By Raistlin's own argument, it was possible that a black-robed wizardess could practice evil magic in disguise

and still be condoned by the conclave, with one important exception: The conclave would most certainly frown

upon the use of magic to promote the worship of a false god. Nuitari, god of the dark moon and darker magicks,

was known to be a jealous god, one who demanded absolute loyalty from those who sought his favor. Raistlin

could not imagine Nuitari taking kindly to Belzor under any circumstances.

In addition, Judith was slandering magic, threatening magic-users and endeavoring to persuade others that the

use of magic was wrong. That alone would condemn her in the eyes of the conclave. She was a renegade, of that

Raistlin had little doubt. He might run afoul of the conclave's laws in casting a spell before he was an accepted

member of their ranks, but he had a solid defense. He was exposing a fraud, punishing a renegade, and, by so doing,

restoring the repute of magic in the world.

Doubts at rest, his decision made, he started to work. He searched the library until he found a piece of lamb's

skin, rolled up with others in a basket. He stretched the skin out on the desk, holding it flat beneath books placed at

the corners. Unfortunately the vials containing lamb's blood, which he would need to use for ink, had all dried up.

Having foreseen that this might be the case, Raistlin drew out a knife he had borrowed from his brother and laid it on

the table, ready for use.

This done, he prepared to laboriously transfer the spell in the book to the lamb's skin. He would have liked to be

able to cast the spell from memory; but as complex as the spell was-far more complex than any he had yet learned-he

dared not trust himself. He had never yet performed magic in a crisis situation, and he had no idea how he would

react to the pressure. He liked to think he would not falter, but he must not fall prey to overconfidence.

He had the time and solitude necessary to his work. He could concentrate his energy and skill into the

transference of the spell to the scroll. He could study the words beforehand, make certain he knew the correct

pronunciation, for he would have to speak the words-and speak them correctly-both when he copied the spell and

when he cast it.

Settling down with the book, Raistlin pored over the spell. He spoke each letter aloud, then spoke each word

aloud, repeating them until they sounded right in his ear, as a minstrel with perfect pitch tunes his lute. He was

doing very well, and was feeling rather proud of himself, until he came to the seventh word. The seventh word in the

spell was one he had never heard spoken. It might be pronounced any of several different ways, each with its own

variant meaning. Which way was the right way?

He considered going to ask Lemuel about it, but that would mean having to tell Lemuel what he planned to do,

and Raistlin had already ruled out that option.

"I can do this," he said to himself. "The word is made up of syllables, and all I have to do is to understand what

each syllable does, then I will be able to pronounce each syllable correctly. After that, I will simply combine the

syllables to form the word."

This sounded easy, but it proved far more difficult than he had imagined. As soon as he had the first syllable

settled in his mind, the second appeared to contradict it. The third had nothing to do with the previous two. Several

times Raistlin very nearly gave up in despair. His task seemed impossible. Sweat chilled on his body. He lowered his

head to his hands.

"This is too hard. I am not ready. I must drop the whole idea, report her to the conclave, let some archmage deal

with her. I will tell Kitiara and the rest that I have failed...."

Raistlin sat up. He looked down at the word again. He knew what the spell was supposed to do. Surely, using

logical deduction as well as studying related texts, he could determine which meanings were the ones required. He

went back to work.

Two hours later, two hours spent searching through texts for every example of the use of the word or parts of the

word in a magical spell that he could find, hours spent comparing those spells with each other, looking for patterns

and relations, Raistlin sagged back in his chair. He was already weary, and the most difficult part-the actual copyingwas

before him. He felt a certain satisfaction, however. He had the spell. He knew how it was spoken, or at least he

thought he did. The real test would come later.

He rested a few moments, reveling in his victory. His energy restored, he sliced open a cut about three inches long

on his forearm, and, holding his arm over a dish he'd placed on the table for the purpose, he collected his own blood

to use for ink. When he had enough, he pressed on the wound to stop the bleeding, wrapped his arm with a