Woodley said slowly, “When I met Vivienne, she was on dry land.”

  “Morgan taught her the trick,” the Druid grunted. “It’s beyond me—I never learned it. Any time you want to walk dry again, go sVivienne.” He grinned unpleasantly. “Or Morgan. It’s my opinion that Vivienne is Morgan’s daughter. That would explain a lot of things. However, here we are back at the castle, and we go in this way.” He paused by a door in the outer wall, fumbled with the latch, and stepped acrothe threshold. “Come along!” he urged. “Don’t let the fish in.”

  He headed along a corridor, Woodley at his heels. Soon they were back in Bleys’ apartment, and the Druid was selecting a new jug from his assortment. “Camelot Triple-X Brand,” he murmured. “Ninety proof. It isn’t, of course, but I label the bottles for old times’ sake.” He drank, and burst into a furious string of archaic oaths. “Damned self-deception, that’s ait is. Ninety proof, hah! Magic never made good liquor, and there’s no use arguing about it. Bip/” He glared malevolently.

  Woodley was brooding. So Bleys didn’t know the wet magic spell. Well, that left Vivienne and Morgan. How he could worm the secret out of either of those two, he had no idea. But he’d have to do it somehow, and soon. When would it be time for the testing? He asked Bleys.

  “Now,” said the Druid, getting up stiffly. “It’s nearly sundown. Come along!” He peered at Woodley with bleary eyes. “Vivienne wihave a sword for you. It’s not Excalibur, but it wiserve.”

  They went to a hawhere Vivienne and Sir Bohart were waiting. The knight’s jaw dropped at sight of Woodley, but he rallied valiantly. “You’ve come tardily, messire,” he managed to say.

  “Better tardy than not at all,” Woodley returned, and had the satisfaction of seeing Bohart’s eyes flicker. Vivienne moved forward, holding a great sword.

  “My lord! With my own hands I shaarm you. And when you return from Shaking Rock, I shabe waiting.” Her eyes promised much, and Sir Bohart gnawed his ruddy mustache.

  Woodley touched his tunic where he had concealed the mandrake root. His lips twisted in a grim smile. He had an idea—

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’m ready.”

  Vivienne clapped her hands. “Gramercy, a valiant knight! I shasummon Nurmala to guide you—”

  “Don’t bother,” Woodley interrupted. “I’d rather have Sir Bohart show me the way.”

  The knight made a gobbling sound. “I am no lackey!”

  “Fie,” Vivienne reproved. “’Tis a simple request to make.”

  “Oh, well,” Woodley shrugged. “If Sir Bohart’s afraid, never mind. I can understand how he feels. Even with that magic cuirass, accidents might happen. No, you stay here by the fire, Bohart. You’feel safer.”

  Bohart turned purple. There was, of course, only one answer he could possibly make. So, ten minutes later, Woodley walked beside the red-mustached knight through the ooze of the lake bottom toward a towering pinnacle of stone in the green distance.

  Sir Bohart preserved a furious silence. Once he rattled his sword in its scabbard, but Woodley thoughtfully didn’t hear. Instead, he remarked, “I wonder what it is behind the Shaking Rock. Got any ideas?”

  “Morgan does not teme her secrets.”

  “Uh-huh. Still, it must be pretty dangerous. Eh?” Bohart smiled toothily at that. “I hope so.”

  Woodley shrugged. “Maybe I’d better use some magic. A sword might not do the trick.”

  The knight turned his head to stare. “Goety?”

  “Sure. I’m a magician. Didn’t you know?”

  “Vivienne said…but I did not think—” There was more respect in Bohart’s eyes now, and a touch of fear. Woodley chuckled with a lightheartednehe scarcely felt.

  “I know a few tricks. How to make myself invisible, for instance.”

  “With fern seed? I have heard of that.”

  “I use mandrake juice,” Woodley explained. “Come to think of it, that gag would come in handy now. In view of what may be behind the Shaking Rock—yeah.” He moved his hands in intricate gestures. “Saskatchewan, Winnipeg, Mauch Chunk, Philadelphia, Kalamazoo,” he added, and deftly slipped the mandrake from his tunic. To the staring Bohart, it seemed as though the gnarled little root had been snatched out of thin water.

  “By Atys!” the knight said, impressed. “Swounds!”

