For an instant, he hung suspended. Then he shrieked and disappeared into it with a clump.

They saw his hands first. With an effort, he clambered out.

"We'll try another one," he snarled.

People were clapping each other on the back, doubled over with laughter. Others were losing interest and starting to heckle.

He tried to conjure a magical light and found himself staggering out of a cone of darkness, unable to see or hear. He tried to generate a blinding spray of colors and levitated a poor woman into the air; she was saved from a nasty fall only because her husband held onto her legs for dear life as they rose past his head. He tried to raise an acorn to ten times its size and nothing happeneda"but later that afternoon, the owner of the adjacent farm was surprised to discover his prize hen proudly strutting around an egg two feet long. He tried to erase some writing from a scroll and gave himself a hotfoot. He tried to enlarge the fire from a torch and teleported a cow up a tree.

With each grandiose failure, both the laughter and the grumbling grew louder. But it wasn't until he tried to mend a volunteer's hem through the force of his will, and the force of his will pulled down thirty people's pants, that the Amazing Wiglaf Show finally turned ugly.

Wiglaf was devastated. He had never been so miserable. Last night he had been the most important man in town.

But today people only pointed and laugheda"or pointed and cursed, depending on their degree of partic.i.p.ation in his ultimate, showstopping feat. He felt ridiculous. The sight of Tuka, Sasha, and Fenzig returning all the money had been bad enough, but many people in the long refund line had also shaken their hands and thanked them for a wonderful time. Wiglaf was the town clown, and as he sat alone at the Ale & Hearty, he had plenty of time to think about it.

Maybe the robe had helped focus his magical power. So what? What good did that do when he didn't know enough about magic to wield it in the first place? He should have stayed in Calimport. He should have stayed a baker. He should have stayed in his mother's womb, where it was nice and safe.

"Buy a girl a drink, magic man?" It was Sasha.

"I'm broke, remember? Not even the bartender wants to be seen with me."

"Tough day, huh? Oh, well, I'm not the kind of girl who gets drinks bought for her, anyway." She smiled grimly and sat. "Listen, Wiglaf, I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time. I just didn't believe you were really a magician."

"I'm not. Just a student who didn't even have the sense to keep on studying."

"Maybe you're finally learning something."

"This robe. It... changed me. But whatever it did was an illusion. A fake. It's like ... I took something that wasn't mine. I took a reputation I didn't deserve. An ability I hadn't developed. I called myself a magician and insulted everybody who really is one." Wiglaf s eyes became animated again, and his voice rose. "And I know what I'm going to do about it right now. I'm taking this robe back, if I have to fight ten packs of dogs to do it."

Sasha's smile revealed a perfect set of teeth. "I'm very glad to hear you say that, Wiglaa""

"WIGLAF!".

It was Tuka, rushing in from outside, opening the door on a piercingly loud animal roar. The air rushing into the tavern felt like a hot summer day, and the sky they could see through the door had turned from morning's overcast to a bright yellow.

Sky ... yellow?

"Wiglaf! Sasha! If you've got weapons, get out here now!"

They tore out of the tavern, and Wiglaf s confusion instantly dissipated. In this day full of unwanted sights, this was by far the worst. A mammoth red dragon was just pulling out of an aerial attack run into the town square, yellow flames pouring from its gigantic maw. Twenty or thirty villagers brandished weapons against the beast; some threw spears or loosed arrows, but those who knew how to fight were few, and the monster was large. One building was already on fire. Wiglaf was nearly bowled over by the heated backwash from the dragon's flight. It snorted as it climbed for another pa.s.s, and a tree caught fire like a matchstick. Silhouetted against the gray sky, the dragon flew up in a wide arc to launch another attack.

"Find someplace to hide! Take cover! Take cover!" Tuka screamed.

A woman ran to Wiglaf and clenched his robe, shrieking with terror. "Magic-user! Do something! Help us! I have children! DO SOMETHING!" Maybe she hadn't seen the demonstration this morning. Maybe she was so afraid that she was willing to believe anything. But she was trying to grasp at the only thing she could see: Wiglaf s magic. She really thought he could help.

