Korinaam offered no answer; but he shot Harpirias such a look of unalloyed abhorrence as could have thawed a glacier. Harpirias responded with a sweet smile and nudged the Shape-shifter gently toward the front of the outcropping.

The jutting shelf of stone on which Korinaam stood was almost like a little stage. The Eililylal across the way seemed to stir in curiosity as the glowering Metamorph took up his position on it.

He was silent for a time, breathing deeply, staring at the ground. Then he raised his head and extended his arms to their full spread. He flicked his fingers outward two or three times, and made a small humming sound that could barely be heard even on this side of the canyon.

"Louder, Korinaam," Harpirias said. "Wilder. Start putting yourself through some changes."

"Prince, this is ridiculous!"

"The altar, Korinaam. The altar."

The Shapeshifter nodded. He stretched out his arms again. Abruptly the boundaries of his shape wavered and his arms became long ropy tentacles that seemed to writhe of their own accord in agonized serpentine patterns. The Eililylal stirred and exchanged glances with one another.

"Very good," Harpirias said. "Now chant a spell."

"Yes. Give me a moment, will you?"

Korinaam’s body continued to change. His shoulders expanded and violently contracted; his skin grew puckered and spiny; his legs turned to hairy wheels; his arms, rigid again, became clubs, spears, long hooked rods.

"Dekkeret!" he cried suddenly. "Tyeveras Kinniken Malibor Thraym!"

Harpirias smiled. So the Shapeshifter knew some history after all! Those were the names of Coronals and Pontifexes of long ago, and Korinaam was making an incantation out of them!

"Good," Harpirias murmured. "Keep it up. Faster! Wilder!"

But there was little need for such encouragement. Korinaam seemed to have put all inhibition aside and was getting fully into things now. His form was going through such grotesque alterations as Harpirias could scarcely believe — drawing out to enormous length, then pulling sharply inward like a snapping piece of elastic until he was no more than a huddled cube, and then shooting out a hundred bright pink extensions at once that jerked and quivered with lunatic intensity. Bright blue eyes gleamed at the tip of each rubbery shaft of flesh. Whorls and loops of extruded plasm emerged from him. And all the while he continued to call off the names of ancient monarchs, now crooning them, now droning, now singing in an eerie high-pitched tone that slid between the conventional intervals of the scale with sinuous liberties that would drive any musician to immediate tears:

"Voriax! Valentine! Segilot! Guadeloom, Strain, Arioc! Grivvis! Husifoin! Prankipin, Hunzimar, Spurifon, Seoul !" Then, hissing the name in a truly terrifying way: "Stiamot. Stiamot. Stiamot." He accompanied the name of the conqueror of his race with a series of explosive body-shifts that jerked him about the outcropping in such a hectic manner that Harpirias feared for a moment that he would go over the side.

Evidently Korinaam had exhausted his memory of the names of Coronals now. He began to chant cities and places instead, while dancing back and forth in high frenzy:

"Bimbak, Dundilmir, Furible, Chi! Dulorn! Ni-moya! Falkyn-kip! Divone! Ilirivoyne, Kiridane, Mazadone, Nussimorn! Numinor! Pidruid! Piliplok! Gren!"

It was a brilliant performance. Even Harpirias was unsettled a little by the terrible intensity of Korinaam’s percussive outcries and seemingly endless metamorphoses. He could almost believe that these were genuine spells that were being cast here, that the Shapeshifter was working authentic Piurivar magic in the chill mountain air of this place.

As for the Eililylal across the way, they were mesmerized by it. Perhaps they thought that Korinaam had taken leave of his senses, or perhaps they were taking his spellcasting seriously — who could say? They sat rigidly, watching, watching, watching.

But Harpirias knew that the show could not go on much longer. Surely the metamorphic capacities of any Piurivar’s body were unable to keep up such a pace of changes; nor could Korinaam, however durable his slender body might be, continue to prance and cavort and shriek the way he was doing without totally expending his strength.

This was the time for the next phase. Harpirias signaled to his troops to prepare to open fire. They hefted their weapons and waited for the next command.

To Korinaam, then, he said, "All right. Bring it to a climax. Everything you have. Everything, Korinaam!"

"Danipiur!" Korinaam roared. "Pontifex! Coronal! Toikella! Majipoor!"

He rippled and flowed and passed through the entire spectrum of colors, and went through a whole new tumultuous series of bodily changes, now taking on animal forms, now imitating rocks or trees, now presenting himself as pure geometry, now becoming an incomprehensible cluster of tentacles and clacking claws, and then emerging ultimately from the whole blinding welter of astonishing metamorphoses wearing the semblance of King Toikella himself. But it was a Toikella far larger than life, a titanic Toikella, a mountainous Toikella a dozen feet high, identical down to the last degree with the genuine article, except in its size. It was a startling sight. The real Toikella, who had been standing to one side watching throughout the entire performance, now whirled, stared, grunted in amazement. Harpirias saw actual fear blossom in the king’s eyes just then.

"Fire!" Harpirias cried.

Three loud cracking reports echoed through the thin, cold mountain air, and then three more, and another, and another. Bolts of purple energy lanced across the canyon, striking high up in the ice-tipped crags far above the ledge where the little band of Eililylal stood watching. Chunks of tawny stone the size of sea-dragons broke loose overhead and tumbled down with ear-shattering impact. They split apart spectacularly as they hit and sent huge showers of fist-sized particles cascading into the depths of the canyon. A low moan of terror went up from the Eililylal.

"Again," Harpirias said. "Aim a little lower."

A second volley of energy bolts crossed the canyon. The purple shafts of force smashed into the rocky walls just below the scars of the first round and carved great sheets of stone from them. Another deafening rain of slabs and boulders descended. Harpirias felt the vibration through the soles of his feet: it was like an earthquake. The entire mountain range seemed to quiver. He thought the world might break asunder.

"All right," he said. "Hold it."

Gradually the sound of the second rockfall died away. A few last pebbles clattered into the chasm, faintly resounding as they fell, and then all was still. Supreme silence followed: the terrible silence of the morning of the world’s creation. Through the clear crisp air drifted little sun-gilded puffs of rock dust. Across the way, the Eililylal stood stunned, petrified, frozen by terror into statues.

In that awful moment of utter quiet Harpirias turned to Korinaam and said, "What I want you to do now is tell the king that he needs to—"

But then he saw that finishing the sentence was useless.

Exhausted by his immense effort, emptied entirely of strength, the Shapeshifter — once again in his proper form — had collapsed into a huddled heap, his arms drawn tight against his sunken chest, his entire body shaking in what seemed to be the final extremity of fatigue. Harpirias knew that there was no more service to be had from him just now.

He looked toward the king himself. But once again he was unable to find the Othinor phrases he needed. "Your warriors," he said, urgently pantomiming a band of men with spears. "Send them now. Against the Eililylal. Now! Now!" He acted out the motions of an attack and a massacre.