"I'd forgotten how much fun hurling fire is! How does the spell go again?"

This time, the Old Mage merely waved a finger.

His young opponent, clinging to a red metal staff now battered and bent in six places, was just getting to his knees when another ball of flames as big as the first roared over the meadow. That was enough to send him tumbling again, and the young mage soon found himself atop a dazed and rotund Calis.h.i.+te sorcerer. When he could see clearly again, the mage saw a second crater smoking in the distance. Awed murmuring could be heard from the watching wizards all around.

"Now," Elminster said mildly, drawing the stunned young mage to his feet with a firm hand, "was there aught else ye wanted to speak of? Sendings and such, or prismatic spheres-pretty, aren't they? I've always enjoyed them. Or crafting artifacts, say? No? Ah, well then . .. fare thee well in thy Art, Young Master of the Cutting Tongue, and learn a trifle more wisdom, too, if ye've the wits to do so. Until next we meet."

Elminster patted the young mage's arm cheerily, snapped his fingers, and vanished. A moment later he reappeared beside an anxious Storm. "Mount up," he said cheerily. "We've realms to cross tonight."

"Realms?" asked Storm. As they rode up the ridge and left the magefair behind, she did not look back. "I thought you had to get a key-or was it the twig? Did that mage take the key from you?"

"Oh, no," replied Elminster merrily. He rode close and touched her forearm.

Abruptly the landscape was gone, replaced momentarily by s.h.i.+fting, shadowy grayness. The travelers seemed to be standing on nothing, but the horses trotted as if it were solid ground. Even before Storm could gasp a breath, there was another jolt, and they were somewhere else again-a place of darkness where rocks of all sizes crashed together endlessly, tumbling and rebounding as they hurtled through the emptiness. There was a constant thunder of stone smas.h.i.+ng into stone, the scene lit by flashes of phosph.o.r.escence from each violent impact.

Storm took one look at the scene and tore her weather-cloak from behind her saddle, flinging it over the head of her mount to prevent its rearing and plunging forward off the rather small area of rock they'd appeared on. The Old Mage's mount stood calm, controlled by his magic, no doubt.

Storm stared around at the endless destruction and found herself ducking low as a large, jagged boulder thundered toward them. It was easily as large as four horses and tumbled end over end as it came at them.

Elminster gestured unconcernedly, and the boulder veered off to strike another, larger rock nearby. A deafening crash filled the air, and a shower of stone chips rained down upon the bard. Storm shook her head. Whatever this place was, they were no longer in Faerun.

"The green-clad dolt thought he had taken our prize," the Old Mage continued casually. "He suspected Duara might pa.s.s me the key, but he's found by now that his mighty staff is indeed just a twig. Now he'll have to go on watching her for the rest of the magefair, trying to see if she pa.s.ses the key on to someone else. And for all he knows, anyone might be me, just wearing another shape. Duara'll lead him a merry dance. She likes hugging young men, and all that." He chuckled. "s.h.i.+ning schemes oft come to naught, ye know."

Boulders rolled and crashed right in front of them. Storm bit her lip to quell an involuntary shriek, s.h.i.+elded her eyes against flying stone shards, and asked, "Duara? You got the key from her, didn't you? I saw her hands at your belt."

Elminster nodded. "Aye, she gave it to me. All three of our foes at the fair saw it, too: the two who challenged me, and one who did not dare come forward."

He fended off six small stones hurtling toward them. "The third mage was there only to watch what transpired, no doubt, and report where we went. I used magic to blind him-and the Young Master of fire-hurling, too-under cover of my firesphere blast. They're both fortunate mage-fair rules prohibit spells that enfeeble the wits, or they'd be staring at nothing for a long time, indeed. The blindness will wear off soon enough, but they'll find us safely gone, and the key with us."

"What-and where-is this key?" Storm asked patiently, reaching into a saddlebag for some cheese. "Why did they not know where you'd hidden it?"

"They saw, but they did not see," the Old Mage replied, using magic to float the cheese she held out deftly to his mouth. "They knew not that Duara and I were old friends- or how quick her wits are."

