Realms of Magic

THE MAGIC THIEF

I am penning this story as a warning, so that it will not happen to another as it happened to me. My first mistake upon meeting the thief was that I pitied him. But then I have always pitied his kind: those who have longed all their lives to become wizards but-by some cruel trick of birth or accident-are incapable of touching or shaping the ethereal substance of magic. How easy it was for me, so comfortable in my wizard's mantle of power, to feel pity for such a man. Yet pity can be a weakness. And as I have learned, it is not my only one. Here then is my tale.

It was just after sunset when I received the curious invitation.

Outside the window of my study, the last day of autumn had died its golden death, and twilight wove its gray fabric around the countless spires of the Old City. I sighed and set down my quill pen next to the sheaf of parchment I had been filling with musings of magic. As it had with growing frequency of late, a peculiar restlessness had fallen upon me. Absently, I gazed about my sanctuary. Thick Sembian carpets covered the floor. A fire burned brightly in a copper brazier. The walls were lined with shelves of rich wood, laden with books, scrolls, and crystal vials. Everything about my study bespoke learning, and comfort, and quiet dignity. I decorated it myself, if I do say so.

I took a sip of wine from a silver goblet, wondering at the source of my unease. Certainly nothing could harm me here in the haven of my tower. Over the years I had bound walls, doors, and windows with protective magics and charms of warding. No one could enter the tower without my leave. I was utterly and perfectly safe.

I set down the goblet and caught a reflection of a man in its silver surface. He was tall and regal, clad in garb of pearl gray. His handsome face was unlined, and his eyes gleamed like blue ice. A long mane of golden hair tumbled about his shoulders. The man looked far younger than his true years. Yet magic can have a preservative effect on those who wield it.

This I knew, for the man was me. Morhion Gen'dahar. The greatest wizard in the city of Iriaebor.

I shook my head, for I had not chosen this title. True, years ago I had traveled on perilous adventures. I had helped defeat beings of ancient and terrible evil. Perhaps, in those days, I had known something of greatness. Yet what had I done since then? Nothing, save keep to the peaceful fastness of my tower. I was secure, and comfortable, and safe. Yes, safe. That was the word, and suddenly it was like a curse to me. I clenched a fist in anger.

After a moment I blinked. Bitter laughter escaped my lips. If this tower was a prison, I had wrought it for myself. Drawing in a resigned breath, I reached for my quill pen once more.

I halted at the magical chiming of a small bronze bell. Someone stood upon the front steps of my tower. Curious, for I had few visitors these days, I hurried from my study and descended a spiral staircase to the tower's entry chamber. Belatedly I waved a hand, dismissing the spells that bound the door-which otherwise would have given me a nasty shock-and flung open the portal.

There was no one there.

The path that led from the Street of Runes to my tower was empty in the gloaming. Oddly disappointed, I started to shut the door. I paused as something caught my eye. It was a piece of paper resting on the stone steps. I bent down to retrieve the paper. A message was written upon it in a spidery hand:

I wish to meet you. Come to the Crow's Nest at moon-rise. I believe there is much we can gain from one another.

— Zeth

I gazed at the words in mild interest. It was hardly the first such invitation I had received. Usually they came from would-be apprentices, wandering mages seeking knowledge, or-on occasion-brash young wizards wishing to challenge me to a duel of magic. I studied the paper, wondering to which category this Zeth belonged. That last line was unusual. Most wanted something of me. Yet this man seemed to believe I had something to gain from him.

Intriguing as it was, I knew I should discard the invitation. Yet I was suddenly loath to return to the safe confines of my tower. I had heard of the Crow's Nest. It was a rough tavern on the riverfront, a dangerous place. Yet was I not the greatest wizard in Iriaebor? I thought with a sharp smile. What did I have to fear? Before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed my dusk-gray cloak from a hook in the entry chamber. I shut the door of my tower, rebinding the enchantments with a wave of my hand, and headed into the deepening night.

