"Let go of me!" Fistandantilus raved. "Release me! That was our bargain."

"I do not have hold of you," said Raistlin.

He heard a shriek of rage and saw a rush of green; the dragon was returning to the dragon orb. Raistlin stared inside the orb, into the swirling mists.

He saw the face of an old man, a ravaged face, gnawed by time. Fleshless hands beat against the crystal walls of his prison. His yammering mouth shrieked threats.

Raistlin waited tensely to hear the voice in his head. The mouth gibbered and gabbled, and Raistlin smiled.

He heard nothing. All was silence.

He ran his hand over the smooth, cold surface of the dragon orb, and it began to shrink in size. When it was no larger than a marble, he picked it up and dropped it into the pouch. He dismantled the crude stand and slid the pieces into a pocket of his black robes.

He paused a moment before he left the tavern to look around at the empty tables and chairs. He could see the wizards sitting there, drinking elven wine and dwarven ale.

"One day I will come here," Raistlin told them. "I will sit with you and drink with you. We will toast the magic. One day, when I am the Master of Past and Present, I will travel through time. I will come back. And when I come back, I will succeed where he failed."

Raistlin drew the cowl of his black robes over his head and left the Wizard's Hat.

5th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC Raistlin woke that morning after a sound night's sleep, a sleep uninterrupted by coughing fits. He drew in a deep breath of the morning air and felt it fill his lungs. He breathed freely. His heart beat strong and vibrantly. He was hungry and ate the bread soaked in milk, which was the monks' breakfast, with relish.

He was well. He was whole. Tears of joy stung his eyes. He brushed them away and packed up his few belongings, his spell components, his spellbooks, and the Staff of Magius. He was ready to depart, but first he had an errand to run. He needed to repay his debt to Astinus, who had given him, albeit inadvertently, the key: self-knowledge. And he owed a debt to the Aesthetics, who had cared for him, fed him, and clothed him.

Raistlin sought out Bertrem, who was generally to be found hovering near Astinus's chamber, guarding his privacy or ready to dash forth at his command.

Bertrem's eyes widened at the sight of Raistlin's black robes. The Aesthetic swallowed several times. His hands fluttered nervously, but he blocked the way to Astinus's chamber.

"I don't care what you do to me. You will not harm the master!" said Bertrem bravely.

"I came only to take my leave of Astinus," Raistlin said.

Bertrem cast a fearful glance at the door. "The master is not to be disturbed."

"I think he will want to see me," said Raistlin quietly, and he advanced a step.

Bertrem stumbled back a step and bumped up against the door. "I am quite certain he would not-"

The door flew open, causing Bertrem to fall inside, nearly trampling Astinus. Bertrem ducked out of the way and flattened himself against the wall, trying in vain to become one with the marble.

"What is this banging and shouting outside my door?" Astinus demanded in acerbic tones. "I cannot work with all this commotion!"

"I am leaving Palanthus, sir," Raistlin said. "I wanted to thank you-"

"I have nothing to say to you, Raistlin Majere," said Astinus, preparing to shut the door. "Bertrem, since you are a failure at providing me with the peace and quiet I desire, you will escort this gentleman out."

Bertrem's face flushed with shame. He sidled out the door and, greatly daring, plucked at Raistlin's black sleeve. "This way-"

"Wait, sir!" Raistlin said, and he thrust his staff into the doorway to prevent Astinus from closing the door. "I ask you the question you asked me the day I arrived: What do you see when you look at me?"

"I see Raistlin Majere," Astinus replied, glowering.

"You do not see your 'old friend'?" Raistlin said.

"I don't know what you are talking about," Astinus said, and again he tried to shut the door.

Bertrem tugged harder at Raistlin's black sleeve. "You must not disturb the master-"

Raistlin ignored him and spoke to Astinus. "When I lay dying, you said to me, 'So this ends your journey, my old friend.' Your old friend, Fistandantilus, the wizard who crafted the Sphere of Time for you. Look into my eyes, sir. Look into the hourglass pupils that are my constant torment. Do you see your 'old friend'?"

"I do not," said Astinus after a moment. Then he added with a shrug, "So you won."

"I won," said Raistlin proudly. "I came to pay my debt-"

Astinus made a gesture as though brushing away gnats. "You owe me nothing."

"I always pay my debts," Raistlin said sharply. He reached into a pocket of the black velvet robes and drew out a scroll wrapped in black ribbon. "I thought perhaps you would like this. It is an account of the battle between us. For your records."

