Air Apparent by Piers Anthony

fact they made about as nice a blanket as he could imagine. They had given him a night of considerable celebration, as they put it, making up for all his years of isolation from their gender. Nymphs were not smart; they had only one thing on their cute little minds, and that happened, by one of the coincidences that were his nature, to be exactly what he had been looking for.
    But by now he was exhausted in that respect, and needed to get away before any of them woke and started over. But how could he get away without moving, and thus disturbing them? They would have no memory of the night’s revelries, and be eager for the novelty of what they thought was a new interaction. He really wasn’t up to that.
    He got a fair notion. There should be fauns nearby. “Hey, fauns!” he called in a controlled low tone. “Look here!”
    One heard him. “A pile of nymphs!” he exclaimed, and charged in to join the celebration. Others heard him and joined the charge, converging. In barely nine tenths of a moment they had hold of the nymphs, who woke cutely screaming and kicking their nice legs and flinging their hair about, making themselves quite ready for the interaction. In the remaining tenth of the moment several couples had formed, celebrating enthusiastically.
    The Factor crawled out from under the squirming pile, unnoticed. Before any new nymphs could spy him, he made a random exchange of location.
    He was in the bottom of a deep cleft. He recognized it: the Gap Chasm, which had balked him when the ogress was after him. He hadn’t fallen, he had merely changed places with some creature, maybe a rabbit. That was fine. The nymphs should like the rabbit, if they noticed it.
    There was a puff of steam. Something had been chasing the rabbit. It was the dread Gap Dragon, a six-legged, serpentine, vestigial-winged steamer, the terror of the Gap. All creatures that got caught here were its natural prey. Naturally random chance had put him right in its way.
    The Factor had formidable random magic, but was not physically formidable. He was pretty much a routine man in a protective suit that would not be much use against the steam or teeth of the dragon. He would be cooked in his clothing and chomped before the dragon even got close. That was one of the things about dragons: they could use smoke, fire, or steam to process their prey from a distance.
    He would not be able to flee the predator; the bottom of the chasm was its restricting hunting ground. He couldn’t fight it—not in his natural form. He would have to change forms. That meant more magic and more gambling on what forms would appear.
    The dragon spied him and shot out white-hot steam. He changed. And became a pot plant.
    The steam struck it. The pots heated, but this was no problem because this plant was made for heating. Its fresh pots were used for cooking, while the older ones that were decaying affected the mind when smoked. Did getting steamed count?
    The dragon skidded to a six-legged halt. It sniffed the pots, evidently having thought it saw a man here a moment ago. When it came to the old ones it got a dreamy expression. It seemed the magic did work when the pots were steamed. Soon it settled into a peaceful coil around the plant and snoozed.
    Well and good, to a degree. He was out of danger. But how was he going to get away from the dragon, who might merely be playing possum? The possum was a magical Mundane animal who could play dead, then come back to life unexpectedly. As the dragon might, the moment the Factor moved.
    And of course he couldn’t move from this spot, because he was a plant with solid roots. He would have to change, and that might be what the cunning creature was waiting for.
    He needed some way to distract the dragon without changing forms until he had at least a bit of distance. But what could a pot plant do?
    He rattled his pots. They clanged together, raising a metallic ruckus. The fresh new ones clanged sharply, while the worn old ones