam shot up in a vertical geyser and petered out.