He held out the scroll. Astinus hesitated a moment; then he took the scroll. Raistlin removed the staff, and Astinus slammed shut the door.

"I know the way out," Raistlin told Bertrem.

"The master said I was to escort you," said Bertrem, and he not only walked with Raistlin to the door, but accompanied him down the marble stairs and out into the street.

"I washed the gray robes and left them folded on the bed," Raistlin said. "Thank you for the use of them."

"Of course," said Bertrem, babbling with relief at finally being rid of his strange visitor. "Any time."

He flushed, suddenly, and stammered, "That is ... I don't mean 'any time.'"

Raistlin smiled at the Aesthetic's discomfiture. He reached into his pouch and clasped his hand around the dragon orb and made ready to cast his spell. It would be the first powerful spell he had cast without hearing that whispering voice in his head. He had bragged that the power was his. He would finally know whether or not he had spoken the truth.

Gripping the Staff of Magius in one hand and the dragon orb in the other, Raistlin spoke the words of magic.

"Berjalan cepat dalam berlua tanah."

A portal opened in the midst of space and time. He looked through it and saw the black, twisted spires of a temple. Raistlin had never been to Neraka, but he had spent time in the Great Library reading descriptions of the city. He recognized the Temple of Takhisis.

Raistlin entered the portal.

He looked out of it to see poor Bertrem, his eyes bulging, frantically pawing the empty air with his hands. "Sir! Where have you gone? Sir?"

Unable to find his vanished guest, Bertrem gulped and turned and fled up the stairs to the library, running as fast as his sandaled feet would carry him.

The portal closed behind Raistlin and opened on his new life.

BOOK II.

1.

The Court of the Nightlord.5th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC *olanthe's formal title was "Wizardess to the Emperor." She was known informally as Ariakas's Witch or by other names even less flattering, though those were spoken only behind her back. No one dared say them to her face, for the "witch" was powerful.

The guards at the Red Gate saluted as she approached them. The Temple of Takhisis had six gates. The main gate was in the front. That gate, the Queen's Gate, was manned by eight dark pilgrims whose duty was to escort visitors through the temple. Five other gates were placed at various points around the temple's perimeter. Each of those gates opened into the camp of one of the five dragonarmies, which were fighting the Dark Queen's war of conquest.

Iolanthe avoided the main gate, for although she was the Emperor's mistress and under his protection, she was a wielder of magic, a worshiper of the gods of magic, and though one of those gods was the Dark Queen's son, the dark pilgrims viewed any wizard with deep suspicion and mistrust.

The dark pilgrims would have allowed her to enter the temple (not even the Nightlord, who was the head of the Holy Order of Takhisis, dared incur the wrath of the Emperor), but the clerics would have made her visit as unpleasant as possible, insulting her, demanding to know her business, and finally insisting upon sending one of the loathsome pilgrims as an escort.

By contrast, the draconians of the Red Dragonarmy, who were charged with guarding the Red Gate, fell over their clawed feet to be accommodating to the beautiful wizardess. A languishing glance from her lavender eyes, which glittered like amethysts beneath her long, black eyelashes; a gentle brush of her slender fingers on the sivak's scaly arm; a charming smile from carnelian lips; and the sivak commander was only too happy to permit Iolanthe to enter the temple.

"You are here late, Mistress Iolanthe," said the sivak. "It is well after Dark Watch. Not a good time to walk the halls of the temple alone. Would you like me to accompany you?"

"Thank you, Commander. I would appreciate the company," Iolanthe replied, and she fell into step beside him. He was new and she tried to recall his name. "Commander Slith, isn't it?"

"Yes, madam," said the sivak with a grin and a gallant flick of his wings.

Iolanthe found the Temple of Takhisis to be an unnerving place even during the daylight hours. Not that much daylight ever managed to beat its way inside, but at least the knowledge that the sun was shining somewhere made her feel better. Iolanthe had sometimes been forced to walk the halls of the temple after dark, and she had not liked it. The dark pilgrims, those clerics who were dedicated to the worship of the Dark Queen, performed their unhallowed rites in the hours of darkness. Iolanthe's own hands were far from clean, but at least she washed the blood of victims from her fingers; she did not drink it.

Iolanthe had another reason for wanting an armed escort. The Nightlord hated her, and he would have rejoiced to see her buried in sand up to her neck with buzzards pecking out her eyes and ants devouring her flesh. She was safe, at least for the moment. Ariakas held his strong hand over her.

At least for the moment.