He reached into his mouth and drew out a small spindle of metal set with a large emerald. "The key," he said grandly, his voice suddenly its usual clear-edged, fussy self again. "It's been in there since Duara first kissed me." He licked his lips consideringly and added, "She still likes almonds." The waiting cheese slid into his mouth. He chewed, made an approving face, and took Storm's hand. Around them, at his will, the world s.h.i.+fted again.

In the blink of an eye, the darkness and cras.h.i.+ng rocks were gone. Now their horses stood on a crumbling stone bridge in the midst of a fetid swamp, ringed by vine-hung trees. Slimy stone statues protruded from the still, black waters on all sides. Storm could see they perched on a raised avenue, part of an ancient city that lay drowned in the mire around them.

As Storm glanced behind her, several glistening black tentacles rose lazily from the inky waters and rolled in languid curls across the stone span. After these questing limbs bobbed and swayed-almost as if they sniffed the air-they slid slowly into the water again.

The bard pointed to a trail of ripples, which seemed to mark the path of something large moving toward them just under the water's surface. Elminster nodded, smiled, and waved a hand casually-and they were somewhere else again. This time, the horses were on an old, sunken road in the heart of a dark forest.

Storm sighed. "The Harpers wanted me to protect you?" she began to ask. But when she spied the dull glint of many eyes watching them from dim, shadowed places under the trees, Storm reached for her sword.

Elminster grunted and pitched himself heavily from his saddle. Then he reached up and laid gentle fingers on the wrist of her sword-arm. "Nay," he said softly, "Tis more likely, far, they wanted ye to protect others from me."

Storm rolled her eyes. Smoothly she swung herself down from her saddle. "I shouldn't be here," she said. "Key or no key. This hopping from place to place, world to world, is neither safe nor wise."

Elminster grinned. "And coming to the magefair with me was? I've taken us this way home, jumping so often, to give the slip to any mages who might have followed us. Few have the breadth of mind to s.h.i.+ft from one world to another as often as we have." The Old Mage patted her arm. "Thanks for thy patience, la.s.s. 'Tis not long now before we'll be at ease, and ye can chat with a good friend."

As Elminster led the way on foot down an uneven path through the trees, bright morning dawned upon the old, unfamiliar forest. The rosy light seemed to make the Old Mage recall something. He turned and gestured behind them. Storm looked back in time to see their horses vanish. She looked at Elminster. He answered her wordless question only with a merry grin and headed back down the path again.

Holding her tongue, Storm followed. And she drew her sword, despite the Old Mage's words; knowing Elminster, this 'friend' could be a blue dragon-or worse.

The path led between two old, moss-covered stones. As they drew near, Elminster reached back and took Storm's hand. They stepped between the stones together, and the bard felt an odd, tingling chill.

They were somewhere else again. Somewhere familiar. Storm knew almost at once that she was in Shadowdale.

Elminster let go of her hand and strode away, reaching into his robes for his pipe. Storm stood staring after him for a moment. Then, in two quick strides, she caught up to him. Setting a firm hand on his shoulder, the bard spun Elminster around.

"Not a step farther," she warned. "Not until you tell me just what's going on. Where are our horses? Why'd we have to ride across half of Faerun for the key, anyway? Can't this Duara teleport? And wh-"

Elminster laid a finger over her mouth and said, "The need for haste is past. I doubt anyone could have followed us through all the places I took us-not yet. Our mounts have preceded us to the Twisted Tower's stables. Come to my home. There ye'll meet a friend to us both: Lhaeo."

The Old Mage lit his pipe and said not a word more until they were strolling up the flagstone path to the door of his ramshackle stone tower. It opened at his approach, and he turned and said, "Put away thy blade, Storm, and be welcome."

As they went in, his scribe Lhaeo called from the kitchen, 'Tea shortly, Old One!"

"For Storm, too," Elminster said softly. By some trick of magic, Lhaeo heard his master and called out, "Welcome, Lady Bard!"

"h.e.l.lo, Lhaeo," Storm replied, looking at the Old Mage with amus.e.m.e.nt. Elminster was calmly shoving piles of papers onto the floor, emptying a chair for her to sit in. Dust curled up in thick tendrils. Muttering, he gestured, and it was gone.

"A mite dark in here for me to see beautiful lady guests," the Old Mage murmured, then reached out to touch a bra.s.s brazier. He made a popping sound, and flames flared up, casting a warm, dancing glow on the chair.