I moved quickly down the twisting Street of Runes. The numberless towers of the Old City loomed above, plunging the winding ways below into thick shadow. Soon I came to the edge of the labyrinth and, following a steep road cut into the face of the Tor, made my way down into the sprawling New City below. Here the streets were broader and more open than in the Old City, lined by bright torches.

I was just on the edge of a shabby, less savory section of the city when I was accosted by the girl.

"Would you like to buy some magic, milord?" she asked in a pert voice. A grin lit up her grimy face as she pulled something from her tattered clothes.

"So this is magic, is it?" I asked solemnly, accepting the proffered object. It was a small tube woven of straw.

The urchin nodded enthusiastically. "If someone puts his fingers in each end, he won't be able to pull them out. And the harder he pulls, the more stuck his fingers will be. That's the enchantment."

A low laugh escaped my lips. "And a powerful one it is." No doubt this girl was an orphan, and under the power of some petty thief. If she failed to sell her wares, it was likely she would be beaten. I drew out a silver coin and flipped it to the girl.

"Thank you, milord!" she cried as she snatched up the coin and vanished into the gloom. I tucked the cheap finger-trick into a pocket and, wearing a faint smile, continued on my way.

I reached the Crow's Nest just as the pale orb of Selune lifted itself above the city's sentinel towers. Moonrise. The ramshackle tavern stood on an old quay thrust out into the turgid waters of the Chionthar River. The scents of fish and garbage hung on the air. I opened the tavern's door and stepped into the murky space beyond.

A dozen eyes fell upon me, then just as quickly looked away. This was a violent place. Its clientele were murderers, pirates, and thieves. But all knew a wizard when they saw one. Drunk as most were, none were fools enough to think their fists or knives a match for true magic. They hunkered over their ale pots and returned to their talk. The palm of my left hand tingled, and I rubbed it absently. My fingers traced the familiar pattern of an old, puckered scar: the Rune of Magic, which had branded me a wizard long ago.

I scanned the smoky interior. In one corner sat a man, pale and nervous, fidgeting with-but not drinking from- a dented flagon. It could be no other. Zeth. He was older than I had guessed. His thin face was sharply lined though not unhandsome, and gray flecked his dark hair. Drab clothes hung loosely upon his lean frame. At once I knew he was no mage. I wended my way through the tavern and sat opposite him. He glanced up, his expression one of surprise. Yet it seemed a strange smugness shone in his dark eyes.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said in a hoarse voice.

"Yet, here I am," I countered smoothly.

He fumbled with the flagon. "Would you like a drink?"

"No," I replied.

Silence settled between us. The first move was up to him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I can feel it radiating from you, you know." A hunger filled his voice. "Magic, I mean. It's… it must be… intoxicating."

With these words, I knew him. Without doubt, Zeth was one of those few who are utterly dead to the touch of magic-what some mages cruelly called geldings. Their kind was rare, but had been known for centuries. Occasionally, masters encountered students who, no matter their intelligence or effort, could not learn even the simplest of spells. For reason unknown, they could neither sense nor channel the forces of magic. Most geldings gave up their arcane studies and turned to other pursuits, leading normal lives. Yet I had heard tales of geldings who had been driven mad by their ill-fated desire to wield magic.

"I'm sorry," I said, speaking the first words that came to my mind.

Anger flared in his eyes. "Save your apologies, Morhion Gen'dahar," he hissed. He clenched his hand into a trembling fist. "I want your power, not your pity."

I gazed at him unflinchingly. "I cannot give it to you, Zeth."

He slowly unclenched his hand. His thin shoulders slumped. "No, I suppose you can't," he whispered. He stared despondently at the table. "I had hoped that maybe you would know a way to help me. I should have known better."

This must be torture for him, I realized. He must be drawn to mages even as he loathed and resented them. It was a cruel illness, but one of which I could not cure him, one which I would only inflame with my presence. "I believe I will go now, Zeth," I said quietly.

He nodded jerkily, still staring at the table, then looked up as I started to rise. "Please," he choked. "Let me at least shake your hand before you go-so that I can say I have indeed met the great wizard Morhion Gen'dahar."

