Well-Tempered Clavicle by Piers Anthony

real nymph, or a woman who could commit. Like my difficult girlfriend. But a skeleton? I don’t think so.”
    Evidently he did not take his girlfriend too seriously, as Joy’nt had surmised. He wanted all he could get. Picka understood that some living men were like that.
    “It’s all we have to offer,” Dawn said.
    He gazed at her cannily. “Not necessarily. You’re not a skeleton.”
    “No way!” Dawn snapped. “I wouldn’t settle for a—” She broke off.
    “For a what?” Attila demanded.
    “Never mind. I suppose I could let you look at me without touching, during Joy’nt’s off-hours.”
    “Just peeks? It’s not worth it. Considering that it’s only one pun to be destroyed.”
    “No. You can’t destroy Pundora’s Box. We need it.”
    “It’s a pun,” he repeated. “I exist to destroy puns, especially that one. You want me to settle for one hour a day, and then not get to destroy one of Xanth’s biggest puns? You’re crazy.”
    “You’re mighty choosy, considering.”
    “There you go again. Considering what?”
    Dawn was clearly nettled. She said something she shouldn’t. “Considering that you’re a pun yourself. Attila the Pun.”
    Attila paused, working it out. “Somehow I never thought of it that way. I am a pun. Therefore I must be destroyed.” He drew his sword.
    “No!” Joy’nt cried.
    But Attila lifted his sword, then stabbed it through his own body. Immediately that body went up in smoke. The smoke floated away, dissolving. Even the sword puffed into vapor.
    True to his nature, Attila had destroyed the Pun.
    Picka, Dawn, and Joy’nt shared a glance of pure chagrin, with maybe a small admixture of guilt. They had ruined their chance to pursue their mission.
    “I think I could have liked him, for an hour a day,” Joy’nt said. “He was so appreciative.” Then her flesh puffed away, leaving her skeleton. The bra and panties, suddenly without fleshly support, dropped to the ground.
    That seemed appropriate. Their mission had abruptly become a mere skeleton of itself.

 
    6
    G RANOLA
    The three human-style folk sank into a mottled purple funk, which was one of the worst types. They might have remained in it indefinitely, but the pets lost patience and took action.
    Tweeter sat on Picka’s skull and tweeted mercilessly. He would not shut up. Midrange went to Joy’nt and prowled all over her bones. Woofer went to Dawn, nosing her butt. “Woof!” he said imperatively.
    “Can’t you see we’re in a funk?” Dawn demanded. “Go sniff out some food or something, and leave us alone.”
    “Woof!” he repeated insistently.
    “What is bothering you?” she asked, annoyed.
    “Woof!”
    “Oh, you have something to tell me? What is it?”
    “Woof!”
    Her eyes widened. “You think you are developing a magic talent? Let me check.” She touched his back. “You’re right. You can sniff out any living thing, or will be able to when your talent matures. We thought it was Attila’s acrid smell you tracked, but it was the beginning of your talent.” She shook her head. “Too bad we can’t just have you sniff out Pundora’s Box.”
    “Woof!”
    “But maybe you can sniff out the one who will find it for us? If only we knew who that is.”
    “Woof.” He nosed her pocket.
    “But there’s nothing in there except—” She broke off, a dim bulb flashing. “The list of names! I had quite forgotten.”
    “The names!” Picka said.
    Dawn pulled out the paper. “The second name is Granola.” She looked up. “But isn’t that a breakfast food?”
    “Woof.”
    “But also a name,” Dawn agreed. “And you can sniff that person out?”
    “Woof!”
    She leaned forward and hugged him. “We’re back in business, Woofer, thanks to you.”
    “Which way is this Granola?” Picka asked.
    Woofer sniffed the air, then pointed his nose north.
    “But that’s where the Gap Chasm is.”
    “Woof.”
    She nodded. “The Gap Chasm it is. We’ll go back to where the enchanted