Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  Blanche and Blenda screamed. Niobe expected them to run away, as their challenge was done, but instead they closed in before her. "You shall not have her!" Blenda cried.

  "This is my concern, not yours!" Niobe said. "Don't—"

  The three-faced demon grabbed Blenda, using four of its arms to catch hold of her two arms and two legs. It picked her up and spun its head to view her triply. "You aren't worth bothering with, you prune!" it said, and hurled her beyond the throne.

  Now Niobe saw a gulf there. The throne was not in the center of the chamber; it had only seemed to be, from a distance. It was perched on the edge of a void. Blenda screamed as she fell into this hole and disappeared.

  Again the demon advanced on Niobe. This time Blanche interposed herself. "You can cross, Niobe!" she cried. "The landing is hidden by illusion—"

  The demon caught her, wrapping two hands about her throat to cut off her words. With three more hands it ripped off her clothes. It growled with disgust. "Damned flesh is no good; I want the real thing. To Hell with you!" And it threw her also into the gulf.

  Niobe was shocked on several levels. These were demons—sacrificing themselves to protect her. They were giving her information that she needed to defeat their master. That made little sense, unless—

  Unless Blanche and Blenda were what they had seemed to be. In which case—

  No! There was no way those two could really be in Hell. But they weren't necessarily demons. They could be other souls, ordered to impersonate the women Niobe had known—or maybe even caused to believe that they were those women. Thus they could have acted in good faith, despite being false—and had paid a terrible price for it.

  Terrible price! No—they were damned souls anyway. The fall into the pit could not hurt them; it merely took them out of this context. Niobe was alone again. Still, she regretted their passing, and was sorry she had not been able to do anything for them.

  Meanwhile, the three-faced demon was coming at her again—and this time there was no one to intercede. She had used a thread exposing it; if it killed her now, that would make three threads lost, and put her below the critical threshold as she understood it. She had to escape—but the void was too broad for her to slide across on a limited thread.

  If she retreated, she would be trapped between this demon and the three at the river. She had to go forward.

  There was a landing, hidden by illusion—if Blanche had been telling the truth. If that damned soul had been a true emulation of the blessed one, she would have told the truth. Blanche had been one of the finest people Niobe had known, though she had known her mainly by observation. Satan had made a mistake, using damned souls to emulate blessed ones; naturally they had longed to be their roles, as an actor might wish to be the hero he portrayed, and they had played them too well. It had been their closest approach to the illusion of Heaven, of escape from Hell.

  Niobe ran for the void. She threw a thread ahead of her.

  There, just a yard away from the edge, was a platform. It had been concealed by the illusion of the void.

  She leaped across. The three-faced demon, following her, tried to stop, skidded on the smooth floor, and fell into the crevice between the edge and the platform. Screaming from all three faces, it descended.

  She was across, and she had three threads left, while Satan had only two illusions. It was coming down to the wire, and for the first time she had a genuine hope of winning.

  She set herself and walked on, hardly exhilarated, still regretting the fate of the two damned souls who had helped her cross.

  She came to another large chamber. Here there were a dozen demons of the kind she had encountered at the river, all looking alike. They stood beside a huge set of balancing scales.

  What was she to make of this? The demons made no hostile gesture; they seemed merely to be waiting. This must be the final challenge—but how could she solve it, when she couldn't even tell its nature?

  Then something occurred to her. Pacian, her second husband, had had a mind very like Cedric's. Magic music and intellectual brilliance--they had been cousins, so it was not surprising that they shared traits. She had played games of riddles with Pace, too, and he had bested her readily. Now she remembered the first, at the sea of grass as they tried to approach Gaea's residence. Twelve cpins, a set of scales. Eleven coins specified to be genuine, one counterfeit—but the counterfeit looked exactly like the others. Only its slight difference in weight distinguished it. The problem had been to discover which one was the counterfeit, and whether it was heavy or light.

  Easy enough; it was necessary only to weigh all the coins in pairs. If two balanced, both were genuine; if the scales did not balance, then one coin was the counterfeit. Then each of these could be balanced against one of the others, and the counterfeit would be exposed.

  Except that only three weighings were permitted. It was necessary to weigh them in groups—and no combination of group weighings seemed certain to isolate the lone counterfeit, let alone identify the nature of its difference.

  Here were twelve identical demons—and she had just three threads left. Could that be it?

  Satan had two illusions remaining, it seemed. Two demons could be made to resemble her son, concealing him—but that had not been done. None of these demons had been masked.

  Then she caught on. "One of you is my son!"

  All of them nodded affirmatively.

  "Which one?"

  All nodded negatively, refusing to tell.

  Why didn't the Magician simply step forward so she could verify him with a thread?

  She considered and realized that, just as her threads were not merely illusion-disposers but also life-restorers and flying devices, so Satan's illusions were not confined to the senses. Satan could have used one illusion to change the Magician's appearance to that of a demon— and the other to prevent him from identifying himself.

  More than that, she realized. Satan could have bound the Magician so that once she identified him, he would not tell the truth. Then she would have a lie for an answer, and when she applied it, Satan would win.

