He was about to set foot into an open grave.

He blinked his eyes, and the image vanished. Before him were nothing more sinister than cellar stairs. Still,

Raistlin wavered there on the threshold. He had learned from his mother to be sensitive to dreams and portents. He

had seen the grave quite clearly and he wondered what it meant, or if it meant anything at all. Probably it was

nothing more than his cursed fancy, his overactive imagination. Yet, still, he hovered on the stairs.

Jon Farnish was down there, except it wasn't Jon Farnish. It was Caramon, standing over Raistlin's grave, gazing

down at his twin in pitying sorrow.

Raistlin shut his eyes. He was far from this place, in his clearing, seated on the log, the snow falling on him, filling

his world, leaving it cold, pure, trackless.

When he opened his eyes, Caramon was gone and so was the grave.

His step quick and firm, Raistlin walked down the stairs.

The laboratory was not as Raistlin-or any of the other

boys in the class-had imagined. Much speculation hadbeen given to this hidden chamber during clandestine

midnight sessions in the dormitory room. The master's laboratory was generally conceded to be pitch dark, kneedeep

in cobwebs and bats' eyeballs, with a captured demon imprisoned in a cage in a corner.

The elder boys would whisper to the new boys at the start of the year that the strange sounds they could hear at

night were made by the demon rattling his chains, trying to break free. From then on, whenever there was a creak or

a bump, the new boys would lie in bed and tremble in fear, believing that the demon had freed itself at last. The night

the cat, mousing among the pots and kettles, knocked an iron skillet off the wall caused a general outbreak of panic,

with the result that the master, having been wakened by the heartrending cries of terror, heard the story and banned

all conversation after the candles had been removed.

Gordo had been one of the most inventive when it came to giving life to the demon in the laboratory, effectively

frightening the wits out of the three six-year-olds currently boarding at the school. But it was now apparent that

Gordo had scared no one quite as much as himself. When he turned around and actually beheld a cage in the corner,

its bars shining in the soft white light cast by a globe suspended from the ceiling, the boy's knees gave way and he

sank to the floor.

"Drat the boy, whatever is the matter with you? Stand on your own two feet!" Master Theobald gave Gordo a prod

and a shake. "Good evening, my beauties," the master added, peering into the cage. "Here's dinner."

The wretched Gordo turned quite pale, evidently seeing himself as the next course. The master was not referring

to the boys, however, but to a hunk of bread thathe dredged up from his pocket. He deposited the bread in the cage,

where it was immediately set upon by four lively field mice.

Gordo put his hand on his stomach and said he didn't feel so good.

Under other circumstances, Raistlin might have been amused by the discomfiture of one of his most inveterate

tormentors. Tonight he was far too pent up, anxious, eager, and nervous to enjoy the whimperings of the chastened

bully.

The master made Gordo sit down on the floor with his head between his legs, and then went to a distant part of

the laboratory to putter about among papers and inkpots. Bored, Jon Farnish began teasing the mice.

Raistlin moved out of the glare of the light, moved back into the shadows, where he could see without being seen.

He made a methodical sweep of the laboratory, committing every detail to his excellent memory. Long years after he

left Master Theobald's school, Raistlin could still shut his eyes and see every item in that laboratory, and he was only

in it once.

The lab was neat, orderly, and clean. No dust, no cobwebs; even the mice were sleek and well groomed. A few

magical spellbooks, bound in noncommittal colors of gray and tan, stood upon a shelf. Six scroll cases reposed in a

bin designed to hold many more. There was an assortment of jars intended for storing spell components, but only a

few had anything in them. The stone table, on which the master was supposed to perform experiments in the arcane,

was as clean as the table on which he ate his dinner.

Raistlin felt a sadness seep into him. Here was the workshop of a man with no ambition, of a man in whom the

creative spark had flickered out, presuming that spark had ever once been kindled. Theobald came to his lab not to

create, but because he wanted to be alone, to read a book, throw crumbs to the mice in their cage, crush some

oregano leaves for the luncheon stew, perhaps draw up a scroll now and then-a scroll whose magic might or might