In all her years of adventuring, Storm had never heard of a magefair, but the very name sounded ominous. She had been surprised at the easy good humor with which the Old Mage had accepted her announcement that this time, when he left home, she'd be riding with him. In fact, she suspected he'd used horses for the trek, rather than whisking himself across Faerun in a trice by magic, just to prolong their time together.

Every night Elminster settled himself and his pipe down beside their fire to listen to her pluck a harp and sing old ballads. In return, when she lay down under the watching, glittering stars, he'd softly tell tales of old Faerun until sleep claimed her. After years of riding the wastes with hearty, hardened warriors, Storm was astonished at how much she'd enjoyed this trip with the odd mage.

But now, it seemed, they had reached their destination, though it was nothing at all like the bard had imagined.

"Why here?" Storm Silverhand asked with tolerant good humor as she reined in beside Elminster on a ridge far from Shadowdale. The bright morning sun cast long shadows from the stunted trees and brush around them. As far as the eye could see, rolling wilderness stretched out, untouched by the hands of man. "We must be halfway to Kara-Tur by now."

The Old Mage scratched his nose. "Farther," he replied with seeming innocence, "and 'here' because one we seek is close-at-hand."

As he spoke, a man appeared out of thin air and floated in front of them. The horses snorted and s.h.i.+fted in surprise. Elminster frowned.

The man stood on nothing, booted feet far above the ground. Midnight eyes glowered down out of a thin, cruel white face. He towered impressively over them, clad in a dark and splendid tabard adorned with glowing mystic signs and topped with an upthrust high collar. A carved, gem-adorned staff winked and pulsed in one of his many-ringed hands.

"Challenge!" He addressed them with cold, formal dignity, raising his empty hand in a gesture that barred the way. "Speak, or pa.s.s not!"

"Elminster of Shadowdale," the Old Mage replied mildly, "and guest."

The man's eyes narrowed, and he said even more coldly, "Prove yourself."

"Ye doubt me?" Elminster asked slowly. "Why, Dhaerivus, I recall my first magefair!" He nodded in reflection and added dryly, "Ye made a most fetching toad."

Dhaerivus flushed. "You know the rule," he said harshly, waving the staff. Lights began to race along its length, brightening the crystal sphere that topped it. With slow menace, the floating man brought that glowing end down to point at the Old Mage.

"Aye," Elminster replied. Then he wagged a finger back and forth and announced lightly, "Nice-ly!"

The staff that menaced them snapped back upright, forced away by the power of Elminster's sorcery. The sentinel who held it gaped at them in astonishment and fear before the muscles of his face rippled and lost their struggle against another dose of the Old Mage's spellcasting.

The magic made Dhaerivus giggle involuntarily for a few moments, then released him. His grin turned rapidly into a scowl of dark anger.

Elminster took no notice. "There ye go," he said jovially to the shaken sentinel as he urged his mount onward. "Happy magic!"

Storm looked back at the furious man as they topped the next ridge. The staff was flas.h.i.+ng and flickering like a lightning storm at sea, and the sentinel was snarling and stamping angrily on the empty air. Storm glanced at Elminster and asked wonderingly, "You cast a cantrip'? Making him giggle is 'proving yourself?"

Elminster nodded. "A wizard must prove to a magefair sentinel only that he can work magic. Er, to keep the rabble out"

He rolled his eyes to show what he thought of that att.i.tude and calmly urged his horse down through a tumble of boulders and long gra.s.s. "Guests like thee are exempt from the testing, but each mage is limited to only one such compatriot. No mage can avoid the test and be allowed into the fair. Generally, young bucks cast powerful explosions and the like, or exquisite and-ahem-voluptuous illusions, but in this case I, ah, well, ah ... meant it as an insult"

Storm wrinkled her brow. "I see," she observed carefully. "I'm going to have to be very careful at this fair."

