stood like a proscenium pillar without benefit of its stage,
was a centaur. His head was ringed with golden curls
which fell to his shoulders and framed a face of striking
masculinity: broad forehead above deep black eyes that
spoke of perserverance and a strong will, high aristocratic
cheekbones, a proud Roman nose, a blocky chin. His
shoulders were brawny, his arms rippling with muscles
that seemed to possess a will and intent of their own. From
the middle of his flat belly on down, he was a black
stallion of formidable proportions, the lines of a thorough-
bred in his long legs.
“My name is Kasostrous, and you may call me Kas,” he
said.
“Call me Simeon,” I growled, my voice a tangled hiss of
barely understandable guttural syllables.
“You must now acquire the form of the centaur,” Kas
said, leaving the limestone thrust and ambling toward me.
His hooves clacked on the stony ground, sent sparks up
once or twice. His long, flashing length of tail whipped in
the breeze, tossed from side to side with lazy power.
“I like wolfhood,” I said, pawing the ground, my nails
whispering on the dew-damp rock. I continued to stroke,
sharpening them for later kills.
“You like it too well,” Kas said. “That is the trouble.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, staring up at
him with my flint eyes, hoping to strike terror in him. I
failed.
“You have fallen into the danger of identifying too
closely with the analogue you permit your psychic energy
to assume. Though such energy is malleable, the surface
tension can grow stronger with time, sap the will to return
to any other analogue, any other shape. Too long a time
as a wolf, and you will find yourself trapped not only in
the form, but in the character of the creature.”
“Nonsense.” But the word was said without conviction
and in such a guttural rumble that it only reinforced what
Kas said.
“You disprove your own words.”
“I’m an esper,” I said.
“So?”
“I understand these things.”
“You do not grasp the difference of this subconscious
universe,” he said. “There is a certain thing about it which
will trap you—you especially, given your past and your
mental condition.”
I pawed the earth. “Help me grasp it,” I said at last,
doubtful. I did not want to have to believe what he was
saying. I only wanted to be free to run and tear flesh and
mount the sleek females in the dark shadows of the dens.
“Child’s mental landscape is peopled only with creatures
from legends and mythology. He read extensively in those
areas from the moment he could understand language,
and he viewed hundreds of senso-tapes on the subject. It
interested him, because he thought he might find a pur-
pose even stronger than the one which was connected with
the Christian mythos: the Second Coming which he be-
lieved was himself.”
“But this wolf does not take the form of a mythological
creature,” I argued with my wolf-mouth.
“There is a Tibetan legend which tells of monks trans-
formed to wolves. They were men who loved luxury and
betrayed the true intentions of their religion. They in-
dulged in women and in drink, in jewels and in food, and
all that was pretty and satisfying to the senses. Their god
came to them after they had defiled mere children in a
brothel contaminated with all manners of evil. In the
disguise of demons, their god offered them immortality for
their souls. It was a test to see if they were completely
depraved, or whether there was still some minim of decen-
cy within them. But all nine of the monks eagerly grasped
the straw of endless life at the sacrifice of nirvana, of
eternal life on another plane. And so he gave them im-
mortality and crushed their souls. But he gave them immor-
tality as wolves, as vicious reeking creatures hated and
feared by all, creatures who could no longer know a
woman’s form but must run in dank dens, creatures unable
to make or appreciate the taste of wine or of a succulently
prepared roast.”
“And you want me now to be a centaur.”