  Woodley lifted the mandrake toward his head, and then hesitated. “Wait a minute. Maybe I’d better make you—”

  “Make me invisible also?” Bohart jumped at the bait, after one apprehensive glance ahead at the Shaking Rock. “Yes—that would be wise.”

  “O.K. Let’s have your helmet. Uh…maybe you could help me out against this…monster…if I need help. Though I don’t think I will.”

  Bohart’s red mustache did not entirely conceal his sardonic smile. “Well, we shasee. My sword is sharp.” But Woodley’s apparent attempt to propitiate him had disarmed the knight’s suspicions. He handed over his helmet and watched as Woodley inverted it and used the haft of his dagger to mash the mandrake root into pulp, mortar and pestle fashion.

  “There. That’s all. Put the helmet back on—keep the mandrake in it—and you’be invisible.”

  Sir Bohart obeyed. He looked down at himself.

  “It doesn’t work.”

  Woodley stared around blankly. “Where are you? I…Sir Bohart!”

  The knight was taken aback. “I…I’m here. But I can smyself as clearly as ever.”

  “Of course,” Woodley explained, not looking at the other, “you can syourself, but nobody else can. That’s the way the mandrake speworks.”

  “Oh. Well. Make yourself invisible now.”

  “Tmuch bother,” Woodley said casually. “I don’t want athe odds on my side. It takes the fun out of a fight. If I get into trouble, I’use magic, but I think my sword wibe enough. Here we are at the Shaking Rock.” Far above them, a boulder balanced on the stone pinnacle rocked slowly in the lake currents. Woodley noticed a smacave a few yards away. He stopped.

  So did Sir Bohart, who was visibly nervous. “I go no farther.”

  “O.K.,” Woodley nodded, his throat dry. “Just wait here, then. I’be back in a minute. Uh…you wouldn’t care to lend me that cuiraof yours, would you?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t. Well…adios.” Woodley lingered a moment longer, eying the cave mouth; but there was no way to turn back now. Anyhow, his trick should work. Nurmala had said that undines were strongly attracted by mandrake juice—

  He left Sir Bohart leaning on his sword, and plunged ahead into the shadows that lurked behind the Shaking Rock. He felt the ground slant down steeply, and moved with more caution. There was, after all, little to see. It was tdark.

  Something moved in the green gloom. A huge baof hair that drifted past, paused, and then came with unerring accuracy toward Woodley. It was the undine.

  Fifteen feet long, shaped like a fat submarine, it was surrounded by a hazinewhere the filaments grew finer and vanished. It had no definite edges. It simply faded into the green darkness.

  It swam by wriggling its filaments, like a ciliate. Woodley miscalculated its speed, and before he could turn, the undine was shockingly close. A tendril whipped acrohis cheek, burning like a bare wire overcharged with electric current.

  Automatically Woodley whipped out his sword, but sanity held him back from using it. Steel would be no good against this creature. Besides, he had a safer plan. If it wasn’t tlate—

  He turned and ran at top speed around the base of the Shaking Rock. Sir Bohart was stistanding there, but at sight of Woodley he, too, whirled and made off, forgetting that he was presumably invisible. But the undine was a sight fearful enough to drive any man to flight.

  The mouth of the little cave gaped like a friendly mouth. Woodley went into it headfirst, losing his sword and rolling over several times before he came to a halt. Hastily he twisted about and looked at what was happening. Would the undine follow him? Or would it catch the scent of the mandrake juice—the effluvium hanging in the water where Sir Bohart had stood?

  The cloud of wriggling filaments was following the trail. The undine torpedoed in pursuit of the knight—

  Woodley sighed deeply. He found his sword, went cautiously toward the mouth of the cave, and watched. Now the undine had caught up with Sir Bohart. Those dangerous filaments couldn’t harm the man, of course, protected as he was by his magic cuirass. But it must be definitely uncomfortable to be surrounded and smothered by an undine—

  A sword flashed. Sir Bohart was fighting at last. Woodley grinned.

  He hoped the undine wouldn’t last long. He was getting hungry. But, of course, he’d have to wait till…er…tihe had passed the testing Morgan le Fay had set him.

  He was presently roused from his reverie by Bohart’s yells. “You tricked me! You lickspittle knave! I’split you from pate to groin! You made me a cat’s-paw—”

  “Hold on!” Woodley said, nimbly dodging. He stiheld his bare sword, and automatically countered Bohart’s blow. The undine, he noticed, was quite dead about twenty feet down the slope. Smafishes were already approaching it.

