The old man looked up, twisting his head to peer back over his shoulder. His ancient face was nearly lost beneath a long gray beard and spiky eyebrows- all Artek could make out was a bladelike nose and two colorless eyes as cold and piercing as ice.

"What?" the old man interrupted. "You're still here?" He blew a snort of disgust through his ratty mustache. "I must have forgotten to oil the trigger on the boulder over the door as well. Well, if you're not going to have the decency to die, at least stop being such a nuisance with all your chatter. Can't you see that I'm working? Now make yourself useful and hand me that."

He thrust a bony finger toward a small jar of black paint on a nearby shelf. Before Artek even knew what he was doing, he hopped forward to obey the command. Chagrined, he brought the jar of paint to the ancient man. Artek craned his neck, but could not quite glimpse what the other man was working on. It was something very small. After a moment, the old man cackled in glee.

"Done!"

Scooping up several tiny objects into a withered hand, he marched with surprising swiftness toward an opening in the far wall and disappeared beyond. Artek exchanged curious looks with the others. After a moment's hesitation, they followed after. Stepping through the opening, they found themselves not in another chamber, but on the edge of a vast cavern. A red-gold light hung upon the dank air, but it appeared to have no source. Artek blinked in astonishment as the others gasped behind him.

Arranged in haphazard fashion around the cavern were a score of tables, every one a dozen paces long and half again as wide. Sprawling atop each of the tables was what appeared to be an intricate maze. Artek approached one of the tables and shook his head in wonder. This wasn't just any maze, he realized.

It was Undermountain.

"What in the name of all the gods is that?" he asked in awe.

From the center of the cavern came a shrill cackle of glee. "It's my masterpiece!" the old man cried. "My most marvelous toy ever. Impressed, aren't you? Well, you should be!"

Rendered in tiny but perfect detail, every single one of the vast labyrinth's many subterranean levels lay before Artek. He had never seen anything so wondrous in his life. The model was roofless, so that he could gaze within, and every wall, every door, every minuscule stone had been fashioned with exquisite care from wood and clay and paint. Tiny figurines populated the miniature halls and chambers: skillfully rendered monsters and adventurers, each no taller than the knuckle of a finger. So flawless was the model that Artek felt almost like some great god, peering down upon the diminutive world of mortals below.

"Look!" Beckla whispered in amazement. She and the others had wandered around, gazing at other levels resting on other tables. The wizard pointed to a chamber filled with tiny trees fashioned from bits of green moss. "I think this is Wyllowwood."

"And this must be the River Sargauth," Corin added from nearby, pointing to a thin strip of glittering blue fashioned from crushed sapphire.

"And here's the tomb where you found me," Guss said excitedly, pointing to a small chamber at the end of another table.

"It's times like these that make me really wish I still had fingers," Muragh muttered to ho one in particular.

Artek shook his head in disbelief. "Everything's here. Everything. It's absolutely perfect."

The old man approached. "Of course it is," he said. "I made it, didn't I? And it's taken me quite a few centuries to get it just right, if I do say so."

Startled, Artek stared at the ancient man. A chilling suspicion began to coalesce in his mind.

Just then the old man glanced down and frowned.

Near the center of the table, a band of adventurer figurines faced a dozen clay goblins. 'Humph! I don't like those odds." The old man reached into his pocket and drew out a strange-looking pair of shears. Opening the handles, the shears extended like an accordion, stretching toward the figurines. A cruel light flashed in his eyes as he squeezed the handles together, and the blades of the shears snapped shut, lopping off the heads of three of the adventurer figurines. Only one remained intact. The old man let out a burst of maniacal laughter, retracting the shears. That's better!"

The others watched with growing discomfort as the old fellow wreaked further havoc upon the miniature Undermountain. He moved from table to table, flooding rooms with water, melting wax monsters with the flame of a candle, and smashing tiny adventurers at random with a silver hammer. All the while, he let out hoots of malevolent glee, as if it were all a capricious game he was inventing as he went along.

A small white mouse suddenly scurried down a tiny corridor in one of the models, squeaking shrilly.

"Ah, Fang, there you are," the strange old man said, clucking his tongue. "You've been hiding again, haven't you? You know I don't like it when you hide. Next time it may be bang with my silver hammer."

The old man picked up the mouse and held out a tiny object. It was a miniature sword. "Go give this to the warrior on level four, chamber sixty-two. I.don't want her to die just yet. She's been far too much fun." He set the mouse back down on the table. "Now shoo! Shoo! And don't hide the next time I'm looking for you."

Fang let out a decidedly recalcitrant squeak, then took the sword in its mouth before scurrying away through the tabletop maze.

Meanwhile, Corin had been studying the miniature labyrinth on a nearby table. "I've always simply adored models," he murmured. He pointed to a dark circle of polished onyx. "What's that?" he asked in delight.

The old man peered over the young noble's shoulder. That's Midnight Lake."

"And what about this?" Corin pointed to a tortuous series of chambers and corridors.

The old mage let out a snort. "That's the Gauntlet of my idiotic half-spider apprentice, Muiral. He never could find me. But then, none of them did. Poor students one and all, they were."

Artek and Beckla exchanged shocked looks. However, Corin wasn't really listening. "And how about this?" He pointed to a small square that glowed with an eerie green light.

The old man glowered at him. "You're certainly full of questions, aren't you? That's Wish Gate. It will take you anywhere you wish to go."

Artek's pointed ears pricked up at this. "Even out of Undermountain?" he asked.

"I said anywhere, didn't I?" the old man grumped. "Now, I've had more than enough of your questions. I’m quite busy, you know. So be quiet-or get yourselves killed. Do anything, as long as you just stop pestering me!"

The others drew away, gathering on the far side of the cavern.

"Did you hear him?" Artek asked softly. "He called Muiral his apprentice. It can mean only one thing."

Corin's eyes suddenly went wide. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. "You mean that's… I was talking to… this old fellow is…"

Artek nodded grimly. "Halaster himself."

His gaze moved to the ancient mage. Halaster was chortling over his model. Artek shook his head. The Mad Wizard wasn't simply a name, he realized. Halaster truly was mad, an old man playing a child's game, his days of power and glory long forgotten.

Muragh let out a dejected sigh. "If he's Halaster, then we're doomed. I think he's more than a little touched, and not particularly nice. Hell never help us."

"What about that Wish Gate?" Guss suggested. "Couldn't it take us out of Undermountain?"

"Probably," Beckla answered. "But only if we could get to it. Judging by the model, it looks to be miles away from here. And it's much higher than we are now. The Horned Ring won't take us there."

Artek made a decision. "It doesn't seem Halaster much cares for company. I'm going to ask him if hell transport us to Wish Gate. He just might do it, if for no other reason than to get rid of us."