I hesitated. It seemed wrong to aid his delusions in any way. Yet such was the haunted look in his dark eyes that I could not resist. "Very well," I replied finally.

He stood and held out his hand-his left, rather than his right. This was odd, but I thought little of it. I reached my left hand toward him.

"May Mystra guide you-" I started to speak. The words faltered on my lips.

An intricate symbol was tattooed on the back of his left hand. The glyph filled me with a sudden inexplicable dread. I tried to snatch my hand back, but it was too late. Zeth's fingers closed around mine. Agony raced up my arm like white fire. I arched my spine, throwing my head back as a scream ripped itself from my lungs. There was a brilliant flash, and the reek of lightning filled the air. At last, Zeth released my hand. I reeled backward, stumbling weakly against a wall. I stared at him in pain-clouded confusion. Strangely, he was laughing.

"You cannot give it to me," he said mockingly, "but I can take it from you." He held up his left hand. On the palm was a puckered scar, as if from a hot brand. It was a symbol I knew well: the Rune of Magic. His laughter rose to a maddening din in my ears. I clutched at the wall, trying to keep my feet. Then the room spun around me, and I fell down into darkness.

By the tune I regained consciousness, Zeth was gone.

I blinked, trying to make out the blurred faces that hovered over me. Crimson light pulsed behind them, in time to the sharp throbbing inside my skull. A wave of nausea crashed through me. I retched into the sour straw that covered the tavern floor, coughed, then managed to draw in a gasping breath. At last, the faces came into focus. A half-dozen thugs loomed over me, leering expressions on their coarse faces.

"I guess he ain't dead after all," one of them grunted.

"Well, he ain't much alive, either," another replied, baring yellowed teeth. "That other fellow did something to him before he skipped out of here. Something nasty. I say we see what he's got."

Alarm cut through the haze of pain. No longer were the ruffians looking at me with fear and awe in their eyes. I tried to pull myself off the floor, but my limbs were as heavy as stone. I slumped back against the wall. I felt weak, hollow-as if part of me had been torn away. What had Zeth done to me?

"Hold him down, lads," the second thug growled. "I'll see what he has in that fat purse of his."

The others hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. They were wary to lay hands upon a wizard, even one who seemed incapacitated. That gave me a moment. I shut my eyes and opened my mind to recall the words of a spell.

Blankness.

My eyes flew open in shock. I had performed this action a thousand times. Words of magic should have flowed into my mind like water into an empty vessel. Instead, there had been nothing. Hastily I tried again. I willed the words to come. Again there was only blankness. I searched with my thoughts, then found it, as a man who has had a tooth pulled by a barber probes the empty socket with his tongue. It was a ragged hole in my mind, a darkness where all the spells I had mastered should have been.

Seeing my confusion, the ruffians grinned. A sawtooth knife flashed in the bloody torchlight. In desperation, I fumbled for the purse at my belt and, with what remained of my strength, flung it away from me. Thick gold coins spilled out, rolling across the floor. For a moment, my assailants stared at each other; then as one, they turned and dived, scrabbling for the coins lost amid the rotted straw. Their leader snarled at me, brandishing his knife. He hesitated, then swore, leaping to join the others in the search for gold.

I did not waste the chance. Forcing my trembling limbs to work, I crawled away, following the corner of the wall until I reached the tavern door. Somehow I managed to lurch to my feet. I stumbled outside and wove my way drunkenly down the quay to the street. Just then shouts went up from the Crow's Nest. My absence had been noticed. I tried to quicken my pace. As I did, my foot slipped in a slimy gutter. I fell hard to the filthy cobblestones and slid wildly down a steep alley, landing amid a heap of rotting fish and other foul refuse. I froze. Above me, dim shapes ran past the mouth of the alley. Angry shouts vanished into the night.