  Well, then, she would reverse whatever he told her, and have the truth.

  But suppose it wasn't a lie? Then she would forfeit the game despite having the truth—another delicious irony.

  She had to know whether the Magician had been enchanted to tell the truth or to lie. A thread would do itbut would she have a thread left, once she found him?

  Her son was the counterfeit coin, in this Hellish inversion—and what he told her could be either true or false. He could be honest, and be slightly lighter than the demons, or dishonest, and be slightly heavier, for dishonesty was a sin and sin weighed down the soul. She had to know which.

  She had three threads—and now she knew that each one entitled her to one weighing. She had to locate her son among the identical demons, and determine his relative weight.

  It seemed impossible—yet Pacian had done it, and shown her how. But that had been a quarter-century ago, and she had forgotten the solution.

  This was a tougher one than the river-crossing; she knew that. She had barely solved the other; how could she ever fathom this one? Her advantage in threads had been nullified by her lesser intellect and fading memory. Now she wished she had been the smartest woman of her generation, instead of the prettiest!

  A fireball manifested. It expanded and became the form of Satan himself. "So it has come to this at last, sad sack!" he exclaimed.

  She had been less annoyed during that confrontation in the Void, when he had called her "cutie" and other such mock endearments. But she held her peace. "I can win, Satan."

  "Can you, old hen? Let's see you try!" He gestured, causing a throne of fire to appear. He ensconced himself in it and settled down to watch.

  "Why not invite the whole world to watch?" Niobe asked, irritated.

  Satan shrugged. "The world? I think not. But selected parties, perhaps." He clapped his hands, and a wall of the chamber vaporized
. Beyond it was a segment of an amphitheater. Seated there were all manner of demons and lost souls, including the two who resembled Cedric and Pacian, and the two who resembled Blanche and Blenda. There were also the five major Incarnations.

  Five? Oh, yes—she was not at the moment Fate; she was just the soul ofNiobe, perched on the verge of damnation—or salvation. Clotho and Atropos had the body, and they shifted back and forth as the mood took them.

  "Now perform your miracle of failure, O dismal dog!" Satan said sardonically. "Your friends will see your humiliation!"

  Still she resisted the baiting. If she allowed herself to get rattled or angry, she would certainly lose. She concentrated on the immediate problem. Twelve coins, three weighings—how could it be done?

  She considered balancing six against six. One group would certainly rise—but would that mean that a light counterfeit was among them, or that a heavy counterfeit was among the others? If only she knew the weight first! Then she could take the lighter six, if that happened to be it, split them into two groups of three, and weigh two of the three from the lighter group. If one was light, that was it; if they balanced, then the odd one out was it. It would work as well if the counterfeit was heavier. Such a simple process!

  But without the knowledge of the relative weight, it became a complex process, a single weighing determining nothing. She would need a second thread to weigh the halves of one of the original sides; if they balanced, then the counterfeit was in the other group, and she would know its weight. From that point two more weighings would do it—four in all. No good.

  But as she struggled with it, she began to remember. That odd-man-out system could be used throughout! Weigh four against four, with four out. If the eight balanced, the counterfeit was in the four remaining. Then weigh two against two—no, that wasn't it. Weigh all four against one of the other groups, now known to consist of good coins (demons); that would tell whether the counterfeit was heavy or light. Then—no, one weighing wasn't enough to finish it.

  Still, she was sure she was on the right track. Weigh just three coins from the subject group against three good ones; if they balanced, it was the odd one out, and the last weighing would determine its relative weight. If the two sets did not balance, then it would be known that, say, the counterfeit was light. Then a simple weighing would identify it.

  But suppose the first weighing of fours did not balance? Then she had the counterfeit somewhere amidst eight coins—too many" for two weighings.

  She went over and over it while the audience waited silently. By chance she might win, if the counterfeit fell in the right group. But she was sure that chance would not favor her—not here in Hell. She had to exclude chance and guarantee it in three weighings, regardless.

  She was getting a concentration headache. No matter what strategy she tried, she could not be sure of the answer in just three weighings. What was she to do?

  The tears started. It didn't help that Satan spotted them and smirked. He knew he was winning—and the audience knew it too. Her final humiliation was upon her.

  Oh, Pace! she thought. How did you do it?

  Then, as ifitwere the answer to her prayer, the solution came. Pace—or something—had responded. Her memory clarified, and she knew the key. "Exchange!" she exclaimed.

  She stepped before the scales. "You four—get on this side," she ordered the nearest demons. They obeyed, (romping to the large plate. "And you four—to this side." The next four obeyed.

  When the eight stood on the two plates of the scales, Niobe released the fastenings and let the plates find their levels. They were not in balance. Slowly the left plate descended. There was a trifle more evil there. This was the hardest case to fathom, of course.

  Now came the key step. She gestured to the innermost demon on the left, and to the one on the right. "You and you—switch places."

  The two demons shrugged at this nonsense and exchanged places. There was a murmur in the audience. Satan scowled.

  "You there," she said, pointing to those remaining on the right side. "Get off." They got off.

  "You three," she said, indicating three of those in the unweighed group. "Get on." And the three marched on.

