allow him to remove the wizardess's personal effects before the mob set fire to her house.

Antimodes had brought the scrolls to his friend, Par-Salian. Antimodes had kept for

himself an amulet of summoning undead spirits. He could not and would not have used

the amulet-the undead were a smelly, disgusting lot, as far as he was concerned. But he

intended to offer it in trade to some of his black-robed brethren in the tower.

Despite the fact that Par-Salian was of the White Robes, completely dedicated to the

god Solinari, he was able to read and understand the scrolls of the evil wizardess, though

at some pain to himself. He was one of the very few wizards ever who had the power to

cross allegiances. He would never make use of them, but he could take note of the words

used to perform the spell, the effects of the spell, the components needed to cast it, the

spell's duration, and any other interesting information he came across. His research would

be recorded in the annals of theTowerofWayreth. The scrolls themselves would then be

deposited in the tower's library, with an assigned valuation.

"A terrible way to die," said Par-Salian, pouring his guest a glass of elven wine, nicely

chilled and sweet, with just a hint of woodbine, which reminded the drinker of green

forests and sunlit glens. "Did you know her?"

"Esmilla? No." Antimodes shook his head. "And you could say that she asked for it.

The mundane will overlook the snatching of a child or two, but start passing bad coins

and they-"

"Oh, come now, my dear Antimodes!" Par-Salian looked shocked. He was not noted

for his sense of humor. "You're joking, I think."

"Well, perhaps I am." Antimodes grinned and sipped his wine.

"Yet I see what you mean." Par-Salian struck the arm of his high-backed wooden chair

in impatience. "Why do these fool mages insist on wasting their skills and talents in order

to produce a few poor quality coins, which every shopkeeper between here and the

minotaur islands can tell are magicked? It just

doesn't make any sense to me."

Antimodes agreed. "Considering the effort one expends on producing only two or three

steel coins, a mage could do manual labor for less effort and make far more. If our late

sister had continued to sell her services to rid the town of rats, as she had been doing for

years, she would no doubt have been left in peace. As it was, the magically created coins

threw everyone into a panic. First, most people believed that they were cursed and were

terrified to touch them. Those who didn't think the money was cursed feared that she was

about to start minting coins at a rate to rival the Lord of Palanthas and would soon own

the town and everything in it."

"It is precisely for this reason that we have established rules about the reproduction of

coins of the realm," said Par-Salian. "Every young mage tries it once. I did and I'm sure

you probably did yourself."

Antimodes nodded and shrugged.

"But most of us learn that it simply isn't worth the time and effort, not to mention the

serious impact we could have on Ansalon's various economies. This woman was certainly

old enough to know better. What was she thinking?"

"Who knows? Gone a bit daft, maybe. Or just greedy. She angered her god, however.

Nuitari abandoned her to her fate. Whatever defensive spells she tried to cast fizzled."

"He is not one to permit the frivolous use of his gifts," said Par-Salian in stern and

solemn tones.

Antimodes shifted his chair a bit nearer the fire that crackled on the hearth. He always

felt extremely close to the gods of magic when visiting theTowerofHighSorcery-close

to all the gods of magic, the light, thegray,and the dark. This closeness was

uncomfortable, as if someone was always breathing down the back of his neck, and was