Liam had a solution to that problem. Giving gracious permission for Raistlin to enter the cellar first, the elf posted

himself at the top of the stairs, armed with a bow and a nocked arrow.

"What is this?" Raistlin demanded, feigning ignorance.

"In order to protect you," Liam replied smoothly. "I am an excellent shot. And although I do not speak the

language of magic, I understand a little of it. I would be able to tell, for example, if someone in that cellar were to try

casting a spell that would make him disappear. I doubt if he would have time to complete the spell before my arrow

struck him through the heart. But do not hesitate to call out if you find yourself in danger."

"I feel safe in your hands," Raistlin said, bowing to hide his sardonic smile.

Lifting the skirts of his robes-gray-colored robes, now that he looked at them-holding the candle high, he

cautiously descended the steps that led into the darkness.

The staircase was a long one, longer than Raistlin had anticipated, leading deep under the ground. The stairs were

carved of stone, a stone wall extended along on the right side, the stairs were open on his left. He shifted the candle

as he walked, sending its pale light into as many portions of the cellar as it would reach, trying to catch a glimpse of

something-anything. He could make out nothing. He continued his descent.

At last his foot touched dirt floor. He looked back up the stairs to see the elves small and diminished, a far

distance away, almost as if they stood upon another plane of existence. He

could hear their voices faintly; they were perturbed that he had passed beyond their sight. They decided that they

would go down to find him.

Flashing the candle about, Raistlin tried to see as much as he could before the elves arrived. The candle's feeble

light did not extend far. Expecting to hear the elves' soft footfalls, Raistlin was startled to hear a deep booming

sound instead. A blast of air extinguished his candle, leaving him trapped in a darkness so deep and impenetrable

that it might have been the darkness of Chaos, out of which the world was formed.

"Liam! Micah!" Raistlin called, and was alarmed when the names echoed back to him.

Nothing more than echoes. The elves did not answer.

Trying his best to hear over the rush of blood to his head, Raistlin distinguished faint sounds, as of someone

pounding on a door. He gathered by this and the fact that the elves hadn't responded to his call that the trapdoor

had inexplicably slammed shut, leaving him on one side and the elves on the other.

Raistlin's first panicked impulse was to use his magic for light. He stopped himself before casting the spell. He

would not act on impulse. He would think the situation through calmly, as calmly as possible. He decided that it

was best to remain in the darkness. Light would reveal to him whatever was down here. But light would also reveal

him to whatever was down here.

Standing in the dark, he pondered the situation. The first notion that came to him was that the elves had lured

him down here to leave him to his death. He abandoned this quickly. The elves had no reason to kill him. They had

every reason to want to get into the cellar. They hadn't lied about the spellbooks, that much he had ascertained

from their private conversations. The continued pounding on the trapdoor reassured him. The elves wanted to open

that door as much as he wanted it open.

This decided, he took the precaution of moving, as quietly as he could, to put the stone wall at his back. His

sight gone, he relied on his other senses, and almost immediately, now that he was calmer, he could hear

breathing. Someone else's breathing. He was not alone down here.

It was not the breathing of a fearsome guardian, not the deep, harsh snufflings of an ogre, not the husky,

whistling breaths of a hobgoblin. This breathing was thin and raspy, with a slight rattle. Raistlin had heard

breathing like this before -in the rooms of the sick, the elderly.

Although somewhat reassuring, the sound shattered his

calculations as to what he might find down in the cellar. The first wild thought was that he was about to meet the

owner of the books, Lemuel's father. Perhaps the old gentleman had chosen to retire to the cellar, to spend his life

with his precious books. Either that or Lemuel had locked his father in the cellar, a feat which, considering the father

was a respected archmagus, was highly unlikely.

Raistlin stood in the dark, his fear diminishing by the moment as nothing untoward happened to him, his

curiosity increasing. The breathing continued, uneven, fractured, with a gasp now and again. Raistlin could hear no

other sounds in the cellar, no jingle of chain mail, creak of leather, rattle of sword. Above, the elves were hard at