The old man laughed, a chuckle that was like water gurgling beneath the ice. "I never tire of that reaction! It

happens every time. One of the few pleasures I have left. Yes, you are taking the Test, young magus. You are

right in the middle of it. And, no, I am not part of it. Or rather I am, but not an officially sanctioned part."

"You mentioned bait. 'I came to you,' that was what you said." Raistlin kept fast hold of his courage, clenching

his hands so that no shiver or tremor should betray his fear.

The old man nodded. "By your own choices and decisions, yes, you came to me."

"I don't understand," Raistlin said.

The old man helpfully explained. "Some mages would have heeded the tinker's warning, never entered such a

disreputable inn. Others, if they had entered, would have refused to have anything to do with dark elves. You

went to the inn. You spoke to the elves. You fell in with their dishonest scheme quite readily." The old man again

raised the knotted finger. "Even though you considered the man you were about to ro b a friend."

"What you say is true." Raistlin saw no point in denying it. Nor was he particularly ashamed of his actions. In

his mind, any mage, with the possible exception of the most bleached White Robe, would have done the same. "I

wanted to save the spellbooks. I would have returned them to the conclave."

He was silent a moment, then said, "There are no spellbooks, are there?"

"No," replied the old man, "there is only me." "And who are you?" Raistlin asked.

"My name is not important. Not yet."

"Well, then, what do you want of me?"

The old man made a deprecating gesture with the gnarled and knotted hand. "A little favor, nothing more."

Now it was Raistlin who smiled, and his smile was bitter. "Excuse me, sir, but you must be aware that since I

am taking

the Test, I am of very low ranking. You appear to be __ or have been-a wizard of immense skill and power. I

have nothing that you could possibly want."

"Ah, but you do!" The old man's eyes gleamed with a hungry,devouring light, a flame that made the candle's

flame dim and feeble by contrast. "You live!"

"For the time being," Raistlin said dryly. "Perhaps not much longer. The dark elves will not believe me when I

tell them there are no ancient spellbooks down here. They will think that I have magically spirited them away for

my own use." He glanced around. "I don't suppose there is any way to escape from this cellar."

"There is a way-my way," said the old man. "My way is the only way. You are quite right, the dark elves will

kill you. They're not thieves as they pretend, you know. They are highranking wizards. Their magic is

exceptionally powerful."

Raistlin should have recognized that at once.

"Not giving up, are you?" the old man asked with a sneer.

"I am not." Raistlin lifted his head, gazed steadily at the old man. "I was thinking."

"Think away, young magus. You're going to have to think hard to overcome three-to-one odds. Make that

twelve-to-one, since each dark elf is four times as powerful as yourself."

"This is the Test," Raistlin said. "It is all illusion. Admittedly some magi die taking the Test, but that is

through their own failure or inadvertence. I have done nothing wrong. Why should the conclave kill me?"

"You have talked to me," the old man said softly. "They are aware of that, and that may well prove your

downfall."

"Who are you, then," Raistlin asked impatiently, "that they fear you so?"

"My name is Fistandantilus. Perhaps you've heard of me." "Yes," said Raistlin.

Long ago, in the turbulent and desperate years following the Cataclysm, an army of hill dwarves and humans

laid siege to Thorbardin, the great underground city of the mountain dwarves. Leading this army, instrumental in

its formation, intending to use the army to achieve his own driving ambition, was a wizard of the Black Robes, a

wizard of immense power, a renegade wizard openly defying the conclave. His name was Fistandantilus.

He built a magical fortress known as Zhaman and from there launched his attack against the dwarven

stronghold.

Fistandantilus fought the dwarves with his magic, his armies fought with ax and sword. Many thousands died on the

plains or in the mountain passes, but the wizard's army faltered. And the dwarves of Thorbardin claimed victory.