Elminster gestured with courtly grace, indicating that Storm should sit down. The bard stared at the brazier in puzzlement. "How does it burn, without any fuel?"

"Magic. Of course." Elminster turned away, raising yet another dust cloud on his foray through more piles of parchment "Of course." Storm reached out and tapped his shoulder.

"Elminster," she said coldly, "talk." Her tone held the sudden ring of steel.

The Old Mage seated himself calmly on thin air, puffed on his pipe, and grinned at her through the rising smoke. "Ye deserve to know, la.s.s. Right, then: Duara was briefly an apprentice of mine. She dwells in Telflamm, these days, and joined the Harpers a summer back." He puffed his pipe, and a blue-green smoke ring rose slowly up into the low-ceilinged gloom overhead. "She can't use a teleport spell because she hasn't the power yet. Like all young, overeager mages, she took to adventuring to gain magic quickly-and unlike most magelings, came across a dragon h.o.a.rd."

Another smoke ring rose up from the pipe. The Old Mage watched its drifting journey, nodded approvingly, and went on. "Er, the h.o.a.rd had a dragon attached to it, of course, but that's another tale. Among the baubles, she found my key, so she sent word to me by caravan-letter that she had it and would bring it to the magefair if I was interested."

"Who are your mysterious foes, then? How did you lose the key?" Storm asked. "And why was Duara so dim as to send open word to you?"

Elminster shrugged. "She'd no idea anyone save me would be interested in the key-or even know what her letter was about. When I got her note, I used magic to fars-peak with her, telling her I'd be coming to the fair. She told me that since sending the letter, she'd been attacked several times, twice found her tower ransacked, and even been threatened one night in her bedchamber by a mysterious whispering voice demanding the key."

Storm rolled her eyes. "So what is this key?"

"The key to this closet, of course," Elminster said calmly, reaching out a long arm into the dusty gloom behind him. The key gleamed in his hand as it slipped through a slyly smiling dragon head carved into the wall. Lines appeared in the stone around the small carving, outlining a door. It began to swing open by itself.

Elminster pulled the key out and waved it at her. "This was stolen from me by an unscrupulous man, long ago, who was-very briefly, mind ye-my apprentice. He was an ambitious Calis.h.i.+te, I recall, named Raerlin. I suppose he ended up in the jaws of Duara's dragon."

"Well, what do you keep in there, that mages chase after the key?" Storm asked, looking at the closet's dusty door.

"Old spellbooks, picked up over the years while wandering the world," Elminster replied as the door swung wide. Storm saw an untidy pile of thick, moldering tomes.

Eerie green and white light flashed suddenly from behind her. As it lit up the Old Mage's face, Storm saw his look of surprise and whirled around, upsetting her chair.

The eerie light came from a flickering oval of flame. It hung upright in the air, in the middle of the tiny, cramped room. Its presence defied the mighty magics that guarded Elminster's tower, magics, Storm knew, that kept the place safe from the archmages of the evil Zhentarim, the Red Wizards of Thay, and worse. No one should have been able to open a gate into the tower.

But the oval of flame was, Storm decided, most certainly a gate. When the bard looked through the flickering magical doorway, she saw a long, stone-lined hall, stretching away into darkness. And something was moving in the gloomy pa.s.sageway...

Elminster strode forward, frowning, hands weaving spells out of the air. "Impossible," he murmured.

A shadowy figure was walking slowly toward them, out of the darkness of that phantom hallway. The creature was tall and very thin. Its eyes were two cold, glittering points of light set in dark pits. As it came nearer, Storm could see that the robes it wore hung in tatters, eaten away by rot.

The bard's heart sank. This must be a lich, a wizard whose magic was so powerful that he lived on, beyond death. Few could fight a lich and hope to survive, few even among the ranks of the great archmages of Faerun.

The lich came still nearer, and Storm met its fell gaze, staring into the cold, flickering lights of its eyes. They danced in the empty sockets of its skeletal face, measuring her, and then turned from her contemptuously to Elminster.

"Death has come for you at last, Old Mage," the lich whispered, its hissing voice surprisingly loud. It was still far down the hallway.