  “You craven cur!”

  “Wait! What’Vivienne say if I’m found dead with my head lopped oby a sword? What’Morgan say?”

  That sobered Sir Bohart. He paused, his brand held motionlein midair, the red mustache wriggling with fury. His face was beet-purple.

  But he didn’t renew the attack. Woodley lowered his own weapon and talked fast.

  “Don’t forget I was there when Vivienne said she’d sick Morgan on you. I stiremember how scared you looked. Vivienne wants me alive, and if she found out you killed me—and she’d certainly find it out—”

  “You warlock,” Sir Bohart snarled. “You warlock devil!” But there was a betraying mottled pallor in his no longer purple cheeks.

  Woodley put his sword, away. “What are you kicking about? You didn’t get hurt, did you? You’ve got that magic cuirass. Look at me!” He ran his forefinger over the livid welt that ran from temple to jaw. “The undine put its mark on me, aright. You weren’t even scratched.”

  “You made me your cat’s-paw,” Bohart said sulkily. Woodley persuasively slipped his hand through the other’s crooked arm. “Forget that. We can be plenty useful to each other, if you’play along. If you won’t—I’ve got lots of influence with Vivienne. Want me to use it?” “You devil,” the knight growled, but he was licked and knew it. “I’let you live. I’have to. Provided you shield me against Morgan.” He brightened. “Yes. TeVivienne that I am your friend. Then—”

  Woodley grinned. “Suppose I told her you pushed me into Draedan’s courtyard this afternoon.”

  “But—messire!” Bohart gripped the other man’s shoulders. “Nay! I did not! You cannot prove it was I—”

  “It was, though, wasn’t it? And Vivienne would take my word against yours. But cool off. I won’t tell. If you’remember something.”

  Bohart licked his lips. “What?”

  “That I killed the undine.”

  “Oh, a thrice thousand curses! But I suppose I must. If I do this, you wiuse your influence with Vivienne, though. She is capricious, and Morgan has often asked her to…to—” The knight swallowed and began again. “Morgan wishes to destroy me. So far, Vivienne has not permitted that. Now you and I can strike a bargain. You . get the. credit for this testing, and in return you insist that I remain frfrom Morgan—should that danger arise.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “But if Morgan should leam of this deceit we have practiced upon her, we wiboth die—quite terribly. She is unforgiving.”

  “She won’t find out.”

  “If she should, not even Vivienne could save us.” Woodley frowned slightly. The risk wasn’t alluring. Yet it would have to be taken. Besides, Morgan would never find out—

  “It is a bargain,” Sir Bohart said. “But remember this: if you should ever seek to betray me, it wimean your own downfall. Your life and mine are one now. If I go down, I drag you with me—because then I shaspeak. And Vivienne wiweep for you, if not for me.”

  Woodley shivered. With an effort he threw ohis intangible fears. “Forget it,” he said. “Dinner’s waiting. And we’ve got to tow the undine back to the castle.”

  That wasn’t difficult, since the dead monster floated easily. Plodding along the lake bottom, Woodley felt his spirits rise. Once he touched the hilt of his sword. Wielding a weapon like that was oddly satisfying. Suppose he had not tricked Bohart into aiding him? Suppose he had battled the undine with bare steel alone? Briefly Woodley half regretted that he had not attempted the dangerous deed.

  It would have been dangerous, though. Far tmuch so. And there had been no real need to risk his skin, as he had proved. Calm logic was better. Eventually that would get him out of the castle, and back to dry land, frfrom Morgan’s perilous enchantments.

  He had passed the testing. So he was safe for a while. The next step was to learn the wet magic spethat would make it possible for him to breathe air again.

  Woodley tugged at the bunch of undine filaments in his fist. Behind him, the lake monster floated slowly in his wake, a comet tail of smafishes veering after it. The castle loomed ahead—

  “Remember!” Sir Bohart warned. “Our lives are one now. Here is Bleys. No more talk—it is not safe in the castle.”

  The lake bottom was shrouded in night shadows. It must be past sunset in the world above. Sir Bohart slipped away and was gone. The brown-robed figure of Bleys was visible ahead, by a door in a tower’s foot.

  “Here’s the prize,” Woodley called. “Come and get it!”

