Planeswalker by Lynn Abbey Read Free Book Online Page B

other newt's flesh-fingered hand.
Thirty-three hundred Dominarian years afterward, Xantcha
knew that the touch of flesh was a language unto itself, a
language that Phyrexia had forgotten. At the time, the
gesture had confused the priests utterly and left them
spinning in their tracks.
    Not long after, the bald, gray sky had brightened
painfully.
    Xantcha had recalled her heart and the vat-priests'
threat: too many mistakes and the Ineffable would seize her
heart. Until the other Xantcha had tumbled into her life,
she'd made less than her share of the cadre's mistakes, but
perhaps one mistake, if it were great enough, was enough to
rouse the Ineffable.
    She'd thought the shining creature who'd descended from
the too-bright sky was the Ineffable. He was nothing like
the priests she'd seen and nothing at all like a newt. His
eyes were intensely red, and an abundance of teeth filled
his protruding jaw. And she'd known, perhaps because of
that jaw filled with teeth, that it was he, as the
Ineffable was he and not it in the way of newts and
priests.
    "You can call me Gix," he'd said, using his toothsome
jaw to shape the words in an almost newtish way, though he
didn't have the soft-flesh lips that were useful for eating
but got in the way of proper Phyrexian pronunciation.
    Oix was a name, the first true name Xantcha had ever
heard, because it couldn't be interpreted as a place within
a cadre. Gix was a demon, a Phyrexian who'd looked upon the
Ineffable face with his own eyes and who, while the
Ineffable slept, controlled Phyrexia. From a newt's lowly
perspective, a demon's name might just as well be
ineffable.
    Gix offered his hand. The only sound Xantcha heard was
a slight whirring as his arm extended and extended to at
least twice his height. As Gix's hand unfurled, black
talons sprang from each elegantly articulated finger. He
touched the other Xantcha lightly beneath its chin. Xantcha
felt trembling terror in the other newt's hand. The demon's
talons looked as if they could pierce a priest's leather
carapace or go straight through a newt's skull. A blue-
green spark leapt from the demon to the other Xantcha,
whose hand immediately warmed, relaxed, and slipped away.
    Deep-pitched rumbling came out of the demon's throat.
He lowered his hand, his head swiveled slightly, and
Xantcha felt a cold, green light take her measure. Gix
didn't touch her as he'd touched the other Xantcha. His arm
retreated, each segment clicking sharply into the one
behind it, then more whirring as his jaw assumed a sickle
smile.
    "Xantcha."
    All remaining doubts about the difference between names
and places vanished. Xantcha had become a true name, and
    confronted with him, Xantcha became her. The notions for
male and female, dominance and submission, were already in
Xantcha's mind, rooted in her dreams of soft, green grass
and yellow sun.
    "You will be ready," the demon said. "I made you. No
simple rendering for you, Xantcha. Fresh meat. Fresh blood.
Brought here from the place where you will go, where you
will conquer. You have their cunning, their boldness, and
their unpredictability, Xantcha, but your heart is mine.
You are mine forever."
    The demon meant to frighten her, and he did; he meant
to distract her, too, while a blue-green spark formed on
his shiny brass brow. In that, he was less successful.
Xantcha saw the spark race toward her, felt it strike the
ridge between her eyes and bury itself in the bone. The
demon had inserted himself in her mind.
    He made himself glorious before her. At least, that's
what he tried to do. Xantcha felt the urge to worship him
in awe and obedience, to feed him with the mind-storm
turbulence no compleat Phyrexian could experience, except
by proxy. Gix made promises in Xantcha's mind: privilege,
power, and passion, all of them irresistible, or meant to
be irresistible, but Xantcha resisted. She made a new place
for herself, within herself. It wasn't