Elminster waved a hand. "Ah, nay, nay," he replied. "I must merely get a certain magical key from someone who isn't expected to be insane enough to bring it here-or to have anything at all to do with it-and then have a bit of fun. Certain Harpers asked me to come here to protect this friend I must meet. No doubt ye were asked to come along too-to keep a certain Old Mage out of trouble." He favored her with a level look. Storm smiled and nodded ruefully.

The Old Mage chuckled. "These magefairs are private little gatherings. I haven't been to one in years, and we're far enough from home that my face won't be well known. Certain rules govern those who attend, rules meant to keep things from sinking into a general spell-brawl, but ye'd do well to keep in mind that most everyone here can wield magic-quite well. Walk softly. Drink things that are offered to ye only if I am present and deem it wise. Draw thy magical blade only if ye must. Some come here to gain new spells, but most come to show off what they can do, like children at play. Cruel, overpowerful children, a lot of them."

He scratched at his beard and looked thoughtful. "As to those who work against us, the names and faces of their servants at the magefair are unknown to me." He grinned suddenly. "Suspect everyone, as usual, and ye should do all right."

"What is this key we seek?," Storm asked, "and why is it so valuable?"

Elminster shrugged. "It's precious only because of what it opens. Its form and purpose ye'11 learn soon enough- which is another way of saying I scarce remember what it looks like and haven't the faintest idea why, after so many years, its importance has risen so suddenly and sharply." He cast a dry look at her and added, "Mysterious enough for ye?"

Storm replied with a look that had, over the years, plunged more than one man into icy fear.

Unperturbed, the Old Mage smiled at her as they rode up the heather-clad slope of another ridge. "Sorry, my dear, but I got quite a lecture last time-from thee, as I recall- on speaking freely about all sorts of little details that should be kept secret in matters like this, so I'm flapping my jaws as little as I can this time around and acting as if only I know the great secret upon which the safety of the entire world rests-oh, there I go. Ye see, I just can't help myself. Tis so hard to do all this intrigue and world-saving with grim and solemn seriousness when ye've done it so often down the centuries. Now, where was I? Ah, yes----"

There were worse fates, Storm reminded herself with an inward smile, than traveling across half of Faerun with Elminster. To buoy her spirits, she spent some time trying to remember what some of them were.

That dark reverie took them across several scrub-covered ridges, to the lip of a deep, bowl-shaped valley. A narrow trail wound down into it from somewhere on their right, crossing in front of them to enter a grove of trees. The trees hid the rest of the valley from the two riders.

It was then that a man in rich purple robes sailed into view. Floated would be a more accurate term, since he perched serenely on a carpet that undulated through the air like an eager snake, following the narrow trail far below. And as the bard and wizard watched, the man on the flying carpet sailed into the trees. Their leaves promptly changed color from their former green to a bright coppery hue, and several voices could be heard, raised in cries of praise of the new arrival.

They had obviously reached the magefair.

Far off, on the heights that rose on the other side of the still-unseen valley, Storm saw b.a.l.l.s of fire bursting in the air. Elminster followed the direction of her stare and said, "Ah, yes-the fireball-throwing contest, d'ye see? Mage-lings get all excited about it... something about impressing their peers. No doubt we'll end up there all too soon. They're allowed to challenge us older dweomercrafters, ye see, to prove their manly mettles by beating feeble dodderers. Er, womanly mettles too, mark ye, though many maids have sense enough to avoid such vulgar displays of power."

Storm raised an eyebrow. "How does one fireball impress more than another? As the saying goes, aren't all that hit you the same?"

The Old Mage shook his head patiently. "If a few words of the incantation are changed, the spell becomes more difficult to cast and the size and force of its blast mirrors the power and experience of the one throwing it. One wizard can boast that his is bigger than that of the next wizard, y'see. An archmage's firesphere can be quite impressive."

He paused meaningfully, then added, "I mean to get in and get out of the fair, mind ye, with a minimum of dallying. Tossing fire about is more a sport for the green and foolish. Try not to seek out trouble by challenging anyone. Stay close and speak not. It's safer."