  Niobe saw the Incarnations shaking their heads. They thought she had lost her common sense. Blanche and Blenda were bowing their heads with regret. Nobody believed in her—but she knew what she was doing. She hoped.

  The scales, when the weighing proceeded, remained unbalanced, the left side still down. That told her much of what she needed to know. Had they become balanced, she would have known that the counterfeit was among the three she had removed, and light, because she had taken them from the light plate. Had they become unbalanced the other way, she would have known it was one of the two that had exchanged places; then she could have weighed the light one against a good one and defined it, for if it remained light, it was a light counterfeit, and if it balanced, then the other one would have been the heavy counterfeit. As it was, she knew that the counterfeit was one of the three she had neither moved nor switched, and it was heavy.

  "You and you," she said, pointing to two of those three. "Weigh against each other." This was her third and final thread.

  The two did. They balanced.

  Niobe turned to the odd one out. "Hello, Magician!"

  The Incarnations, surprised, applauded. Blanche and Blenda looked up in glad surmise. Satan's scowl deepened.

  But Niobe knew it wasn't over yet. She could ask her son for the answer—but what he would tell her would be a lie. She had used up all her threads getting to this point;

  she could not make him tell the truth.

  She could get the truth by elimination. Only the truth was perfectly consistent; sooner or later, a pattern of lies would trip itself up.

  "You have one question," Satan said.

  "One question!" she exploded. "That isn't part of the bargain!"

  "One soul is on the line; one question to be answered."

  That had not been her understanding, but she realized that she hadn't made it tight. Mars, too, had overlooked this. The Father of Lies had found a loophole. She was stuck with Satan's interpretation.

  One question! Had she been assured of a true answer, she could have asked, "How can I foil Satan's plot against Luna?" But his lie could be anything else—making that question an exercise in futility. She had to find the question whose lie would be instructive. That was more of a challenge than she had cared for!

  Could she phrase a suitable yes-no question so that the lie would give her a direct answer? Only if she pretty well knew the answer already—and she did not.

  Had Satan won after all? Not entirely, for she had gotten through to the Magician and identified him. She had threaded the maze. But until she got the answer she had come for and got out of Hell, her soul was not safe. Neither was mankind.

  Her gaze passed over the audience again. There were the demons, licking their chops in anticipation of victory. There were some of the damned souls, looking soulful. There was Mars, his face set carefully neutral. He had made sure Satan didn't cheat, but he could not help her now.

  The Incarnations—the personifications of the major factors governing the destiny of man. Thanatos, who had assumed the office and refused to take Luna's soul, because he loved her. A selfish reason, perhaps—but it had caused him to face down Satan directly, thereby preserving Luna for her eventual role in the salvation of man. One may marry Death...

  Chronos, who had similarly fought Satan, in what was the future for the rest of them. She was glad, now, that she had comforted Chronos' successors in her past; they were all worthy holders of the office, even the child, and had/would do their part in securing the salvation of man.

  Gaea, who had helped significantly. Niobe's daughter Orb seemed destined to assume that office, if the prophecy carried through. Surely she, too, would have to overcome Satan's evil designs, for the Prince of Evil always pounced on the newest and least experienced Incarnations. And one may marry E
vil...

  Surely not! That was unthinkable! Yet—she had in a sense given Orb to Satan. It had only been a commitment to keep her out of politics, capitalizing on Satan's error of identification, but any commitment to Satan was treacherous. What had she let her child in for? But Orb was a sensible and talented young woman, if a bit short on temper, and she well knew the treacheries of the one who had struck directly at her in the Hall of the Mountain King. Orb would never trust Evil!

  Yet that prophecy kept coming true, stage by stage, in its own devious manner. Niobe hoped she was misinterpreting its import, here.

  Thanatos had balked Satan's power by using an aspect of his own power over death. Chronos would do it by manipulating time. Each Incarnation fought Satan in his/ her own fashion. Now she, as Fate, had to prevent Satan from distorting her threads of life. Some aspect of her power should do it.

  She felt a flash of realization. Her power—because it was for her that the Magician had left his message. That limited the range of options considerably! The solution to her problem should not lie in Thanatos' province, or Chronos', or any of the other Incarnations. It had to lie with Fate. In some special power that she, as Fate, could invoke.

  But what power? She still couldn't ask what it was! Yet if it was a power of Fate, it had to be a power of an Aspect of Fate. There were three Aspects; in thirtyeight years she had pretty well learned the powers of Clotho, and none of them related to this situation. Her successor. Lisa, had discovered or developed a power she hadn't know about, the ability to change her appearance from one pretty young form to another, so perhaps there were others. But Clotho spun the threads; she did not manipulate them after they were in place. So it really wasn't likely to be Clotho.

  Niobe had not been Lachesis long enough to fathom all her powers, but she had made progress. There could be some major power she had not yet discovered, but she doubted it.

  That left Atropos. She knew very little ofAtropos' powers. The job seemed simple enough, however—merely to cut the measured threads. Not really enough to warrant a full separate Aspect, when she thought about it. Could there be something they had not realized?