Gagging from the reek, I pulled myself out of the garbage heap and stood, trying to understand what had happened. I reached out with my will, trying to feel the ether of magic, which flowed between all things. Yet I was a blind man searching with numb fingers. Nothing, and nothing again. I could remember casting spells of power, could recall crackling magic flowing from my fingertips. But the words, the intonations, the intricate gestures were all gone. I pressed my burning forehead against the cool, dirty wall. Was I going mad?

A strange quietness descended upon me. No, I was not mad. It was something else. Something far worse than mere insanity. You cannot give it to me, but I can take it from you, he had said. Zeth. Somehow he had stolen my magic and had taken it for himself. Again nausea washed through me. This was what it felt like to be a gelding.

As if of its own volition, my left hand rose before my face. The palm, which had been branded by the Rune of Magic upon my initiation into the arcane arts, was now smooth. On the back was the tattoo that I had glimpsed on Zeth's hand: an intricate knot formed of angular lines. Certainly it was a sigil of power, and I sensed that I had seen its like before. But where? I searched my mind. My magic was gone, but all my mundane knowledge-philosophy, mathematics, history-remained. Then it came to me.

Netheril. It was a name few knew, for the ancient empire had vanished a millennium ago beneath the sands of the vast desert Anauroch. The reticulated knot had been a common motif in the art and magic of Netheril. Now I recalled reading of the ones called the gor-kethal, the thieves of magic. They had been the scourge of Netheril. In that empire, the nobility had ruled by right of magic, and all feared the gor-kethal, who could usurp a sorcerer's power-and rule-with a touch.

At last the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. In his tortured quest for magic, Zeth had somehow stumbled upon the secret of the gor-kethal. And I had been his unwitting victim. Like the magic thieves of long ago, he had stolen my power. Rage flared hotly in my brain, but I willed it away, forcing my mind to cool. It was an unalterable law that for every magic there was a countermagic. There had to be a way to reverse the transference. I had to remain calm if I was to find it.

Weird laughter tumbled from my lips. Of course! Here was the answer before me. The sigil of the gor-kethal was on my own hand. I was the magic thief now. All I need do to reverse the transference was to find Zeth and touch him. Not that this would be so easily done. Zeth would be wary, expecting pursuit. And he was the wizard now. Still, it was a hope, and that was all I needed.

I glanced again at the sky. The orb of Selune shone directly overhead. A new dread chilled my blood. Besides the reticulated knot, the moon was another integral motif of Netherese magic. With sudden certainty I knew that, once Selune vanished behind the horizon, it would be too late. If I did not find Zeth before moonset, the transference would be permanent. I would be without magic forever.

With no time to waste, I hurried up the slope of the alley and through the shadowed streets. Though still weak and ill, I was already growing used to the emptiness inside me. Before, I had hardly noticed the dilapidated buildings and filthy ways of this part of the New City. Always in the past I had walked such streets without fear, oblivious within the protective aura of my magic. Now I felt the danger that lurked behind every turn. Remembering the ruffians in the tavern, who had meant to rob me and slit my throat, I moved as quickly as I could. As I did, I wondered how I would discover where Zeth had gone.

This was not so difficult a matter.

Not far away, a pillar of green fire shot into the night sky. It could be but one thing. Magic. Following the telltale beacon, I came to a broad plaza. In the center was a tall bronze statue, a monument to some long-forgotten ruler of the city. Now magical emerald flames engulfed the statue. Hard bronze sagged, melted, and dripped down the statue to flow in molten rivulets across the cobbles. Zeth had been playing with his newfound power.

Disgusted at this irresponsible waste of magic, I hurried on. Zeth seemed to be moving toward the Tor. I could not let him get too far ahead of me.

I passed the open door of an inn, from which spilled golden light and the sounds of merriment. But the music was eerily frantic, and the laughter had a manic note to it. I peered through the doorway. Inside, men and women whirled around in a chaotic dance, jerking like marionettes under the control of a mad puppeteer. Garish smiles were plastered across their faces, yet terror shone in their eyes.

A young woman spun wildly past the doorway and saw me standing outside. "Please, help us!" she gasped, her face gray with exhaustion.