And with these melodramatic words the Old Mage kicked his heels and sent his horse galloping down the steep track in reckless haste, raising dust. At the bottom, Elminster plunged his mount into a crowd of laughing, chatting mages. Storm, close on his heels, had time for one stare before she entered the a.s.sembled mages.

The gorge was full of folk standing shoulder to shoulder. Their robes formed a moving sea of wild colors, and the chatter was nearly deafening. There were men and women of all shapes, ages, and sizes-and a few whose gender the bard wasn't sure of. Traditional dark, flowing, wide-sleeved robes were amply in evidence, but most of the mages wore stranger, more colorful garments. Storm, who had seen much in the way of garb over many years of wandering, stared in wonder. It is widely held in Faerun-among non-mages, at least-that those who work Art are all, in varying degrees, crazy. In eccentricity of dress, Storm saw, this was certainly correct.

All manner of strange headpieces and body adornments bristled and sprouted around her, s.h.i.+mmering and sparkling and in some cases s.h.i.+fting shape in fluid movements. One lady mage wore nothing but a gigantic, many-feathered snake, which moved its slow coils continuously around her lithe body. A man nearby seemed clad only in dancing flames. The wizard he was speaking to wore a s.h.i.+fting, phosph.o.r.escent fungus, out of which grew small leafy ferns and thistles. Next to them stood a half-elven maiden clad in a flowing gown of gleaming, soft-polished gems strung upon many silken threads. She was arguing with a long-haired dwarf wearing furs and leather upon which a pair of insect-eating lizards crawled ceaselessly, long tongues darting. A s.n.a.t.c.h of their conversation came to Storm's ears: "Well, what did the Thayan do then?"

"Blew up the entire castle, of course. What else?"

Other voices crowded in, drowning out the previous speakers. "What was that? Purple zombies? Why purple?"

"She was bored, I guess. You should have seen the prince's face the next morning. She made a dozen tiny red hands appear out of thin air and pinch him in all the places he had pinched her... in front of all the court, too!"

Elminster was riding steadily through the throng. He seemed to know where he was going. Storm followed, past a man who was balancing a full bottle of something dark and red on his large nose and protesting in m.u.f.fled tones to those watching that he wasn't using any magic to help him. She looked away just before the bottle toppled and spilled all over him, but could not resist looking back at the damp result. She was careful not to smile.

"How many times must I tell thee? First you kiss, then cast the spell-or it stays a frog forever!"

Storm shook her head, trying to concentrate on Elminster and ignore such talk. A terrific din of conversation, strange music, humming, and weird little popping noises raged over the crowd. Wizards gestured to impress those they were speaking with, and varicolored smokes and many-hued globes of radiance obediently bobbed or writhed in the air over their heads. Enspelled birds sang complicated melodies, and some flew graceful aerial ballets. Storm peered this way and that, trying to see everything, watching for danger.

Everywhere folk stood talking, arguing, laughing, or d.i.c.kering, with goblets and flagons of varying sizes and contents in their hands, or floating handily in midair at their elbows. Some sort of rule, Storm guessed, kept the mages themselves from flying, floating, or teleporting about. Mostly they just stood in groups, talking. Storm threaded her mount carefully among them. Three olive-hued tentacles slid out from under a mage's hood as she pa.s.sed. Small, glittering eyes opened at their ends, surveyed her, and winked. She tried not to show her involuntary shudder as she rode on, past a man with bright green hair and beard who was juggling a ring of hand-sized b.a.l.l.s of fire in the air. The lady mage he was trying to impress was in the act of stifling a yawn.

The next group was made up of old and wrinkled crones with cold dark eyes and sinister-looking black robes. They were chuckling and swigging beer from clear gla.s.s tankards that didn't seem to empty. "First babe I ever saw that was born with wings," one was saying delightedly. "Flew around the nursery, giggling, the little scamp. Well, the king nearly swallowed his crown, I tell thee!"