"Wiglaf, let's go!" Sasha shouted. She pulled the woman off him. "Go now!" She tugged at his robe.

The dragon turned in the sky, straightened, and headed back.

"No!" Wiglaf pulled himself free. "Get away, Sasha. I have to try."

"With what? This is no dog! It'll kill you!"

"I have to try."

"You idiot!" Sasha pulled the still-screaming woman out of the square, leaving Wiglaf alone to face the monster, which was picking up speed and dropping alt.i.tude to find the perfect flamethrowing angle.

Wiglaf could trust only one spell: burning hands, the one he'd used against the dogs. The way it had roared out of his fingertips last night, the flame had almost matched a dragon's intensity. Maybe if he fought fire with fire, the beast would act like most animals and retreat.

He took a deep breath, planted his feet, spread his fingers, and joined his thumbs. The dragon noticed the lone unmoving figure as it continued to accelerate. It adjusted its approach angle. Now it was coming straight for' Wiglafa"and inhaling.

His knees felt like pudding as he watched the monster approach, and his voice was shaking as he began the incantation, but Wiglaf did not move. He stood his ground and faced the beast as it screamed forward. He managed to get the words outa"and sighed with relief when magical force crackled toward his fingertips, and he stood with teeth clenched and eyes flashing as adrenalin pumped through him.

He aimed his burning hands at the dragon, and from them poured a spray of vegetables.

The first few bushels that struck the dragon actually did some physical damage before vanishing on impact, such was the speed of its attack run. They smacked painfully at its scaly hide and, as Wiglaf adjusted his aim before he could register what he was dispensing, worried its eyes and nose. The confusion was the important thing. The dragon spit flamelessly and blinked its eyes again and again. Still the veggies came, slowing its forward motion until it was almost hovering.

Wiglaf finally regained his senses enough to understand, but realized his outrageous spell was the only thing holding the creature at bay.

He held his arms firmly forward.

On and on, the dragon was pelted with representatives of every single member of a major food group, until it shook its head and finally took a breath to eradicate this problem once and for all.

Wiglaf knew he couldn't hold out for long now that the great creature had drawn a bead on him, but there was no other choice. He was a dead man, yes. But if he stopped casting, there would be nothing standing in the dragon's way. He would not run. At least he would give some people the chance to take cover, to save themselves. At least he would end his life in dignity and service. Wiglaf let a deep sigh escape him, then closed his eyes in determination and waited for the end to come.

He heard some mumbling behind him. An instant later, the stream of vegetables was joined by a stream of flame.

Now the dragon was faced with a gargantuan gout of fire aimed at its head, not to mention that the foodstuffs tasking its eyes and nose were now roasting hota"and, Wiglaf noticed, smelling delicious on the way up. There comes a time when every creature, no matter how large or small, meek or fierce, wise or wanton, has finally reached its limit of pain, tolerance, and plain exasperation. At the business end of a torrent of steaming, stinging vegetables, the miserable dragon finally gave up, and swiftly flew away.

A shaken Wiglaf dropped his hands and turned to meet his benefactor.

The belcher. The lockpicker.

Fenzig was a magic-user.

Fenzig balled his hands into fists, and the fire disappeared instantly and utterly. He extended his fingers again, blew on them as if to cool them off, and winked. Then he smacked his hands sharply together. Then again. And again.

Tuka and Sasha ran toward them, making the same hand motions, and before long everyone in the square was applauding as well.

"You!" Wiglaf recoiled in shock. This is your robe. You let me take it away."

"We've been expecting you," said the man the others had called Fenzig, drawing close to Wiglaf for privacy, "ever since your teacher told me you had resigned."

"M-My teach..."

"Magicians who form friendships are a close fraternity, boy. Your former instructor thinks you have great potential, despite your laziness, and one day you might convince me of that as well. He thought you needed a sterner taskmastera"but first I had to get your attention. I trust I have it now."