I shook my head in sorrow. There was nothing I could do. They would dance, consumed by the enchantment, until they dropped dead from exertion. Even as I watched, the woman whirled on and careened into a wall. A crimson blossom appeared on her brow. Pain racked her eyes, but her smile only broadened as she danced on.

"Damn you, Zeth," I hissed, forcing myself to turn away from the ghoulish scene. He was drunk with magic, wielding it with no regard for the consequences. He had the power but none of the discipline usually required to gain it. Urgency renewed, I ran onward.

The trail of mayhem left in Zeth's wake continued to trace a direct line toward the Tor. For some reason he was making for the Old City. Glancing up, I saw that the moon had passed its zenith. Time was slipping away. At last the dark bulk of the Tor loomed above me. I turned onto the road that wound up the crag. Abruptly I lurched to a halt.

Iron bars blocked the way. The gate was closed.

I cursed my stupidity. No doubt Zeth knew what I had forgotten. The wealthy citizens who lived high on the Tor preferred to keep the rabble down in the New City at night. By law the gate to the Old City was shut at midnight and would not open again until dawn. No doubt Zeth had passed to the other side by means of magic. How was I to follow?

Torches lined the stone wall that surrounded the Old City. The wall was high and smooth, crowned by a sharp overhang. A master thief would have been hard pressed to scale it, let alone an out-of-shape wizard. I turned my attention to the gate that covered the arched opening in the wall. The bars were thick and closely spaced. A heavy iron lock held the gate securely shut. I pulled on the bars, but half-heartedly. No human strength would be enough to bend them.

I turned away from the gate. The moon was steadily descending in the jet dome of the sky, and my hopes sank with it. In the past, I would have waved a hand and strode through like a proud lord. Yet what was I now? Weary, bedraggled, powerless. I was nothing without my magic.

Or was I? I still had my mundane knowledge. How would a scholar confront the problem of the locked gate?

My mind raced. I found my eyes lingering upon a torch that had burned down to a black stub. Then it struck me. I dug into the pocket of my doublet and came out with a handful of soft, yellow rocks. Brimstone. I often had some about me, for it was useful in the casting of many spells- none of which I knew anymore. However, the brimstone might serve me yet. I moved to the wall and pulled down the burned torch. That would provide the necessary charcoal. Now all I needed was one more ingredient. My gaze moved down the street. Then, in the fading moonlight, I saw what I was looking for: a mortar and pestle hanging above a doorway. An apothecary's shop.

I did not like resorting to thievery, but such moral regrets are better suited to less desperate moments. With a stray rock, I broke through the shop's window. By the time a wavering light appeared in an upper story and angry shouts rose on the night air, I was gone with what I needed. Hiding in a shadow near the gate, I examined my prize: a clay pot filled with small white crystals. Niter. It was commonly used by physicians to treat seizures. I had another use in mind.

I spread a handkerchief on the ground before me and emptied the clay pot onto it. I crumbled the charcoal and soft brimstone with my fingers and added these to the niter. With great care, I mixed the three ingredients until they formed a dark gray powder. Gathering the corners of the handkerchief, I tied them tightly, forming a bundle with the powder inside. I found a stray bit of frayed rope and tucked one end inside the handkerchief. Then I wedged the bundle between the bars of the gate next to the lock. I reached up and took one of the burning torches from its sconce, touching it to the free end of the rope. A flame curled up the length of cord. I turned and ran for cover.

The dry rope burned faster than I had thought. I had gone less then ten paces when a brilliant flash and a clap of thunder burst the night asunder. A great force struck my back, like the invisible hand of a giant, throwing me to the ground. After a stunned moment I pulled myself to my feet. Acrid smoke clouded the air.

While the Red Wizards of Thay claimed that smoke powder-which they were infamous for making and using-was a powerful enchantment, this was a lie. Smoke powder was not the result of magic, but of alchemy. It was no more magical in nature than a fire burning on a goodwife's hearth, though it was infinitely more powerful.