Storm left the women behind, riding across a little open s.p.a.ce where rising smoke and ashes suggested someone had experienced a warm and possibly fatal accident very recently. Beyond it, she plunged into the chatter once again.

"You must understand, old friend, that taking the shape of a dragon is an experience that changes one forever-forever, I tell you!" A mage in florid pink and purple, lace at his wrists and throat, was underscoring this point by flicking a long, forked tongue at the mage he was speaking to-a wizardess with white, furry hair running down her arms and the backs of her hands. Her skin was a deeper purple than the garb of the wizard speaking to her. Her reply to his claims about dragonshaping was an eloquent snort.

Then Storm was threading her way past six enchantingly beautiful half-elven sorceresses, whose heads were bent together in low-voiced intrigue. One looked up alertly, only to relax and give the bard a relieved smile. The others, intent on deal-making, never saw her.

"Well, just change the name and the way you cast it, and he'll never know. I mean, anyone could have come up with a spell like that. Teach it to me, and I'll not tell where I got it. In return, I'll show you that trick of Tlaerune's, the one that makes men swoon and-"

Shaking her head, Storm hurried on through the magical bedlam, trying to catch up with the Old Mage. Where had he gone? She looked up and down the crowded gorge- there were hundreds of mages here! Yet, thanks to her keen eyes, she managed to find Elminster again. The Old Mage continued to cut through the gathered wizards without slowing or dismounting-until he came to a tree-shaded corner on the far, rocky wall of the gorge. There, in the dappled gloom, a short, stunningly beautiful lady mage was talking with five or six obviously smitten men of the Art.

Storm saw laughing black eyes, flowing black hair, and a gown whose scanty front seemed to be made of glowing, always-s.h.i.+fting flowers. Then the Old Mage vaulted, or rather fell, straight from his horse into the arms of the lady, with the words, "Duara! My dear1. Years have pa.s.sed! Simply yearsl"

Dark eyes sparkled up into his, and the Old Mage's effusive greetings were temporarily stilled by a deep kiss. Slim hands went around his neck, stroked his tangle of white hair, and then moved downward, in a tight, pa.s.sionate embrace.

After Elminster's glad greetings and the long kiss, Storm heard a low, purring voice replying enthusiastically. On the faces of the men around she saw astonishment, then anger, resignation, or disgust, and finally resigned disinterest. Storm also noticed Duara's fingers at the mage's belt, moving nimbly.

Other eyes had seen it, too-particularly those of a tall, hook-nosed man in a dark green velvet doublet with slashed and puffed sleeves. He'd been watching the Old Mage's affectionate greeting closely, his expression hidden by the smoke from his long, slim clay pipe.

When Elminster finally bid the smiling beauty a noisy adieu, the hook-nosed wizard let his pipe float by itself as he strode forward, gesturing wordlessly. In response, Elminster's pouch levitated upward and opened in midair. Silence fell among the mages standing near. It was obvious by their expressions that the green-clad wizard's spellwork was a serious breach of etiquette.

Storm half-drew her sword, but Elminster's bony hand stayed her firmly. In merry tones, he asked, "Lost thy magic, colleague? Want to borrow a cup of this or that?"

The wizard in green looked narrowly at him and at the lone item the pouch held: a twig. "Where is it, old man?"

"The powerful magic ye seek? Why, in here," replied Elminster, tapping his own head with one finger. Unsettled, Storm peered at him; his voice seemed thicker than usual, but his eyes were as bright as ever. "But ye can't get it with a simple s.n.a.t.c.hing spell cast in a moment, ye know. Years of study, it took me, to master even-"

The green wizard gestured curtly. The twig flew toward his open, waiting hand. Before it got there, Elminster snapped his fingers and wiggled his eyebrows. As a result, the twig shot upward, curved in a smooth arc, and darted back toward the Old Mage.