"You were wonderful, magic man," said Sasha as she arrived.

"So this was all an act? You three together?"

"n.o.body told the dragon about it," panted Tuka. "I thought we were gone. I really did."

"You stopped it, Wiglaf," Sasha said. "Your magic. Your courage."

"I couldn't have done it withouta"" He looked up into a face that had grown infinitely wiser in the last few moments; a face that would impart great knowledge in the coming years, now that he was ready to receive it. "a"my master?"

"I'll take my robe back now," said the mage. "And in exchange, I'll show you how to do that little stunt whenever you want. Invent a spell yourself. Well call it... cast vegetables."

Wiglaf s new life began when he slipped off. . . this robe.

"This very one?" asked the young apprentice. "You're telling me this is the robe that undid Wiglaf?"

"It's a robe of wild magic," the old man said. "As you could easily tell if you recognized this sigil. See? A warning. To anyone experienced in reading it, it says, 'wild magic, dum-dum. Makes spellcasting completely unpredictable. Only one of its kind. Tends to favor the caster if he really needs help, but that is Mystra's munificence, at least that's how the story goes. I have no idea who actually fashioned this thing, and I would never try to make one. This robe is completely useless except for one purpose: reminding younglings like you that there is no quick subst.i.tute for listening to ancient ones like me, and learning what we a.s.sign."

"That's a terrific story," said the lad.

"Be thankful that you learned this lesson by hearing a story, and not the way Wiglaf had to. But keep it learned, all the same. Now let's begin by working with components. A simple alteration. Fetch me some vegetables and chop them up, boy."

The apprentice looked up in wonder. The truth had struck him. "For cast vegetables, sir?"

The master's stern expression was still in place, but his eyes were twinkling.

Of coursea"how else could the old man have known what Wiglafwas thinking?

"Later, my lad, later. These are for a stew. To go with whatever Sasha's managed to hunt for us today."

A WORM TOO SOFT...

J. Robert King

The stone was as big as an ogre's head, as green as dragon bile, and as clear as Evermead. Unlike most emeralds, though, this one wasn't cut along fracture lines, but perfectly spherical and smooth. On its satin belly I saw myself, all six-foot-three of me dwarfed into a six-and-three-sixteenths-inch doll, my hawk-nose warped to match in size my brawny chest. I saw, too, my slim, demure hostess curved beside me, watching me as I watched the rock.

Now that Olivia Verdlar, proprietor of the Stranded Tern and owner of this peerless rock, had gotten an eyeful of me, I hoped she, too, knew why she'd flown me out from Waterdeepa"pegasus-back, no less.

"Impressive," I said, and leaned away from the enormous stone.

She slid back into my line of sight. Impressive, indeed. Her green eyes matched the rock, hue and l.u.s.ter, and her dark hair and slim figure were the ideal setting for such gems. Knowing the power of those eyes, she knew she didn't have to say a word in response.

I'd been drawn off by worse wenches, so I bit: "You say it came from the crop of a great green . . . ?" The word dragon hovered behind my question, but it didn't need to be spoken. After all, the rock had been christened "the Dragon's Pearl."

She nodded, and that slight motion sent an ally-ally-oxenfree down past her hips. "It's one of a hundred gem-stones that got polished in the thing's belly. Seems Xantrithicus the Greedy didn't trust his h.o.a.rd to a cave, preferring to hold it in his gut." She made a gesture toward her own slim waist, knowing I'd look there. I did. "Seems that way his spendthrift mate, Tarith the Green, couldn't even get two coppers to rub together."

"One of a hundred gems," I mused. It was time to win back some self-respect. "That's got to decrease the value of the pearl."

Was that a little color I saw in her high cheekbones? "This is by far the largest of the hundred. Most of the rest are fist-sized, or pebble-sized. If the gemologists are to be believed, this is also the most ancient of the h.o.a.rd, in the wyrm's gut for nearly two thousand years. I can little imagine its size when the polishing began."