As the smoke cleared, I approached the gate. It was still shut, and for a moment I thought my plan had failed. I reached out to push on the iron bars. As my fingers brushed the still-warm metal, there was a dull clink. The weakened lock broke. The gate swung open. At the same moment, a hue and cry went up somewhere along the wall. It seemed my little trick had not gone unnoticed by the city watch. I hurried through the gate and, keeping to the murk and shadows, made my way unaccosted up the Tor, to the many-spired Old City above.

At first, I despaired of finding Zeth's trail amid the mazelike streets. I need not have feared. After a few moments, I stumbled upon a smoking pit that had been torn open in the middle of a lane. Not far ahead, a majestic old ash tree was twisted into contorted knots. Anger and dread filled me at these sights. The more powerful the magic Zeth tried to wield, the less he was able to control it. Ignoring my weariness, I pressed on, following the trail of destruction left by the magic thief. Then, at last, I knew where he was going.

The moon hovered just above the western horizon when I stopped before my tower on the Street of Runes.

I gazed up at the dark spire that had been my dwelling for many long years. A light glowed in the window of the topmost chamber. Finally I understood. Zeth did not simply covet my magic. He coveted my life. He had come to my tower to claim it for his own. I almost laughed at the irony. Over the years I had woven my tower with myriad wards and protections. Now I was the one they would prevent from entering. Yet enter I must. Somehow.

Stealthily, I circled the tower. "Think, Morhion," I whispered to myself. "There must be some chink in the armor you conjured to protect yourself. Certainly you could not have been so perfectly safe as you believed."

Yet, even knowing where and what they were, I could see no way to get past my own defenses. The door was bound with enough arcane energy to roast an elephant. The thick walls were made smooth and slick by magic. A dusky vine wound up the western face of the tower, passing near the study window, and might be climbed. Yet even from here I could see the faint blue sheen that covered the window. Anyone trying to pass would be instantly struck dead. The only way to enter the tower was to be invited by the wizard within.

Excitement flared in my chest as an idea struck me. It would not exactly be an invitation, but it might work. That is, if I could count on Zeth's curiosity and lack of magical control. I glanced up at the rapidly sinking moon. There was no time to think of a better plan. Hastily, I began searching in the bushes near the base of the tower. I needed something that had once been alive. Then I came upon the dry carcass of a small bird. That would do.

Standing in a patch of gloom, I tossed the dead bird onto the stone doorstep of the tower. Above, I heard a faint chiming. There-the bell had been rung. Now I could only hope Zeth would take the bait. I might have simply waited in the shadows in hopes of ambushing him. But he would be expecting someone outside the door, and I had something more surprising in mind.

Running to the west side of the tower, I grabbed the thick tendrils of the vine that clung to the wall and began pulling myself up. In moments, my arms burned fiercely, but I clenched my teeth and kept climbing. At last I reached the study window. I could see the firelit room beyond. No one was within. The deadly blue aura still gleamed across the open window.

For several tense moments, I clung to the vines with white-knuckled hands. Then I heard the sound of a door opening below. At the same moment the blue magic barring the window flickered and vanished. Despite my exhaustion, I grinned fiercely in victory. Just as I had suspected, Zeth did not possess the fine control required to dismiss only one of the tower's protective magics. To open the door, he had been forced to lower all the wards. Before he could rebind the tower's protections, I pulled myself through the window and into the study beyond.

I was sitting in a comfortable chair, sipping a glass of ruby wine, when the study's door opened.

"Good evening, Zeth," I said smoothly.

He had clad himself in my best gray robe trimmed with silver thread. For a moment, his gaunt face paled in shock, then grew crimson with anger.

"Good evening, gelding," he spat. "I should have known you would find a way to follow me. But you have come too late." He gestured to the window. "Look. Even as we speak, the moon sets."

As I turned my head to gaze at the window, he thrust an outstretched finger in my direction. That was exactly what I had expected. I dived to the floor and rolled away as a bolt of green magic struck the chair, blasting a smoking hole in its back. I lunged forward, reaching out with my left hand-the hand that bore the sigil of the gor-kethal.

