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own interest,” the Rajah said, “consider that of your Kingdom. I will pass within three years, and our enemies conspire against us, but the Heir is not ready. Your presence, and the alliance with Maharastra, can secure our frontier against serious incursion. This is necessary for the welfare of all citizens of Gujarat.”
    “Adopt a worthier heir,” Mym sang. “Let me rejoin my beloved.”
    “The Princess of Maharastra is beautiful and accomplished, completely worthy of any man. Accept the betrothal and all else is yours.”
    “I will not marry any woman but my beloved. Release me and all else is yours.”
    “Fairness is a virtue, even in a prince,” the Rajah responded. “Spend one month with the princess at the Honeymoon Castle. If, thereafter, you still decline to betroth her, I will grant you your freedom.”
    Victory, so suddenly! “Agreed,” Mym said. What was one month’s temptation, compared to the two years he had survived?
    The Honeymoon Castle was situated in remote mountains. It was a phenomenally attractive estate, with sculptured hedges, gardens of infinite color, picturesque architecture, and every likely luxury. No grounds-crew maintained it; an enduring spell kept it in perfect condition, with an ideal climate independent of what existed beyond. Favored nobles were granted weekends here when they married, and the Rajah himself retired here when in need of restoration. But for one full month it was to be Mym’s residence.
    Of course a person could get bored with even the most wonderful accommodations, in the absence of human company. That was why there were always two people here—and only two. For the most remarkable propertyof the Honeymoon Castle was the magic it performed on the minds of those who came into its ambiance.
    The emotion and conscious thoughts of any person here expanded, in a fashion, beyond his body, and became manifest to any other person present. There were no secrets of feeling, here. That was why it was so potent for those who were freshly in love—and why it was no place for those who were no longer in love.
    However, Mym was forewarned and prepared. He had never before been to the Honeymoon Castle, but he doubted that its magic could shake his enduring love for Orb. If there were any question, his close contact with what might well turn out to be a simpering, spoiled southern princess would eliminate it. He had in Orb a standard of excellence that no other woman could match. What was her name? He had almost forgotten it already!
    Rapture of Malachite—that was it, as though there could be delight in cold green stone. It was surely as ironic a designation as his own, Pride of the Kingdom. No, he knew he would emerge from this encounter victorious and be free at last to rejoin his only true love.
    He stood alone at the landing patio, awaiting the arrival of the princess’ carpet. There were no servants, of course; no other minds could be permitted to snoop on the naked thoughts and feelings of royalty. The two of them would be truly alone for the duration, until the carpets returned in a month to pick them up.
    It arrived on schedule, first a speck above the mountain pass in the distance, then a floating shape, flat below, lumpy above. Finally it coasted in for the landing, a broad carpet bearing a cushioned, curtained cage.
    It settled gently to the tiles. The cage opened, and the princess stepped out.
    Mym stood in the shadow of the gate and gazed at her, this nemesis of his love that he had never seen before.
    The Princess Rapture of Malachite of Maharastra was a spectacular figure of a woman. She wore a belted robe that caressed a figure reminiscent of an hourglass, with a sash of shining pale gold mesh, and buttons that were deep red rubies. Her hair was a lustrous flowing river of blue-black that whorled and swirled its way down about hershoulders and framed her face most prettily. Her eyes were like those of oxen of the lowland breed, great and dark and liquid.