I nodded, thinking, letting her words hang in the air as she had let mine, and hoping my dark-brown eyes were something of a match for her stunning green ones. I thought of the building around us: the cut-stone severity of this inner vault, the sorcerous impregnability of the outer vault, the ivory-towered fortress above, the glacial fastness of the mountain peaks. Every aspect of the Stranded Tern pleasure dome reeked of magic . . . everything except me, so I began again to wonder why she'd summoned me.

"Seems your magical defenses would be enough to guard this treasure," I said. "So, why bring a back-alley finder from Waterdeep across half the world to this icy palace?"

Olivia's small, hot hand was upon my biceps again, as it had been when the winged horse had touched down on the icy lip of the landing bay. She must keep those hands in a very warm place, I thought.

"Muscle and sneakiness have certain . . . powers that magic cannot provide."

G.o.ds, I wished that touch did not so thrill me. Keep your head, Bolton. She's your new boss. With her next words, the hot fingers drifted away.

"Besides, the pearl resists magical protections. The mage who slew old Xantrithicus found that out when some quite ordinary banditti slew him, who were then in their own turn slain, and again, and again, until my agents retrieved the thing."

"So you called me out to defend an undefendable hunk of stone?"

"I thought with Quaid, all things were possible...."

I'd stepped right into that one. Hmm. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve." Not really up my sleeve, but in the little black case I carried over one shoulder. Strange that so many poisons and needles and bits of wire and rubber at my back would make me feel safe. "Your rock'll be well guarded. Of course, I have my expenses, and need of room and boarda""

"Don't fret, Mr. Quaid," she said silkily. "You'll find this job has more than enough . . . fringe benefits. And don't even think about making off with my jewel. If the snows don't get you, my winged wolves will. Now, come along."

I followed her. It wasn't hard; I just let my eyes lead. Yeah, ever since I'd stepped down from that winged stallion, shoulders iced from our flight through the gale, I'd not been able to take my eyes off this Olivia. She was grace personified: young, svelte, clean-edged like a well-turned stiletto. In fact, she was too young and beautiful for this kip, this pleasure dome built beneath a constant sleet ceiling atop the Thunder Peaks. Where could a chit like her, with legs like those, who could get anything she needed and more with a mere pout of her perfect lips, have gotten the grit and moxie and power to build such a place?

Her sculpted arms deftly worked the lock on the iron door of the inner vault, and I struggled to memorize the combination, a rhyme of my dad's forcing its way into my head: A worm too soft and juicy Is a worm that hides a hook.

You can't think that way, Bolt. This is your new boss; this is her kip, your new homea"a far cry from the alleys and scamps and tramps of Waterdeep's Dock Ward.

However she'd acquired it, the Stranded Tern was hers. It could have belonged to no one else. It had her lines.

The stairs we walked took us up and out to a vast great room. The white walls of the place shone like mother-of-pearl, arching smooth and high like the inside of Olivia's leg. I'd've felt blinded by the whiteness but for the red rugs that hung on the walls and the thick carpet on the floora"more carpet in one room than in all the hovels in the Dock Ward.

Dead center rose a stairway with treads of gla.s.s. It snaked upward through empty air, held up by nothing but magic. On the second floor, it gave onto a wide arch of red iron filigree, which led in turn to four floors of guest rooms. Beneath the coil of treads was a long desk and a little man in tight black satin.

He wasn't the only liveried lackey. The place crawled with maids and "hops in similar getups, and swarmed with guests: There were hairless women wrapped in rare furs. There were men in tailored silk suits with such sharp edges they looked like tents tacked down to hard soil. There were kids, too, brash and savage in their pressed collars.

We moved out among the guests, my homespun snow-sodden shirt rough and ridiculous on my shoulders. I felt like a hairy bear.

Bolton Quaid, what've you gotten yourself into?

"This way," said the lady.

One benefit of perfect hips was that she couldn't be easily lost in a crowd. The lines of the place were hers, all right, but they lacked something of the warm dance she had....

What are you getting into, indeed?