work. By the sounds of it, they were attacking the trapdoor with an ax.

And then a voice spoke, very near him. "You're a sly one, aren't you?" A pause, then, "Clever, too, and bold. It is

not every man who dares stand alone in the darkness. Come! Let's have a look at you."

A candle flared, revealing a plain wooden table, small and round. Two chairs stood opposite each other, the table

in between. One of the chairs was occupied. An old man sat in the chair. One glance assured Raistlin that this old

man was not Lemuel's father, the war magus who fought at the side of elves.

The old man wore black robes, against which his white hair and beard shone with an eerie aura. His face arrested

attention; like a landscape, its crevices and seams gave clues to his past. Fine lines spreading from the nose to the

brow might have represented wisdom in another. On him, the lines ran deep with cunning. Lines of intelligence

around the hawk-black eyes tightened into cynical amusement. Contempt for his fellow beings cracked the thin lips.

Ambition was in his outthrust jaw. His hooded eyes were cold and calculating and bright.

Raistlin did not stir. The old man's face was a desert of desolation, harsh and deadly and cruel. Raistlin's fear

smote him full force. Far better that he should fight an ogre or hobgoblin. The words to the simple defensive spell

that had been on Raistlin's lips slipped away in a sigh. He imagined himself casting it, could almost hear the old

man's mocking, derisive laughter. Those old hands, large-knuckled, large-boned, and grasping, were empty now, but

those hands had once wielded enormous power.

The old man understood Raistlin's thoughts as if he'd spoken them aloud. The eyes gazed in Raistlin's direction,

though

he stood shrouded in the darkness.

"Come, Sly One. You who have swallowed my bait. Come and sit and talk with an old man."

Still Raistlin did not move. The words about bait had shaken him.

"You really might as well come sit down." The old man smiled, a smile that twisted the lines in his face,

sharpening mockery into cruelty. "You're not going anywhere until I say you may go." Lifting a knotted finger,

he pointed it straight at Raistlin's heart. "You came to me. Remember that."

Raistlin considered his options: He could either remain standing in the darkness, which was obviously not

offering him much protection, since the old man seemed to see him clearly. He could make a desperate attempt to

escape back up the steps, which would probably be futile and make him look foolish, or he could grasp his

courage and assert what dignity remained, confront the old man, and find out what he meant by his strange

references to bait.

Raistlin walked forward. Emerging out of the darkness into the candle's yellow light, he took a seat opposite

the old man.

The old man studied Raistlin in the light, did not appear particularly pleased with what he saw.

"You're a weakling! A sniveling weakling! I've more strength in my body than I see in yours, and my body is

nothing but ashes and dust! What good will you do me? This is just my luck! Expecting an eagle, I am given a

sparrow hawk. Still"-the old man's mutterings were only barely audible-"there is hunger in those eyes. If the

body is frail, perhaps that is because it feeds the mind. The mind itself is desperate for nourishment, that much I

can tell. Perhaps I judged hastily. We will see. What is your name?"

Raistlin had been clever and glib with the dark elves. In the company of this daunting old man, the young one

answered meekly, "I am Raistlin Majere, Archmagus."

"Archmagus ..." The old man lingered over the word, tasting it in his mouth. "I was once, you know. The

greatest of them all. Even now they fear me. But they don't fear me enough. How old are you?"

"I have just turned twenty-one."

"Young, young to take the Test. I am surprised at Par-Salian. The man is desperate, that much is apparent.

And how do you think you've done thus far, Raistlin Majere?" The old man's eyes crinkled, his smile was the

ugliest thing Raistlin had ever seen.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what you're talking about. What do you mean, how have I done? Done-"

Raistlin caught his breath. He had the sensation of rousing from a dream, one of those dreams that are more

real than waking reality. Except that he had not dreamed this.

He was taking the Test. This was the Test. The elves, the inn, the events, the situations were all contrived. He

stared at the candle flame and thought back frantically, wondering, as the old man had asked, how he had done.