The wizard in green frowned and gestured again. The twig slowed abruptly, but continued to drift toward the smiling face of Elminster. The wizard's hands moved again, almost frantically, but the twig's flight-and Elminster's gentle smile-held steady as the wood settled into the Old Mage's hand.

Elminster bowed to the white-faced, shaking wizard. Pleasantly he said, "But if it's this magical staff ye want-" the twig instantly became a grand-looking, ten-foot-long, smooth black staff with bra.s.s ends wrought in coiling-snake designs "-by all means have it." And the staff flew gently across empty air to the astonished man's hands.

"But. . . your staff?" Storm asked in wonder as she watched the sweating, dumbfounded wizard in green catch the staff not four paces away. "How will you replace it?"

"Cut myself another one," the Old Mage replied serenely. "They grow on trees."

Clutching the staff and eyeing Elminster anxiously, the velvet-clad wizard reclaimed his pipe, muttered something, and rapidly gestured. Abruptly, he was gone, staff and all, as though he had never been there at all.

Elminster shook his head disapprovingly. "Bad manners," he said severely. "Very. Teleporting at the magefair! It just wasn't done in my day, let me tell ye-"

"When was that, old man? Before the founding of Water-deep, I'll warrant," sneered a darkly handsome young man who stood nearby. Storm turned in her saddle.

This mage was richly dressed in fur-trimmed silks. His black-browed, pinched face was always sneering, it seemed. Storm recognized him as one of the wizards who'd been speaking with Duara when Elminster arrived. His voice and manner radiated cold, scornful power as he curled back his lip a little farther and said, "By the way, graybeard, you may call me 'Master.'"

Gripping his own staff-one made of s.h.i.+ning red metal, twelve feet long and adorned with ornaments of gold-the dark-browed mage reached for the reins of the Old Mage's riderless horse.

Storm kicked out at his hand from her saddle. The toe of her boot stung his fingers and smashed them away from Elminster's mount. The handsome mage turned on her angrily-to find a gleaming swordtip inches from his nose.

"Heh, heh," chuckled Elminster in thick, rich tones. "Not learned to leave the ladies alone yet, Young Master?"

The mage flushed red to the roots of his hair and whirled away from Storm's blade to face the old man again. "Why, no, grandsire," he said sarcastically. "Although it's obvious you've been without one for many a year!"

The loud insult brought a few snickers from the younger mages standing near, mingled with gasps and whistles of shocked amazement from older wizards who evidently knew Elminster. The murmuring intensified as some mages shoved closer to watch the coming confrontation, while others suddenly recalled pressing business elsewhere and slipped away to a safe distance.

Elminster yawned. "Put away thy blade," he said softly to Storm. Then he said more loudly and almost merrily, "It appears boastful striplings still come to magefairs for no greater purpose than to insult their betters."

The Old Mage sighed theatrically, and went on. "I suppose, c.o.c.kerel, that now ye've picked a quarrel and will challenge me, eh? Nay, nay, that's not fair. After all, I've the wisdom of ages with which to make the right choices, whereas ye have only the hot vigor of youth ... um, pretty phrase, that... so I'll even thy odds a trifle: I'll challenge thee! Fireball-throwing, hey? What say ye?"

A cheer arose. The red-faced mage waited for it to die, then said scornfully, "A sport for children and, I suppose, old lackwits."

Elminster smiled, very like a cat gloating over cornered prey, and said, "Perhaps. On the other hand, perhaps ye are frightened of losing?"

The mage's face grew redder still. He cast a look around at the interested, watching faces, and snapped "I accept." Then he struck an ostentatious pose and vanished.

An instant later, amid a puff of scarlet smoke, he reappeared on the edge of the gorge and made an insulting gesture at the Old Mage from afar. Elminster chuckled, waved a lazy hand in reply, and climbed clumsily back up onto his long-suffering horse. Storm saw him salute Duara with a wink. Then Duara's eyes met her own, and Storm could read the silent plea in them as clearly as if the young sorceress had shouted it in her ear: Look after him, lady-please.

