but it died away to nothing.

The corridor was empty.

"Now we'll get out of here," Caramon said with satisfaction. He tucked the rod and the fur into a pouch he

wore at his belt. "The door is just ahead."

"How-how did you do that?" Raistlin gasped, sagging against the wall.

Caramon stopped, alarmed by his brother's wild, frenzied stare.

"Do what, Raist?"

"The magic!" Rais tlin cried in fury. "The magic!"

"Oh, that." Caramon shrugged, gave a shy, deprecating smile. "I've always been able to." He grew solemn,

stern. "Most of the time I don't need the magic, what with my sword and all, but you're hurt really bad, and I

didn't want to take the time fighting that lich. Don't worry about it, Raist. Magic can still be your little specialty.

Like I said, most of the time I don't need it."

"This is not possible," Raistlin said to himself, struggling to think clearly "Caramon could not have acquired

in moments what it took me years of study to attain. This doesn't make sense! Something's not right.... Think,

damn it! Think!"

It wasn't the physical pain that clouded his mind. It was the old inner pain clawing at him, tearing at him with

poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Caramon, everyone's friend.

Not like Raistlin-the runt, the Sly One.

"All I ever had was my magic," Raistlin said, speaking clearly, thinking clearly for the first time in his life.

"And now you have that, too."

Using the wall for support, Raistlin raised both his hands, put his thumbs together. He began speaking the

words, the words that would summon the magic.

"Raist!" Caramon started to back away. "Raist, what are you doing? C'mon! You need me! I'll take care of

you-just like always. Raist! I'm your brother!"

"I have no brother!"

Beneath the layer of cold, hard rock, jealousy bubbled and seethed. Tremors split the rock. Jealousy, red and

molten, coursed through Raistlin's body and flamed out of his hands. The fire flared, billowed, and engulfed

Caramon.

Caramon screamed, tried to beat out the flames, but there was no escaping the magic. His body withered,

dwindled in the fire, became the body of a wizened old man. An old man wearing black robes, whose hair and

beard were trailing wisps of fire.

Fistandantilus, his hand outstretched, walked toward Raistlin.

"If your armor is dross," said the old man softly. "I will find the crack."

Raistlin could not move, could not defend himself. The magic had sapped the last of his strength.

Fistandantilus stood before Raistlin. The old man's black robes were tattered shreds of night, his flesh was

rotting and decayed, the bones were visible through the skin. His nails were long and pointed, as long as those of

a corpse, his eyes gleamed with the radiant heat that had been in Raistlin's soul, the warmth that had brought the

dead to life. A bloodstone hung from a pendant around the fleshless neck.

The old man's hand touched Raistlin's breast, caressed his flesh, teasing and tormenting. Fistandantilus

plunged his hand into Raistlin's chest and seized hold of his heart.

The dying soldier clasps his hands around the haft of the spear that has torn through his body. Raistlin seized

hold of the old man's wrist, clamped his fingers around it in a grip that

death would not have relaxed.

Caught, trapped, Fistandantilus fought to break Raistlin's grip, but he could not free himself and retain his

hold on the young man's heart.

The white light of Solinari, the red light of Lunitari, and the black, empty light of Nuitari -light that Raistlin

could now see-merged in his fainting vision, stared down at him, an unwinking eye.

"You may take my life," Raistlin said, keeping fast hold of the old man's wrist, as Fistandantilus kept hold

of young man's heart. "But you will serve me in return."

The eye winked, and blinked out.