According to the minstrels, Fistandantilus plotted one last spell, a spell of catastrophic power that would split the

mountain, lay Thorbardin open to conquest. Unfortunately the spell was too powerful. Fistandantilus could not

control it. The spell shattered the fortress of Zhaman. It collapsed in upon itself and was now known as Skullcap.

Thousands of his own army died in the blast, including the wizard who had cast it.

That is what the minstrels sang, and that is what most people believed. Raistlin had always imagined there was

more to the story than that. Fistandantilus had gained his power over hundreds of years. He was not elven, but

human. He had, so it was rumored, found a way to cheat death. He extended his life by murdering his young

apprentices, drawing out their life-forc e by means of a magical bloodstone. He had not been able to survive the

shattering effects of his own magic, however. At least, that's what the world supposed. Evidently Fistandantilus had

once again cheated death. Yet he would not do so for long.

"Fistandantilus-the greatest of all magi," Raistlin said. "The most powerful wizard who has ever lived."

"I am," said Fistandantilus.

"And you are dying," Raistlin observed.

The old man did not like this. His brows contracted, the lines of his face drew together in a dagger point of anger,

his outrage bubbled beneath the surface. But every breath was a struggle. He was expending an enormous amount of

magical energy merely to hold this form together. The fury ceased to boil, a pot under which the fire was put out.

"You speak the truth. I am dying," he muttered, frustrated, impotent. "I am nearly finished. They tell you that my

goal was to take over Thorbardin." He smiled disdainfully. "What rot! I played for far greater stakes than the

acquisition of some stinking, filthy dwarven hole in the ground. My plan was to enter the Abyss. To overthrow the

Dark Queen, remove Takhisis from her throne. I sought godhood!"

Raistlin was awed listening to this, awed and amazed. Awed, amazed, and sympathetic.

"Beneath Skullcap is ... or shall we say was, for it is gone now"-Fistandantilus paused, looked extremely cunning-

"a means of entering the Abyss, that cruel netherworld. Takhisis

was aware of me. She feared me and plotted my downfall. True, my body died in the blast, but I had already

planned my soul's retreat on another plane of existence. Takhisis could not slay me, for she could not reach me,

but she never ceases to try. I am under constant assault and have been for centuries. I have little energy left. The

life-force I carried with me is almost gone."

"And so you contrive to enter the Test and lure young mages like me into your web," said Raistlin. "I would

guess that I am not the first. What has happened to those who came before me?"

Fistandantilus shrugged. "They died. I told you. They spoke to me. The conclave fears that I will enter into the

body of a young mage, take him over and so return to the world to complete what I began. They cannot allow

that, and so each time they see to it that the threat is eliminated."

Raistlin gazed steadily at the old man, the dying old man. "I don't believe you. The mages died, but it was not

the conclave who killed them. It was you. That is how you've managed to live for so long-if you call it living."

"Call it what you will, it is preferable to the great nothingness I see reaching out for me," Fistandantilus said

with a hideous grin. "The same nothingness that is reaching out for you, young mage."

"I have little choice, it seems," Raistlin replied bitterly. "Either I die at the hands of three wizards or I am to be

sucked dry by a lich."

"It was your decision to come down here," Fistandantilus replied.

Raistlin lowered his gaze, refused to allow the old man's probing hawk eyes to gain admittance to his soul. He

stared at the wooden table and was reminded of the table in his master's laboratory, the table on which the child

Raistlin had written, so triumphantly, I, Magus. He considered the odds he faced, thought about the dark elves,

wondered at their magic, wondered if what the old man had said about them was true or if it was all lies, lies

intended to trap him. He wondered about his own ability to survive, wondered if the conclave would kill him

simply because he had spoken to Fistandantilus.

Raistlin lifted his gaze, met the hawk eyes. "I accept your offer."

Fistandantilus's thin lips parted in a smile that was like the grin of a skull. "I thought you might. Show me

your spellbook."

Raistlin stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs, waiting for the old man to release the trapdoor from the

enchantment that held it shut. He wondered that he felt no fear,