"Look into the crystal with me. Concentrate. Picture a wizard… much like myself, but shorter, stockier, and dressed in red."

Shal closed her eyes to concentrate.

"No! You must look into the crystal. The crystal will project the image, but it needs your help."

Opening her eyes until they were mere slits, Shal stared into the swirling, iridescent red blaze of the globe. Wizard, she thought. Like Ranthor but shorter. She leaned closer. Yes! There was something there-the outline of a robe, the image of a man… Finally it came into clear focus. The man in the globe was obviously a wizard, but he looked nothing like Ranthor. Even with his crippling rheumatism, Ranthor had a commanding presence. His gestures, his meticulously pressed blue robes-everything about him bespoke style. The man in the globe, however, was rumpled, disheveled-looking. He obviously cared little about his appearance. Nonetheless, his smile was warm, and Shal could feel an unusual bond of loyalty flowing between this mage, Denlor, and her master.

"Ranthor, my trusted friend! You must know how glad I am to have reached you."

Shal stared, wide-eyed. Denlor wasn't speaking. Instead, she was somehow experiencing histhoughts-the words, as ifspoken aloud, and much more than that. She could feel his exhaustion… and his panic.

"I would not have called on you, Ranthor, if my need were not great. Every vile beast ever belched up from the Pit is clamoring at the gate to my keep in Phlan. The protective magicks emanating from my tower are steadily weakening. I need your help, old friend. I can't hold out much longer, and there is much more at stake than just my aging bones."

Denlor's desperation washed over Shal. She could hear the sound that had echoed in the mage's brain day after day for untold nights-the din of a thousand unspeakable beasts growling, snarling, slavering, clawing at the walls that kept him and his tower from destruction. Denlor thought of his waning defenses, magical and otherwise, and as he did, his thoughts were Shal's thoughts. She gasped as she realized that she now knew the location of every trap in Denlor's keep, the arcane words that would open or seal every door in his tower, and she sensed the vulnerability of what had once been an impenetrable magical fortress.

"Ranthor, please… please help me!" Denlor pleaded imploringly.

Suddenly the image within the globe faded into a swirl of red, and then the sphere returned to its original icy crystal white and nestled gently back into the crux of the ebony tripod.

Shal let out her breath and turned to her master.

"My dear Shal, I'm so sorry," Ranthor began sincerely. "That wasn't any way to introduce you to crystal balls. Please understand that they can bear good news as well as bad. But this time, I'm afraid, the news is bad indeed. I must go immediately to the aid of my friend. I charge you to keep up with your magical studies and watch after this place until I return."

Shal never even had a chance to respond as Ranthor flew from one room to the next with a flurry of gestures, words, and instructions that left her dizzy. Just as she finally recovered the presence of mind to ask if there was anything she could do to help, the mage whisked into his private spell-casting chamber, the door closed with a definitive thud, and she was left standing outside, alone. More than an hour passed before Ranthor emerged, but when he did, Shal was still standing exactly where he had left her.

He paused and faced his apprentice, holding out a yellow, rolled parchment. "Keep this scroll, Shal. Open it only if you have reason to believe I will not return. I must go now to Denlor, to Phlan. May the gods be with you-and with me." Ranthor had whispered a magical command, then vanished into the smoky blue haze of his Teleport spell…

That was the last Shal had seen or heard from her teacher. She knew she wasn't likely to make progress on her Weather Control spells or any other kind of magic until she received some word of reassurance from Ranthor. In the meantime, she realized, there was a tower full of chores that beckoned-wonderful, mindless activities that would serve as distraction from her anxious thoughts.

She decided to tackle a task she had been putting off for days-dusting the countless shelves of magical components in Ranthor's storeroom. A wizard's components, she knew from her training, were almost as important as his spellbooks. Someone had to keep them all in order, and once a wizard reached a certain level, that someone was almost invariably an apprentice.

As Shal entered the storeroom and faced its row after row of shelving, she sighed and began musing to herself. She sometimes wondered why anyone would ever want to become a wizard's apprentice. It seemed a never-ending stream of menial chores and discouraging hours of practice. Somehow she couldn't picture Ranthor ever stumbling over a word, as she frequently did, when he cast a spell. Shal smiled grimly as she tried to imagine Ranthor stooping down to dust shelves. He must have found some way to bypass the apprentice stage and progress straight to wizard, she thought wryly.

Shal stared at the rows of shelving stretched out before her. It would take hours. The dust hadn't been at all selective about which shelves or components to cover. The fine film of gray powder coated everything, and the spiders had been having a heyday. Shal stood staring for several more seconds, then grabbed a rag and plunged ruefully ahead into the maze of shelving.

As Shal reached the end of a long row of shelves, she wiped her brow and paused, turning to glance at herself in the large viewing mirror that Ranthor used to practice his gestures. Her shoulder-length hair, though matted with perspiration at the ends, was vibrant and silky and shimmered auburn red even in the dull light from the handful of lamps that lit her master's huge laboratory. Her skin was clear and as smooth as polished ivory, and her nose and cheeks were fine and delicate. She couldn't help but know she was attractive-just tall enough to set off her perfectly sculpted petite frame, and just saucy enough in her mannerisms to attract the attention of almost any man she took a fancy to.

From her studies under Ranthor, Shal had learned of the damage that certain powerful magic could do to the caster's skin, hair, and overall vigor. She had discussed the subject with Ranthor on several occasions, expressing some of her fears. Ranthor had chided her for her vanity, but he also reminded her that beauty and magic were not mutually exclusive. "There are times," he had said, "when you must use strong magic. There are other times when you can avoid it. But you must never get caught up in your fear of the physical consequences of spell-casting. It will hinder your ability to excel at your chosen profession."

Nonetheless, Shal had still persisted in asking Ranthor about the effects of different spells. She knew that the Burning Hands spell was not one she wanted to use often. The Weather Control spells were not so bad-and, of course, they'd never hurt her at all if she didn't figure out how they worked! She turned her attention back to the dusty shelves, wishing she knew a spell that would make the chore a little less tedious.

She thought about Ranthor, trying once more to picture him as an apprentice dusting shelves. As she did, a thought came to her. Of course! she reasoned. Why didn't I think of it before? Ranthor would never pick up every vial and pouch. He'd use the very first cantrip he ever taught me! And here I thought I was going to be here till dusk!

She turned back to the row where she had left off, located a bit of elk horn dust in her pouch, and sprinkled it on the shelf. Then she whispered three arcane words and shouted, "Rasal!" Instantly the vials and components on the rack before her rose several inches from the shelves. As they hung there suspended, she quickly dusted the four tiers in a fraction of the time it would have taken her otherwise.