However, before I could touch him, he shouted a fearful word of magic and rose into the air. Floating swiftly across the room, he landed and turned to me. I tried to scramble to my feet, slipped, and fell back to the floor. He splayed his fingers in my direction. My plan had failed.

"You didn't have to come here, you know," he said, his voice almost sad. "You could have lived your life."

"As a gelding?" I said quietly. "No, Zeth. It would have driven me mad. Just as it has you."

His sadness gave way to renewed rage. "I need you no longer, Morhion Gen'dahar. There is no magic you possessed that I cannot now wield." Crimson sparks crackled around his outstretched fingers.

I gazed at Zeth in dread, knowing that this time there was no escaping his magic. Framed by the window behind him, the pale orb of the moon began to slip beneath the distant horizon. Instinctively I reached into the pocket of my doublet, as if to find the catalyst needed to cast a spell. But I knew no spells. All my hand found was a small, crumpled tube of straw…

"You're wrong, Zeth," I said suddenly. "There is one magic of mine you have not mastered." From my pocket I pulled the woven straw tube I had bought from the street urchin. I tossed it at his feet. "Unlock the riddle of this magic, wizard!"

Zeth's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but it was clear my words had pricked his arrogance. Like a starving man presented with a banquet, this onetime gelding could not resist even the smallest morsel of magic. Banishing the deadly crimson sparks with a careless wave, he bent to pick up the straw tube. Frowning, he studied it. He inserted a finger in one end, probing within, then stuck a second finger into the other end of the tube. He snorted in disgust. "There is nothing to master in this."

I nodded solemnly. "If that is what you believe, Zeth, then it is indeed time to kill me."

A cruel sneer crossed his face. "As you wish."

Zeth lifted a hand to cast a spell. Caught as it was in the straw tube, the other hand followed. With a puzzled look, he tried to pull his fingers free. They did not budge. With a look of growing panic, he tugged harder. It was no use. He could not free his fingers from the trap. Staring at me in sudden terror, he tried to cast a spell. However, without the use of his fingers to trace the arcane patterns necessary, working magic was impossible.

Now was my chance. I leapt to my feet. Zeth tried to lunge away but stumbled, crashing into a bookcase. I grabbed his collar. Before he could squirm away, I pressed my left palm against his sweating forehead.

Again came a flash, and this time a vast rushing sound as bright energy flowed into me. I stumbled backward, gasping. Every fiber of my body tingled with power. My magic had returned. Groaning, Zeth slumped to the floor. Branded now across his forehead was the sigil of the gor-kethal.

He raised his hands weakly, fingers still caught in the cheap finger trick. "There is no magic in this, is there?"

I shook my head. "No, Zeth. No magic at all." Now that I had defeated him, I found I could not hate the magic thief. His was a tortured soul. "Let me help you, Zeth," I said solemnly. "Maybe, working together, we can find you some peace with your fate."

For a moment, hope shone in his dark eyes. Then it was replaced by loathing, a hatred not directed toward me. "I said I don't want your pity," he snarled. "You think you've defeated me, but I still have won a victory. Now you will forever know that your power is flawed. I possessed all your magic, and yet you bested me with a mundane trick. It could happen to you just as easily. Let that knowledge gnaw at you for the rest of your wretched life, Morhion Gen'dahar!"

Too late, I saw what he intended. With a last, desperate cry, Zeth lunged to his feet and hurled his body through the window. He was dead before he struck the ground, slain by the magical aura that guarded the opening.

So passed Zeth, the gor-kethal, last of the magic thieves.

As I end this tale, I find myself gazing once more at the invitation Zeth left upon my doorstep. / believe there is much we can gain from one another, he had written.

Strangely, I know now that Zeth did give me something. He was right. My magic is flawed. I am not all-powerful. Yet he was wrong about one thing. That knowledge does not eat at my soul. For, as I learned in our final confrontation, sometimes there is weakness in power, and power in weakness. No longer am I so perfectly safe here in the fastness of my tower.

And by that I know that I am truly alive.