By the time they had ridden up out of the valley to the meadows beyond, many wizards had gathered to watch. Haughty young sorcerers had been hurling fire about all day, but the expectant silence hanging over the scene seemed to indicate that the mage with the red staff had won a reputation at the fair, or many elders remembered Elminster, or perhaps even both.

With more haste than grace, Elminster fell from his saddle. He hit the ground at a stumbling run, staggered to a halt, and dusted himself off. Then he saw his waiting opponent and, with obvious pleasant surprise, said, "Well... lead off, boy!"

"One side, old man," said the young mage darkly, waving his staff. "Or have you no fear of dying in a ball of flame?"

Elminster stroked his beard. "Yes, yes," he said eagerly, his mind seemingly far away. "Well do I remember! Oho, those were the days ... great bursts of fire in the sky...."

The young mage pushed past him.

"Now, how did that one go, eh? Oh, my, yes, I think I recall...." Elminster burbled on, voice thick and eyes far away.

Contemptuously the young mage set his staff in the crook of his arm, muttered his incantation in low tones so the Old Mage could not hear, and moved his hands in the deftly gliding gestures of the spell. An instant later, above the gra.s.sy meadow, fire grew from nothingness into a great red-violet sphere. It seethed and roiled, rolled over once, and burst in orange ruin over the meadow, raining down small teardrops of flame onto the gra.s.s. Heat smote the watchers' faces, and the ground rocked briefly.

As the roaring died away, the quavering voice of the Old Mage could still be heard, murmuring about the triumphs of yesteryear. He broke off his chatter for a moment to say mildly, "Dear me, that's a gentle one. Can't ye do better than that?"

The young mage sneered. "I suppose you can?"

Elminster nodded calmly. "Oh, yes."

"Would it be possible to see thee perform this awesome feat?" the mage inquired with acidic courtliness, his voice a mocking, over-pompous parody of Elminster's own thickened tones.

The Old Mage blinked. "Young man," he said disapprovingly, "the great mastery of magic lies in knowing when not to use the power, else all these lands would long ago have become a smoking ruin."

The young mage sneered again. "So you won't perform such a trifling spell for us, O mightiest of mages? Is that the way of it?"

"No, no," Elminster said with a sigh. "We did agree, and ye have done thy little bit, so I-" he sighed again "-shall do mine." He gestured vaguely, then paused and harrumphed.

"Ah, now," he said, "how does the rhyme go?" There were a few t.i.tters from the watching crowd as he scratched his beard and looked around with a puzzled air. The young mage sneered at his back, and then turned to favor Storm with the same disdain. The bard, who stood close by, hand on the hilt of her sword, met his gaze with a wintry look of her own.

Elminster suddenly drew himself up and shouted: "By tongue of bat and sulphur's reek, And mystic words I now do speak, There, where I wish to play my game, Let empty air burst into flame!"

In answer, the very air seemed to shatter with an ear-splitting shriek. A gigantic ball of flame suddenly towered over the meadow, its heat blistering the watchers' faces.

It was like the sun had fallen.

As mages cried out and shaded their eyes, the fireball rolled away from the awed crowd for a trembling instant, then burst in a blinding white flash, hurling out its mighty energies in a long jet of flame that roared away to the horizon. The earth shook and seemed to leap upward, throwing all but the Old Mage to their knees.

When the shaking had died away, Storm found herself lying beside the horses on the turf. By the time she had struggled to her feet and shook her head clear, the roiling smoke had died away and everyone could see what Elminster's magic had wrought in the meadow. Or rather, what had been the meadow. Where a broad expanse of flame-scorched gra.s.s had stretched a moment before, a smoking crater now yawned, large and deep and very impressive.

"Umm ... nice, isn't it?" Elminster said rather vaguely.