caused the dream girl to blush furiously again. But she wouldn’t let her dress get wet. Actually, it was a fairly simple outfit in shades of gray, the parts neither matching nor clashing; it was she herself who made it attractive.
“Hey, I never knew a doll could blush that far down,” the nix said evilly.
Imbri nosed a splash of water at him, but continued swimming, If the nix remained distracted by the woman’s exposure and embarrassment long enough, they would be across. That should embarrass
him.
He certainly deserved it.
Alas, the nix was not that foolish. “Nix, nix!” he cried, pointing again.
This time the freezing was incomplete. The water thickened into cold sludge, but Imbri was able to forge through it. It seemed there was too much volume here to freeze enough to immobilize her submerged body, so the effect was diluted.
“Well, then, nox!” the nix cried angrily. “Nix, nox, paddywox, live the frog alone!”
This nonsense thawed the water, then thinned it farther. Suddenly it was too dilute to support the mare’s swimming weight. She sank down over her head.
This was like phasing through solids—with one difference. She could not breathe. The water was now too thin to swim but too thick to breathe, and its composition was wrong.
Imbri’s feet found the bottom. This was solid. She turned hastily about and walked the few paces needed to bring her high enough for her head to break the surface. Now she could breathe.
She projected a dreamlet to Chameleon: centaur filly shaking a spray of water out of her hide. “Are you all right, woman?”
“My dress is soaked—I think,” Chameleon lamented. “The water isn’t very wet.”
That was good enough for Imbri. “Take a deep breath, and I will run all the way across the moat on the bottom. With thin water we can do it.”
“That’s what you think, night nag!” the nix cried, evidently catching part of the dream. He was swimming along, his forepart that of a fish, his hind part that of a man. The water was abruptly fully liquid again. “Try to run through that!”
Imbri realized that it could be dangerous to try. If she swam and the nix vaporized the water, she would sink without a breath and have to turn back. Chameleon could panic and possibly drown. Imbri wasn’t certain whether Chameleon could swim, and now was not the time to inquire.
She paused to consider. Alone, she could probably forge through despite the mischievous nix. But with Chameleon, it was harder. Too bad the woman was so stupid; Imbri had to do all the thinking. How could she get them both across with minimum risk?
Then she had a notion. She projected a new dream to Chameleon, a scene of herself in mare form and the woman in woman form, exactly as they were in life. But the nix was there, too, eavesdropping. Whatever they tried, he would foil.
The dream mare projected a dream within the dream to Chameleon. This one bypassed the snooping nix, who did not realize the complex levels available in dream symbolism. In that redistilled dream, Imbri was a woman in black and Chameleon a woman in white. “Trust me,” she said to the dream-in-dream girl, who looked slightly startled. “We shall cross—but not the way we seem to. Follow what I say, not what I do. Can you do that?”
The dream-in-dream girl blinked uncertainly. “I’ll try, Imbri,” she agreed. “That
is
you?”
Oh—it was the human guise that confused her. “Yes. I can take any form in dreams, but I usually am black or wear black, because that’s night mare color.”
The Chameleons on the three levels of reality, dream, and dream-dream smiled, getting it straight.
Now they returned to focus on the outer dream. “Hang on, Chameleon,” the mare cried. In real life Imbri could not physically talk human language, but dreams had different rules. “I’m swimming across now.”
“Swimming across,” the woman agreed, hiking her skirt high again. Her limbs were just as shapely in the dream as in
“Hey, I never knew a doll could blush that far down,” the nix said evilly.
Imbri nosed a splash of water at him, but continued swimming, If the nix remained distracted by the woman’s exposure and embarrassment long enough, they would be across. That should embarrass
him.
He certainly deserved it.
Alas, the nix was not that foolish. “Nix, nix!” he cried, pointing again.
This time the freezing was incomplete. The water thickened into cold sludge, but Imbri was able to forge through it. It seemed there was too much volume here to freeze enough to immobilize her submerged body, so the effect was diluted.
“Well, then, nox!” the nix cried angrily. “Nix, nox, paddywox, live the frog alone!”
This nonsense thawed the water, then thinned it farther. Suddenly it was too dilute to support the mare’s swimming weight. She sank down over her head.
This was like phasing through solids—with one difference. She could not breathe. The water was now too thin to swim but too thick to breathe, and its composition was wrong.
Imbri’s feet found the bottom. This was solid. She turned hastily about and walked the few paces needed to bring her high enough for her head to break the surface. Now she could breathe.
She projected a dreamlet to Chameleon: centaur filly shaking a spray of water out of her hide. “Are you all right, woman?”
“My dress is soaked—I think,” Chameleon lamented. “The water isn’t very wet.”
That was good enough for Imbri. “Take a deep breath, and I will run all the way across the moat on the bottom. With thin water we can do it.”
“That’s what you think, night nag!” the nix cried, evidently catching part of the dream. He was swimming along, his forepart that of a fish, his hind part that of a man. The water was abruptly fully liquid again. “Try to run through that!”
Imbri realized that it could be dangerous to try. If she swam and the nix vaporized the water, she would sink without a breath and have to turn back. Chameleon could panic and possibly drown. Imbri wasn’t certain whether Chameleon could swim, and now was not the time to inquire.
She paused to consider. Alone, she could probably forge through despite the mischievous nix. But with Chameleon, it was harder. Too bad the woman was so stupid; Imbri had to do all the thinking. How could she get them both across with minimum risk?
Then she had a notion. She projected a new dream to Chameleon, a scene of herself in mare form and the woman in woman form, exactly as they were in life. But the nix was there, too, eavesdropping. Whatever they tried, he would foil.
The dream mare projected a dream within the dream to Chameleon. This one bypassed the snooping nix, who did not realize the complex levels available in dream symbolism. In that redistilled dream, Imbri was a woman in black and Chameleon a woman in white. “Trust me,” she said to the dream-in-dream girl, who looked slightly startled. “We shall cross—but not the way we seem to. Follow what I say, not what I do. Can you do that?”
The dream-in-dream girl blinked uncertainly. “I’ll try, Imbri,” she agreed. “That
is
you?”
Oh—it was the human guise that confused her. “Yes. I can take any form in dreams, but I usually am black or wear black, because that’s night mare color.”
The Chameleons on the three levels of reality, dream, and dream-dream smiled, getting it straight.
Now they returned to focus on the outer dream. “Hang on, Chameleon,” the mare cried. In real life Imbri could not physically talk human language, but dreams had different rules. “I’m swimming across now.”
“Swimming across,” the woman agreed, hiking her skirt high again. Her limbs were just as shapely in the dream as in
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