It would be enough, he thought. He would poke a hole in the sun and take a day, a single day, and make it his.

He floated forward, under the sparking canopy of the Weave Tap, and touched its silvery bark with his hand. It was warm, almost hot with the power it contained. He looked at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Lines of arcane power veined the stone.

Everything was ready.

He found a suitable spot between the Tap's exposed roots and lowered himself to the floor. He crossed his legs, ignoring the pain the movement caused him, and closed his eyes.

Formulae moved through his mind, numbers, equations, variables, all of them designed to anticipate the movements of the bodies in the heavens. He moved through each one methodically, checking and rechecking the calculations. They were critical to his spell. Throughout the day, the magic would have to adjust continually to account for the movement of Toril, to keep the Crown of Flame intact over his island.

He was prepared.

With a slight mental exertion, he opened a channel between his body and the Weave Tap. Arcane energy flowed into him, powered him, the feeling more delightful than even the pleasures of the flesh he had enjoyed in his youth. He let the power gather in him. It built slowly but inexorably. As he drew from the artifact, the Weave Tap continued to draw power from the mantles of Skullport and Sakkors, replenishing the power that Vhostym took.

Vhostym inhaled and began his spell. Magical syllables fell from his lips in a complex incantation. His hands traced a precise, intricate path through the air before him. His fingers left a silver glow in their wake. He wove the mathematical formulae into the incantation. Vhostym accounted for the speed of Toril's spin, its precession on its axis, the speed of its revolution about the sun, the size of Selune's tear, the necessary distance that he needed to move it, the power he would need to hold it there, a host of other factors. The equations grew increasingly complex.

Vhostym kept focused and worked the equations into his spell. His fingers and hands became a blur. For a time, a short blissful time, he was lost in the casting and felt no pain in his body.

He worked for over an hour, all of it preparatory to the spell's finale. His voice grew hoarse and still he recited the arcane words. Sweat dripped from his body.

When he finished the preparatory casting, he found himself sitting in the middle of a cyclone of magical energy. The formulae he had spoken were a storm of glowing, silver characters whirling about his person. They wanted only their purpose.

Vhostym gave it to them.

He drew everything from the Weave Tap that it could give. His body glowed with contained power. The numbers and equations whirled around him so fast they formed a silver wall.

He put his palms flat on the floor of the tower and let the magic flow through him and into the stone. The silver wall of numbers swirled through the tops of his hands and into the tower.

The entire structure shuddered. A glow in the stone started at his palms and rapidly spread to the rest of the sanctum, to the rest of the tower. The structure amplified the magical power Vhostym channeled into it until the spire itself radiated with power. Numbers and equations raced along the walls, glowing silver.

Vhostym pictured in his mind the largest of Selune's tears, a perfect sphere of rock roughly fifty leagues in diameter, almost exactly a twentieth of Selune. Vhostym needed to bring the tear closer, such that its distance from Toril was a twentieth that of Selune's distance. He would have preferred using Selune itself, but not even his empowered magic could control a celestial body that large.

He spoke the words to the spell that would pull the tear to the place Vhostym needed it. There it would remain, awaiting dawn, when it would put a hole in the sun and cast its shadow on the Wayrock. The magic would continually adjust the position of the sphere against the sun, so its shadow would not race across the surface as Toril continued to spin. Instead, his magic would move the tear with the sun-the shadow would remain stationary on the Wayrock throughout the day.

Speaking the final phrase of power, Vhostym channeled all his energy into the tower, sent it soaring in a beam from the top of the spire and into the Sea of Night. Vhostym felt the beam's magic take hold of the tear and pull it toward Toril. He could not contain a shout of joy.

It would be in position before dawn. Once he pulled it from its orbit, the spell would move the tear so that its surface would not reflect the light of the sun, as did Selune. It would move through the night sky in darkness, but Faerun would wake to the sight of a new satellite in its sky.

When Vhostym released his hold on the spell, exhaustion settled in and he sagged. Fortunately, nothing more remained for him to do. The tower still vibrated, still glowed, and Vhostym knew that a beam of magical energy reached from its top and into the night sky, where it pulled a ball of rock the size of a city toward Toril. The spell would remain in effect until the mantles of Skullport and Sakkors were utterly drained-about a day, perhaps two, Vhostym had calculated.

Despite his mental fatigue, despite the pain of the disease that wracked his bones, he smiled.

He had now only to recover his strength and wait for the dawn. Then he would exit the tower and walk under the Crown of Flame in his own skin, as he had done in his youth.

After that, he would die content.

* * * * *

Magadon opened his eyes. His blurry vision cleared and he found himself staring up at the grinning face of Captain Evrel. A faint breeze stirred a sail. The sky behind the captain was brightening with the rising sun.

Magadon was lying flat on his back on the deck of Demon Binder. His head felt as if it had been beaten by a war hammer. Each thump of his heart caused his temples to throb.

The last thing he remembered was ... moving the ship to Selgaunt. He recalled the power the Source had given him, its taste, its feel. He felt empty at its absence. He longed for another taste.

"There you are," the captain said. "Welcome back."

A relieved rustle arose from around the deck. The crew, Magadon presumed.

A gray-haired man in nightclothes and an overcloak stood beside Evrel, looking down on Magadon with a soft expression. The man held in his hand a thin chain from which hung a bronze symbol-a shield-shaped pendant engraved with the image of a cloud and three lightning bolts. Magadon did not recognize the symbol but he assumed the man to be a priest.

"He is fine now," the gray-haired man said to Evrel. He smiled down at Magadon. "You will be well."

Magadon tried to thank him but his mouth was too dry to speak.

The priest said, "No need to speak, goodsir. Rest, now. Evrel is a very old comrade of mine and it was my pleasure to do him this service." He eyed the captain sidelong. "But he must think highly of you to have roused me from my sleep."

"He saved the ship," Evrel said. "And all of us besides. I tend to think highly of such men."

Beyond Magadon's sight, several members of the crew voiced agreement.

The priest nodded, straightened his cloak, and said to Evrel, "Be well, my friend. It's back to the sheets for me. Valkur keep you and your crew."

"My thanks, Rillon. A drink soon."

"Soon," Rillon agreed.

The two clasped arms and the priest walked away.

Evrel extended a hand to Magadon and pulled him to a sitting position.

"I was afraid to move you until I had a priest at my side," the captain explained.

Magadon nodded in understanding. Crusted blood caked his face, his neck, his ears. He rubbed it off as best he could.