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Suddenly a dragon shot out of the tunnel, wings unfurling as it entered the dungeon chamber. It snorted fire and hovered in the air, raising gleaming talons, seeking prey. The Avars fell back, amazed and terrified. One made a desperate slash at the monster-and the sword passed right through the dragon’s wing without resistance or damage.

Illusion, of course! The magic had returned, and now the Queen was fighting in her spectacular fashion. But the moment the Avars realized that the dragon had no substance, it worked the opposite way. The Avar, discovering that he could not even touch the dragon, screamed and fled the chamber. He was far more afraid of a spiritual menace than of a physical one.

King Omen, too, stared at the dragon. “Where did that come from?” he demanded. “I don’t believe in dragons!”

Dor smiled. “It’s an illusion,” he explained. They were able to converse again, because of the ambience of magic. “Queen Iris is quite an artist in her fashion; she can generate completely credible images, with smell and sound and sometimes touch. No one in all the history of Xanth has ever been able to do it better.”

The dragon spun to face them. “Why, thank you, Dor,” it said, dissolving into a wash of color that drifted after the departing Avars.

Now Irene appeared, as the Avars scrambled to escape the dragon. “Oh, you’re hurt!” she cried. Dor wasn’t sure whether she was addressing him or Omen.

“King Omen saved my life,” he said.

“You were the only one with sense enough to dam off the oil to save the girl,” Omen replied. “Could I do less than help?”

“Thanks,” Dor said, finding himself liking this bold young King more than ever. Rival he might be, but he was a good man. They shook hands. Dor didn’t know whether this was a Mundane custom, but King Trent had evidently explained Xanth ways.

“Now our blood has mingled; we are blood brothers,” Omen said gravely.

Irene and Iris were tearing up lengths of cloth from somewhere, fashioning bandages. Irene got to Omen first, leaving Dor for her mother. “I suspect I underestimated you, Dor,” the Queen murmured as she worked efficiently on his wound, cleaning and bandaging it after applying some of the plant healing extract. “But then, I also underestimated your father.”

“My father?” Dor asked, bewildered.

“That was a long time ago, before I met Trent,” she said. “None of your business now. But he did have mettle in the crunch, and so do you.”

Dor appreciated her compliment, but regretted that her modification of attitude had come too late. Irene had focused on King Omen.

He tried to stop himself from glancing across to where Irene was working on the Mundane King, but could not help himself.

The Queen caught the glance. “You love her,” she said. “You did not before, but you do now. That’s nice.”

Was she taunting him? “But you endorse King Omen,” Dor said, his emotion warring within himself.

“No. Omen is a fine young man, but not right for Irene, nor she for him. I support your suit, Dor; I always did.”

“But you said-“