"I want it not!"

"I think thou wilt, for 'tis a spell of invulnerability."

"To make my body impervious to weapons?" Magnus's lip twisted in a sneer. "There is no such thing, only illusion!"

"Thou art poorly suited to speak of things that cannot be," the ragpicker said softly. "Yet 'tis not thy body I would make immune to harm, but thine heart."

That gave Magnus pause. There had been enough young women in his life who had feigned love, but really wanted only to exploit him in one way or another, that he already realized the value of the spell the ragpicker spoke of. "And what shouldst thou gain thereby? What would I give to thee?"

"Why, naught," the ragpicker said softly, but with too great an air of innocence. " 'Tis only as I've said- a rag of no great use, to me, and therefore do I give it."

"I trust not one who doth profess to give in altruism," Magnus grunted, "and surely not one who doth seem alien to this time and place, while knowing too much of me. I'll have naught to do with thee! Avaunt!"

The ragpicker shrugged and smiled. "Thou wilt change thy mind presently. I'll visit thee anon, when thou hast greater cause to know this present's value." He swept a hand between them in a gesture, and disappeared.

Magnus stared at the spot where he'd been.

Then he turned to ride on, more shaken than he was willing to admit to himself. He strove for composure, regulated his breathing-and, in a short while, calmed enough to begin to become aware of his surroundings again. The ground had risen beneath him; his horse had followed the deer track automatically, and Magnus realized that he had absolutely no idea of where he was.

Which was just fine.

Somewhere in the middle of the Forest Gellorn, of course-the largest wilderness in the land, its depths as much unknown as the Carboniferous Period mainland-and in the foothills of the mountains along its northern edge, at a guess. More than that, he didn't know. More than that, he had no wish to know.

Magnus realized he was shivering with the chill. He pulled up, surprised to see that he was soaked through. He had to find someplace dry, where he could build a fire, or he would have to teleport himself and his horse back to civilization-and he wasn't quite ready to deal with other people, yet. Morose and melancholy, he was nonetheless enjoying the solitude, and wanted to make it last a bit longer. He listened carefully, probing the night with psionic senses as well as hearing ...

... and heard the dull, repetitious thrumming of a musicrock, somewhere not too far distant. They virtually infested Gramarye now: The crafter Ari, who had been deceived into flooding Gramarye with rocks that made music leading young people to be victimized, had tried to correct his misdeeds by making more and ever more rocks that chanted music pleading for kindness and consideration. But lesser crafters, once shown that the trick could be done, had begun making music-rocks of their own, though the tunes were rarely as compelling as Ari's.

This one, however, was the exception. Frowning, Magnus made out the words:

"The Hag o' the Tower-she must be The ugliest witch in the North Country Has trysted me all day in her bower, And many a fair speech she made to me. She stroked my head, and she combed my hair, And she set me down softly on her knee, Saying, "If you will be my leman so true, So many braw things I would you gie . . ." "Away, away, ye ugly witch, Hold for away, and let me be; I never will be your leman so true, And I wish I were out of your company!"

"She's turned her right and round about, And thrice she blew on a grass-green horn, And she swore by the moon and stars above, That she'd make me rue the day I was born!"

Interesting notion. Magnus's attention strayed from the song as he found himself wondering if this was the work of some local crafter seeking revenge on a milkmaid who had turned him away-or if there might actually be some danger from some sour old witch who had a grudge against people in general.

If so, the fight would be welcome. Magnus was in the mood for mayhem, and looking for an excuse. Magical or physical, a good, brisk fight was just what he needed.

Unfortunately, no antagonist appeared. Drenched, chilled, and shivering, Magnus looked around for shelter. He reflected that animal trails usually led somewhere, and that even deer knew where to find a roof. He clucked to his horse and moved through the night, along the track.

It was only a rocky overhang, not even a cave-but there was dry ground beneath it, and even some dead leaves and small branches blown against the rock face. The deer had departed long since-at a guess, a doe had only used it to shelter her fawns last spring, and it was late autumn now. Magnus gathered the leaves, piled twigs on top of them, and stared at the little pyramid, thinking of the molecules in the leaves at the center, thinking of their random, erratic movement, of that motion speeding up, growing faster and faster....

A coal glowed to life in the center of the pyramid.

The young warlock smiled. It was always reassuring, knowing that his skills were still sharp. Practice made perfect, after all; he had to keep doing the little things, in case he should have sudden need of the big ones. He fed the fire kindling, and once it was a true blaze, went off and brought back some thick, wet branches, broke them into smaller lengths, and set them around his fire to dry off, draping his cloak over them. That done, he unsaddled his horse, rubbed it down as well as he could, looped a nose bag of oats over its head, and dug into the saddlebags. Hardtack, cheese, and sausage made a Spartan meal, but they suited his mood. He washed it down with plain water from a skin, took the nose bag off the horse and splashed some drinking water into a hollow for the the animal, then stripped and set his clothes to dry while he wrapped himself in the warmth of the cloak. He unrolled his blanket, sitting down and winding it about his lower body, then took the small harp from his saddlebag and tuned it.

He plucked a few chords, letting himself fall into a reverie, dissolving the disappointment and anger, letting his mind drift where it would.

It moved with the longing that he usually kept hidden away. Now, though, contemplation freed it to rise up, as young men's spirits will, into thoughts of the consolation and companionship of a woman he had not met. Somewhere, she was waiting for him, or so the stories said-somewhere, he would find her; his sister believed this with religious conviction, their mother had sung to them of it when they were small, and he had never questioned it-only wondered, as he did now, what she would be like, when he would find her. He did not wonder what it would be like to be with her-he knew that, from the tales and the songs and the poems: it would be bliss.

He had never had much experience with women his own age, for the same reasons that he had known so few of his male peers: the common people did not associate closely with the nobility, nor the non-espers with the esper "witchfolk," and the psionic babies of his own generation were ten years younger than himself.

Of course, noblemen did have quite a bit of association with peasant women, though none of it official-but Magnus had been raised by Church and Book, and with a strong sense of responsibility; he had frankly never thought of seducing a peasant lass-it would have been a violation of his obligations as a nobleman, to take advantage of a woman he had no intention of wedding ...

Or was not in love with.

Because, of course, love was the magic spell that brooked no resistance. If love came, and you turned away from it, you might never find it again, and live lonely all your days. The songs warned of that; the stories cautioned against it-and all promised the bliss that came of following true love, whenever it came and wherever it led, regardless of rank, wealth, or prudence.