only the razor-edged pain of anticipation.

The elves had halted their assault on the cellar doors; they had figured out that magic held them. He allowed

himself the hope that perhaps they had gone. The next moment he laughed at himself for his foolishness. This was

his Test. He would be required to prove his ability to use magic in battle.

Now! came a voice in Raistlin's head.

Fistandantilus had disappeared. The physical form the old man had taken had been illusory, conjured up for

Raistlin's benefit. Now that the form was no longer required, the old man had abandoned it.

The cellar doors swung violently open, falling with a resounding boom on the stone-flagoned floor.

Raistlin trusted that the elves would be caught off guard by the sudden opening of the door. He planned to use

these few moments of confusion to launch his own attack.

To his dismay, he discovered that the dark elves had been prepared for just such an occurrence. They were

waiting for him.

An elven voice spoke the language of magic. Light blazed, a globe of fire illuminated Liam's face. The instant the

door flew open, the flaming ball, trailing sparks like the blazing tail of a comet, hurtled through the air.

Raistlin was not prepared for this attack; he had not imagined the dark elves would react so quickly. There was no

escape. The flaming ball would fill the room with fiery death. Instinctively he flung his left arm up to protect his face,

knowing all the while there could be no protection.

The fireball burst on him, over him, around him. It burst harmlessly, its effects dissipated, showering him with

sparks and globs of flame that struck his hands and his astonished face and then vanished in a sizzle, as if they were

falling into standing water.

"Your spell! Quickly!" came the command.

Raistlin had already recovered from his startlement and his fear; the spell came immediately to his lips. His hand

performed the motions, tracing the symbol of a sun in the air. Sparks from the fireball still glimmered on the cellar

floor at his feet. He noticed, as he moved his hand, that his skin had a golden cast to it, but he did not let himself do

more than remark upon this as a curiosity. He dared not lose his concentration.

Symbol drawn, he spoke the words of magic. The symbol flashed brightly in the air; he had spoken the words

correctly, accurately. From the fingers of his outstretched right hand streaked five small flaming projectiles, a puny

response to the deadly weapons of the powerful archmages.

Raistlin was not surprised to hear the dark elves laughing at him. He might as well have been tossing gnome

crackers at them.

He waited, holding his breath, praying that the old man kept his promise, praying to the gods of magic to see to it

that the old man kept his promise. Raistlin had the satisfaction, the deep abiding satisfaction, of hearing elven

laughter sucked away by indrawn breaths of astonishment and alarm.

The five streaks of flame were now ten, now twenty. No longer smidgens of flame, they were crackling, sparkling

white -hot stars, stars shooting up the stairs, shooting with unerring accuracy for Raistlin's three foes.

Now it was the dark elves who had no escape, no defensive spells powerful enough to protect them. The deadly

stars struck with a concussive force that knocked Raistlin off his feet, and he was standing some distance from the

center of the blast. He felt the heat of the flames all the way down the cellar steps. He smelled burning flesh. There

were no screams. There had not been time for screams.

Raistlin picked himself up. He wiped dirt from his hands, noting once more the peculiar golden color of his skin.

The realization came to him that this golden patina had protected him from the fireball. It was like a knight's armor,

only much more effective than armor; a plate and chain-mail clad knight would have fried to death if that fiery ball

had struck him,

whereas Raistlin had suffered no ill effects.

"And if that is true," he said to himself, "if this is armor or a shield of some magical type, then it could aid me

considerably in the future."

The storage room was ablaze. Raistlin waited until the worst of the flames had died down, taking his time,

recovering his strength, bringing his next spell to mind. Holding the sleeve of his robe over his nose against the

stench of charred elf, Raistlin mounted the stairs, prepared to face his next foe.

Two bodies lay at the top of the cellar stairs, black lumps burned beyond recognition. A third body was not visible,