Changeling (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny

had ever sculpted of smoke or walked through at bedtime as a child rose before him, and he knew that he could not leave this place without looking upon the prodigy bound by this mighty spell. Turning back, he followed the strand among the massive sleepers, averting his eyes as well as his feet in some instances.
    When he reached out to brush the strand with his fingertips, a sound like a crystal bell echoed within his head, “Moonbird . . . ”—constantly fading—and he knew that to be the name of the creature toward which he was headed.
    “Moonbird,” he said, fingers still feeling the pulse of the cord.
    Lord, I hear, beyond the depths of sleep or life. Shall we range the skies together, as in days gone by?
    I am not the lord you knew, and Rondoval has come upon sad times, he thought back, still brushing the cord.
    What matter? So long as there is a lord in Rondoval. You are of the blood?
    Yes.
    Then call me back from these ghost skies. I’ll bear you where you would.
    I am not even sure I know what to feed you . . . 
    I’ll manage, never fear.
    . . . And then there is the problem of this spell.
    Not for one such as —
    Pol halted, for he could go no further. His hand had left the strand awhile back, as it seemed tangled on an overhead ledge. For several moments, he had thought it was a huge mineral formation which confronted him—a vast mound of scaly copper bearing the green patina of age. But it had moved, slightly, as he had watched.
    He sucked air between his teeth as he raised the lantern. There, there was the great crested head! How huge those eyes must be when opened! He reached out and touched the neck. Cold, cold as metal. Perhaps nearly as tough.
    “ How low must your fires now be, bird of the moon . . .  ” he said.
    Back to him came a jumbled vision of clouds and tiny houses, forests tike patches of weeds . . . 
     . . .  Shall we range the skies together?
    The fear was gone, leaving only a great desire to see the huge beast freed.
    He moved back to the first place where the strand came within reach again. He touched it as he began to follow it back out.
    Patience, father of dragons. We shall see . . . .
     . . . And kill your enemies.
    First things first.
    He followed it back to the ball of plaited rainbows near the entrance. He traced its point of entry into the mass and noted each place where it became visible again at the surface. Would it be possible to tease out this one strand? Could he arouse Moonbird without awakening all the others?
    He stared for a long while before he moved, and then his first gestures were tentative. Soon, though, his left arm was plunged past the elbow into the glowing sphere, his fingers tracing each twisting of the thick, green strand . . . 
    Later, he stood holding it free, its end twisted about his finger. He walked quickly back, to stand regarding the drowsing giant once again.
    Awaken now, he willed, untwining it, releasing it.
    The thread drifted away, shriveling. The dragon stirred.
    Even bigger than I thought, he decided, staring into the suddenly opened eye which now regarded him. Much bigger . . . 

     
    The mouth opened and closed in a swallowing movement, revealing spike-like ranks of teeth.
    Those, too . . . 
    He moved nearer.
     . . . Must seem bold for a little longer, establish where we both stand right away . . . 
    He reached out and laid his hand upon the broad neck.
    I am Pol Detson, Lord of Rondoval until further notice, he tried to communicate.
    The giant head was raised, turned, the mouth opened . . . Suddenly, the tongue shot forward, licking him with a surface the texture of a file, knocking him backwards.
     . . .  Master!
    He recovered himself, dodged a second caress of the tongue and patted the neck again.
    Contain yourself, Moonbird! I am — soft.
    Sometimes I forget.
    The dragon spread its wings and lowered them, drew itself upright, raised and lowered its head, nuzzled him.
    Come, mount