Iolanthe knew quite well that he would eventually tire of her. Then his strong hand would either be clenched to a fist or, worse, wave dismissively. She did not think the time had yet come for him to want to get rid of her. Even if he did, Ariakas would not hand her over to the dark clerics. He disliked and distrusted the Nightlord as much as the Nightlord disliked and distrusted him. Ariakas was the type to simply strangle her.

"What brings you to the temple at this hour, madam?" Slith asked. "Not here for the Dark Watch service, are you?"

"Gods, no!" said Iolanthe with a shiver. "The Nightlord sent someone to fetch me."

She was wakened in the middle of the night by one of the dark pilgrims shouting outside the window of her dwelling, which was located above a mageware shop. The cleric would not risk contaminating himself by actually knocking on a wizard's door, and so he yelled from the street, waking the neighbors, who opened their windows, prepared to fling the contents of their chamber pots on whoever was making that ungodly racket. Seeing the black robes of a cleric of Takhisis and hearing him invoke the name of the Nightlord, the neighbors slammed shut their windows and probably went to hide under their beds.

The dark pilgrim did not wait to escort her. His task done, he hastened off before Iolanthe could dress and find out what was going on. She had never before been summoned to the Temple of Takhisis by the Nightlord, and she didn't like it. She had been forced to traverse the dangerous streets of Neraka after dark by herself. She had conjured a ball of bright, glowing light and held it, crackling, in the palm of her hand. It was not a difficult spell, but it was showy and would mark her as a user of magic. The outlaws who roamed the streets would know immediately that she was not an easy mark, and they would steer clear of her.

The streets had been sparsely populated; most of the troops were off fighting the Dark Queen's war. Unfortunately those soldiers who remained in Neraka were in a surly mood. Rumor had it that Takhisis's war, which had been as good as won, was not going so well after all.

A group of five human soldiers wearing the insignia of the Red Army had eyed her as she walked past the alley in which they were sharing a jug of dwarven spirits. They had called to her to come join them. When she had haughtily ignored them, two of the soldiers were inclined to take their chances and accost her. One, less drunk than the others, had recognized her as Ariakas's Witch, and after some heated discussion, they had let her alone.

The very fact that they had insulted Ariakas's mistress boded ill. In the early, glory days of the war, those soldiers would have never dared speak of Ariakas by name, much less make crude remarks about his prowess or offer to show her "what a real man" was like in bed. Iolanthe had not been in any danger from them. The soldiers would have been five greasy piles of ash in the street if they had attacked her. But she found it instructive to note the volatile mood of the troops. Dragon Highlord Kitiara would be interested to hear what she had to report. Iolanthe wondered if Kit had returned yet from Flotsam.

As Iolanthe and her draconian escort proceeded to enter the temple, Iolanthe told Commander Slith she had no idea where the Nightlord was to be found. The sivak said he would ask. Iolanthe liked the sivak. Oddly enough, she liked the draconian soldiers, whom most humans reviled as "lizardmen," due to the fact that they had been created from the eggs of the good dragons. The draconians were far more disciplined than their human counterparts. They were far more intelligent than goblins and ogres and hobgoblins. They were excellent fighters. Some of them were skilled magic-users and would have made good commanders, but most humans looked down on them and refused to serve under them.

Slith was a sivak draconian. Born from the murdered young of a silver dragon, Slith had scales that were shining silver with black tips. He had silver-gray wings, which would carry him short distances, and he was a talented magic-user. He offered to remove the magical traps that Iolanthe herself had laid upon the hall; traps that emulated the various breath weapons of each of the five dragons to which each gate was dedicated. The trap she had placed on the Red Gate filled the hall with blazing fire that would immediately incinerate any being caught trespassing.

Iolanthe accepted. She could have removed the magic herself, but dispersing the spell required effort, and she wanted to reserve her strength to deal with whatever lay behind the mysterious summons.

Accompanied by the draconian, Iolanthe swept through the halls of the Dark Queen's temple, her black cloak trimmed with black bear fur sweeping majestically behind her. She was wearing sumptuous, black velvet robes-a gift for passing her Test in the Tower from her mentor and teacher, Ladonna. The robes looked plain, but if one looked closely in certain lights (and knew what to look for), one could see runes traced in the fabric's nap. The runes overlapped like chain mail with much the same effect; they would protect her from harm, either spell-based or an assassin's dagger. The clerics of Takhisis were forbidden to use bladed weapons, but they were not forbidden from hiring those who could.

A dark pilgrim told the sivak that the Nightlord was in the Court of the Inquisitor, located in the dungeon level of the temple. Iolanthe had been in the dungeons, and they were not high on her list of places in Krynn to visit. The temple itself was horrid enough.

