perhaps it had been vaporized. Of course, this is all illusion, Raistlin reminded himself. Perhaps the conclave had

simply miscounted.

Emerging from the cellar, he gathered up the skirt of his robes, stepped over the body of one of the elves. He cast a

swift glance around the storage room. The table was a pile of ash, the mops and brooms were wisps of smoke. The

image of Fistandantilus hovered amidst the ruins. His illusory form was thin and translucent, almost

indistinguishable from the smoke. A good stiff puff of breath could blow him away.

Raistlin smiled.

The old man stretched out his arm. It was cloaked in black. The hand was shriveled, wasted, the fingers little

more than bare bones.

"I will take my payment now," said Fistandantilus. His hand reached for Raistlin's heart.

Raistlin took a step backward. He raised his own hand protectively, palm out. "I thank you for your assistance,

Archmagus, but I rescind my part of the bargain."

"What did you say?"

The words, sibilant, lethal, coiled around inside Raistlin's brain like a viper in a basket. The viper's head lifted;

eyes, cruel, malignant, merciless, stared at him.

Raistlin's resolve shook, his heart quailed. The old man's rage crackled around him with flames more fierce than

those of the fireball.

I killed the elves, Raistlin reminded himself, seizing hold of his fast-fleeing courage. The spell belonged to

Fistandantilus, but the magic, the power behind the spell, was my own. He is weak, drained; he is not a threat.

"Our bargain is rescinded," Raistlin repeated. "Return to the plane from which you've come and there wait for your

next victim."

"You break your promise!" Fistandantilus snarled. "What honor is this?"

"Am I a Solamnic knight, to concern myself with honor?" Raistlin asked, adding, "If it comes to that, what honor is

there in luring flies to your web, where you entangle and devour them? If I am not mistaken, your own spell protects

me from any magic you may try to cast. This time the fly escapes you."

Raistlin bowed to the shadowy image of the old man. Deliberately he turned his back, began to walk toward the

door. If he could make it to the door, escape this charnel room, this room of death, he would be safe. The way was

not far, and though part of him kept expecting to feel the touch of that dread hand, his confidence grew with each

step he took nearer the exit.

He reached the doorway.

When the old man's voice spoke, it seemed to come from a great distance away. Raistlin could barely hear it.

"You are strong and you are clever. You are protected by armor of your own making, not mine. Yet your Test is not

concluded. More struggles await you. If your armor is made of steel, true and fine, then you will survive. If your

armor is made of dross, it will crack at the first blow, and when that happens, I will slip inside and take what is

mine."

A voice could not harm him. Raistlin paid no heed to it. He continued walking, reached the door, and the voice

drifted away like the smoke in the air.

Raistlin walked through the doorway of Lemuel's storage

room and stepped into a dark corridor made of stone. At

first he was startled, taken aback. He should have been standing inside Lemuel's kitchen. Then he recalled

Lemuel's house had never truly existed except in his mind and the minds of those who had conjured it.

Light gleamed on the wall near him. A sconce in the shape of a silver hand held a globe of white light, akin to the

light of Solinari. Next to that, a hand made of brass held a globe of re d light, and beside that hand, a hand of carven

ebony held nothing-in Raistlin's eyes, at least. Those mages dedicated to Nuitari would see their way clearly.

Raistlin deduced from these lights that he was back in theTowerofWayreth, walking one of the many corridors of

that magical building. Fistandantilus had lied. Raistlin's Test was over. He had only to find his way back to the Hall

of Mages, there to receive congratulations.

A breath of air touched the back of his neck. Raistlin started to turn. Burning pain and the nerve-jarring

sensation of metal scraping against bone, his own bone, caused his body to jerk with agony.

"This is for Micah and Renet!" hissed Liam's vicious voice. Liam's arm, thin, strong, tried to encircle Raistlin's