  The Druid plowed forward through the ooze. His eyes gleamed through the waving net of white beard.

  “An undine. And you have slain it—”

  Woodley felt an extraordinary sense of shame as he met the wizard’s gaze. But that was ridiculous! Why the devil should he feel embarrassed because he had hesitated to commit suicide? Hell!

  Bleys said slowly, “I told you that courage was both sword and shield. Magic cannot stand against it. Now I—” He paused, his hand going out in a queer fumbling gesture. “Age is heavy upon me. When I saw you bringing your booty toward the castle just now, it seemed to me I was standing beneath the waof Camelot, watching Arthur Pendragon—”

  The low voice tailed ointo silence. Bleys said, “He was and wibe. ’

  ‘

  Nurmala’s murmur broke the spethat held Woodley silent. The naiad rippled through the door in the tower, carrying a lighted lamp.

  “Oh! Messire Arthur of Woodley has slain the monster! My lord!” She curtseyed low. “There wibe feasting tonight. The table is laid.”

  Bleys seemed to relapse into his usual drunken self. “Aright,” he snapped, and the girl turned and went back into the tower. Woodley noticed that the lamp flame shone through the translucent emerald of her body. It looked rather pretty, or would have, had it not been so disturbing.

  “Worse than pyromaniacs, those naiads,” Bleys remarked, producing a jug and drinking from it. “Can’t leave fire alone. Silly to carry a lamp in the castle at night—the place is lighted by magic. Blood and fire, that’s naiad thinks of. Horrid wet oozy things,” he finished, in an outburst of senile fury. “I hate ’em all. I hate everybody. Come along! Leave your undine here; it’be safe.”

  Woodley noticed the sharp glance the Druid cast at him, though, and wondered if Bleys was as drunk as he seemed. Apparently so, for his progrealong the passage was punctuated by oaths, groans, and bips. He led the way to Woodley’s apartment, where the latter made a hasty and inadequate toilet—for one couldn’t wash, under the lake—and then hobbled oto the great haof the castle. Woodley had not seen this room before.

  It was very large indeed, and had a gallery halfway up one wall. There were tapestries, dozens of them, rushes on the floor—presumably weighted, since they didn’t float up—and a dais at the farther end. There, seated by a fairly smatable, was Vivienne. She looked strikingly lovely, in a gown of applegreen satin embroidered with pearls. Her hair was in braids, plaited with pearls, and she wore a jeweled belt. She, at least, was the essence of magic.

  “My lord!” She ran to Woodley. “They told me you were safe. But your poor cheek…oh! That horrible undine.”

  “It’s nothing. Doesn’t hurt.”

  “Nothing! To slay an undine…yet I knew you would prove yourself a great knight. Come, sit by me here, my love, and we can talk as we sup.” Her gaze devoured Woodley, who felt slightly iat ease.

  Grumpily Bleys found a bench for himself and greedily eyed the linen-draped table. “I don’t want fish again,” he snapped. “Sick of it.”

  “It’s roast pig,” Vivienne said, in a glancing aside. “Sea pig. Fowl and pasties…ah, my lord! Now that you have passed Morgan’s testing, you and I widwehere forever.”

  Before Woodley could answer, there was an outburst of music. Slow in tempo, it came from the gallery acrothe hall, but there was no sign of any musicians. Vivienne followed Woodley’s gaze.

  “That? Morgan keeps the musicians invisible. They’re elementals, and ugly enough to spoil your appetite. The queen wijoin us later. She does not eat.”

  A drapery at the back of the dais was pulled aside, and several naiads appeared, each of them, as far as Woodley could make out, exact duplicates of Nurmala. They carried trenchers and trays, serving in complete silence. The food, for the most part, was familiar to Woodley, but some of it tasted strange. The stewed fruit had a definitely uncanny flavor. Nor did he especially like the omnipresent almond-milk flavoring.

  Yet he ate heartily, for he was ravenous. And he would need ahis energy to carry out his plan—securing the wet magic spefrom Vivienne or, perhaps, Morgan. How—

  Bleys drank steadily, and Vivienne picked at her food and languished at her self-chosen lover. She insisted that he learn the proper etiquette of Arthurian times.

  “We eat from the same trencher, Messire,” she said, with a demure twinkle. “You must cut the choicest portions and offer them to me on the point of your knife. I…oh, dear. Here is Sir Bohart.”