Built partially on the physical plane and partly within the Dark Queen's realm of the Abyss, the temple was here and not there, there but not here. Unreality was real. Existence was nonexistent. One hesitated to sit in a chair for fear it wasn't a chair or that it would move to the other side of the room or simply vanish. Halls that appeared to be short went on forever. Long corridors ended way too soon. Rooms seemed to move so nothing was where it had been previously.

Ariakas maintained chambers there, as did all the Dragon Highlords. None of them liked residing in the temple and rarely set foot in their apartments. Ariakas had once said he always heard Takhisis's voice, hissing in his ear, Don't grow too comfortable. You may be powerful, but don't ever forget that I am your Queen Don't grow too comfortable. You may be powerful, but don't ever forget that I am your Queen.

It was no surprise that the Highlords preferred to sleep in the crude tents of their military camps or in a small room in the city's inns, rather than the luxurious bedrooms in the Dark Queen's temple. Ariakas had actually acquired his own mansion, the Red Mansion, in order to avoid having to entertain high-ranking guests in the temple.

Iolanthe wondered, not for the first time, how the clerics of Takhisis who resided there did not succumb to madness. Perhaps it was because they were all lunatics to begin with.

She was glad she had brought Commander Slith along, for she soon became hopelessly lost. The temple was busy at night. Iolanthe tried to shut her ears to the horrible sounds. The commander, being new to the temple himself, had to ask a dark pilgrim to escort them to the dungeon level. The pilgrim inclined her head. She did not speak and was silent and sepulchral as a wraith.

"I have been summoned by the Nightlord," Iolanthe explained.

The dark pilgrim looked Iolanthe up and down. The pilgrim pursed her lips in disapproval but at last decided to deign to escort her.

"I heard there was trouble," the woman said grimly.

She was tall and gaunt. All the dark pilgrims seemed to be either tall and gaunt or short and gaunt. Perhaps serving in the temple took away one's appetite. Iolanthe knew it certainly did hers.

"What kind of trouble?" Iolanthe asked, startled. If there was trouble in the temple, why should the Nightlord summon her? Judging from the agonized screams of the tortured, he was quite capable of dealing with trouble on his own. "Why should it involve me?"

The pilgrim appeared to feel that she had said too much already. She clamped her lips shut.

"Creepy bastards, these pilgrims. Make my scales crawl," said Slith.

"You should keep your voice down, Commander," Iolanthe said quietly. "The walls have ears."

"The walls have feet too. Have you noticed the spooky way they jump around?" said Slith. "I'll be glad to get out of this place."

Iolanthe heartily agreed.

The pilgrim led them to the Court of the Inquisitor. The pilgrim would not permit Slith to enter. He offered to wait outside for Iolanthe, but the pilgrim shook her head at even that, and he was forced to depart.

Iolanthe hated this place. She hated the dreadful sounds and awful sights and noxious smells that always filled her with a nameless terror. The dark pilgrim eyed her with a smug expression, hoping and expecting to see her give way to her fear. Iolanthe gathered up the skirt of her robes and swept past the woman and entered the Court of the Inquisitor.

The room was large and dark save for a shaft of harsh light that beamed down from some unknown source, forming a pool of light in the center. At the far end, the Nightlord sat on a raised, judicial-looking bench. The executioner, known as the Adjudicator, stood off to one side. Responsible for inflicting torture and performing executions, the Adjudicator was short and stocky and powerfully built. He had no neck to speak of and bulging arm muscles, which he was enormously proud of and liked to show off. Though he wore long, black robes, the same as the other clerics, he had removed the sleeves, the better to exhibit his biceps. Dark pilgrims, acting as guards, ranged around the room, keeping in the shadows.

Iolanthe entered cautiously, unable to see her way clearly, for the bright pool of light made the surrounding darkness that much darker.

The Nightlord could have prayed to his Queen and been given the power to fill the room with unholy light if he had chosen. He preferred to hold his court in the shadows. By placing the victim in the harsh light and leaving the rest of the room in darkness, he made his victim feel isolated, alone, exposed.

Iolanthe remained standing near the door more by instinct than because she would have any hope of escape if something went wrong. She bowed to the Nightlord. He was an elderly human, somewhere in his seventies; of medium height, thin and wiry. With his long, gray hair, which was always neatly combed, and his kindly and benevolent face, the Nightlord had the appearance of a benign, old gentleman.

Until you looked into his eyes.