"D'ye know how often I've heard those words? Every murderous fool in Faerun tries them on me at least once." Elminster raised an eyebrow. "Or in thy case, Raerlin, twice." With one hand he traced a glowing sign in the air.

The lich gave him a ghastly, gap-toothed smile and kept coming. Elminster's other eyebrow went up. His hands moved swiftly in several intricate gestures.

A barrier of s.h.i.+mmering radiance sprang into being across the mouth of the portal. Raerlin's hands moved in response, and the barrier burst into tiny motes of light that scattered like dancing sparks from a campfire, then winked out.

The lich's fleshless skull managed, somehow, to sneer. "You thought yourself very clever, duping my two servants at the magefair, Elminster," came that hissing whisper again, "but I am not so easily fooled or defeated."

The skull seemed to smile. "I was at the fair, too. Your blindness spell failed against me, of course, and you did not even see through my spell-disguise. Are such simple sorceries beyond your understanding now?"

From the kitchen, muted by its stout, closed door, came the sudden rising, incongruous shriek of Lhaeo's kettle coming to a boil.

Elminster's hands were moving again. Storm saw lines of crackling power form between his fingers before he cast forth a bolt at the lich. As the energy flashed away from his hands, it lit up his face in tints of growing worry.

The lich laughed hollowly as Elminster's bolt crackled around its desiccated form. Tiny lightnings spat and leaped around its body, but seemed unable to do any harm. The lich raised a bony hand and cast a spell of its own.

Storm looked back at Elminster in alarm-and saw one of the books in the open closet behind the Old Mage glow suddenly with the same green and white radiance as the flames of the lich's gate. And when she glared at the lich, its eyes glinted at her in triumph. Ghostly gray tendrils of force were moving from the undead mage, toward them both. Raerlin was very close now, only paces away from entering the room.

"Flee, Storm!" Elminster snapped. "I cannot protect thee in what will follow!" His hands were moving in another spell.

Storm shook her head, but stepped back out of the way. s.h.i.+mmering light burst from the Old Mage's fingers, lancing out to encircle and destroy each reaching tendril in crackling fury. Yet the lich merely shrugged, and its bony fingertips wove another silent spell. The book in the open closet glowed again.

Storm saw a sheen of sweat on Elminster's forehead as his hand darted to his robes and drew forth some small talisman. Then the talisman was gone, vanished right from the Old Mage's hand. As if in reply, a red-glowing band of energy shot out from the lich's shoulders as it stepped over a toppled chair into Elminster's study. The ghostly magical arm reached menacingly forward.

A s.h.i.+eld of s.h.i.+mmering, silver-blue force suddenly hung in the air in front of the Old Mage, guarding him. The red arm swung easily, almost lazily around it, reaching for, not Elminster, but the closet behind him.

The lich was reaching for the book, Storm realized, then lashed out at it. There was a sudden hissing shriek of horror from the portal, and the red glow rose around her.

The lich's spell-arm clawed at her, trying to hold her back. Leather was torn away, and Storm felt sudden, searing pain across her breast. Thin, dark ribbons of her own blood curled past her eyes, borne upon the energy of the lich's sorcerous arm as it enveloped her.

The Bard of Shadowdale set her teeth and struck backhanded with her magical blade, trying to free herself from the crimson band of force. There was a sudden flash and a roar. Sparks snapped and flew. The riven shards of her blade glinted brightly before Storm's eyes as she was flung back into a stack of dusty tomes. Blood ran into her eyes, and her breast felt like it was on fire.

Dimly Storm heard Elminster groan. Blinking furiously to clear her sight, she struggled to her feet. The Old Mage was crumpled to the floor, a thin beam of light from one out-flung hand reaching toward her. Behind him, the lich stood triumphant, outlined in a flaming crimson aura. Hands on hips, it laughed hollowly.

The light of Elminster's spell touched Storm, and she felt warm, fresh strength flowing into her. Her fingertips tingled, and the blood was suddenly gone from her eyes and brow.

The lich gestured sharply, and the red cloud around it became a forest of tendrils, overwhelming the darkening spell-s.h.i.+eld over the Old Mage. As Storm watched, the s.h.i.+eld crumbled and was gone-and the crimson force swirled around Elminster. He gestured weakly, then fell onto his face and lay still.

The blue-white energy of the Old Mage's last enchantment was drawn up into the red cloud. The mystic aura blazed brighter as the lich stepped over the Old Mage's body and strode toward the bard. Raerlin was draining Elminster's magic to power his own dark spells!

Another crimson arm lashed out from that cloud, smas.h.i.+ng the bard aside with casual, brutal force. Storm was flung into another pile of books. She saw the red arm reaching in a leisurely manner for the tome inside the hidden room.

Storm got up from the tumbled heap of books as quickly as she could, panting, the smell of her own singed hair strong in her nostrils. Blood still trickle down her chest, and she still held a blackened, twisted sword-hilt in her hand. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she flung the ruined blade at the lich and dove for the tome for which the creature had risked so much. Redness swirled around her, but the book was clenched tightly in her fingers.

Raerlin's voice rose into a hollow, fearful shriek as Storm clutched the book to her b.l.o.o.d.y chest. "Myrkul take you, wench!" the lich cried. "You'll ruin it!"

And at last Storm was sure of her course.

She tore at the pages with trembling fingers and thrust the crumpled sc.r.a.ps into the flames of Elminster's magical brazier. The fire flared, and the bard held the parchment in the rising flames, heedless of the searing pain in her hand.

Raerlin's magic struck. Red claws tugged and tore at her. Storm snarled and fought to hold her position, one arm crooked around the brazier. Flames licked greedily at the crumpled pages she held.

Storm felt hair being hauled out of her scalp, yanking her head back. Tears blinded her, and something-her own hair!-tightened around her throat, driven by the lich's magic. The Bard of Shadowdale set her teeth to hold back a scream as she hauled the book up, wrestling against the lich's dark sorcery with all the strength in her arms. And she thrust the tome into the brazier.

There was a hungry roar, and Storm was hurled away. She had a confused glimpse of flying bones and the bra.s.s brazier tumbling end over end, away from a rolling, motionless ball of bright flame. Then she crashed again into Elminster's chair with bruising force. Hair blinded her for a moment. Impatiently Storm raked it aside and stared at the ball of fire.

It hung a few feet above the floor of the study, roiling and crackling. At its heart, the blackening, still-glowing book was wreathed in many-colored flames. As she watched, the tome crumbled to ashes and was gone. Off to Storm's left, there was a hissing sound.

She turned time to see the lich's skull crumble to pieces. The red glow of Raerlin's magic flickered and faded away to nothing. In a moment, the lich was only so much eddying dust.

In the sudden silence, Storm closed weary eyes, wondering when her burned hands would stop trembling.

From somewhere to her right came a loud cough. The bard blinked her eyes open and tried to rise. Elminster was shaking his head as he got slowly up off the floor, patting at smoldering patches on his robes.

"I must not forget, la.s.s," Elminster said with dignity, "to thank ye properly, at some future time, for once again saving my life."

Storm sputtered in sudden mirth, despite her pain. A moment later, they were laughing in each other's arms, eyes s.h.i.+ning. As they shook together in a tight embrace, a door opened, spilling kitchen sounds into the devastated study. The sudden clatter of crockery was followed by Lhaeo's cheerful voice saying, 'Tea's ready! You were making quite a racket in-" He sobered suddenly and blinked at the two singed and wounded friends. "Wh-what happened?"

Elminster pushed Storm away and waved his hands with incredible agility for one so old. An instant later, Storm found herself on her chair again, wearing a splendid gown. The raw pain in her chest and hands was gone. Across a round table set for tea, Elminster sat facing her, clad in splendid silken robes embroidered with dragons. He was smiling gently, his lit pipe ready in his hand.

"Nothing," the Old Mage said airily, "more than a visit between old friends."

As the tea-tray descended, Elminster winked at the bard. Storm shook her head, smiling helplessly.

One Last Drink

Christie Golden

First Lieutenant Rhynn Oriandis sat astride her white mount, guarding the main entrance gate to the town of Mistledale As always, tonight the gate stood cheerfully open. The stone wall that encircled the two dozen or so buildings was breachable if a trespa.s.ser was determined, but sleepy Mistledale would hardly be worth the effort There was only one major street, which wound haphazardly through the town.