"Come, wizards… come to my heights… come to my walls… come to my sacred site____________________"

"The birds are speaking to us," noted the dour sorcerer, frowning so deeply that his bushy eyebrows nearly melded. "Calling us, it would seem."

"How can birds talk in a language men can understand?" Luthar asked, squinting and peering ahead, as he, too, listened intently. "This must be magic!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"Come, wizards____________________"

"Could it be some kind of trick?" asked the shorter sorcerer. "An attempt by our enemies to lure us into an ambush, a trap?"

"Bah-who would dare?" sneered Kalrakin. "In any event, we have no need to fear anything of magic. Remember, I carry the stone of Irda magic!" He raised the white orb in his hands, clenching it in one fist and waving it grandly, as if to ward away the mysterious presence of the forest.

In response, the birds cawed and shrieked with renewed frenzy. This time there was no mistaking the siren call of their words. Kalrakin bulled forward eagerly, leaving Luthar to sprint after frantically as the tall, gaunt sorcerer plunged down the rapidly forming pathway along the forest floor.

As he pushed through the last tendrils of trailing vine, Kalrakin blinked in a sudden wash of sunlight; a clearing had opened before him. His eyes traveled ahead to witness the great structure, a double spire of dark stone and elegant architecture, rising hundreds of feet toward the sky.

"Behold-like a black claw, it scratches at the heavens!" cried Kalrakin.

"Where are we?" asked his equally awestruck companion. "Surely there is no place in the Qualinesti forest like this?"

"My loyal companion, we have left the elven realm behind-no doubt we passed into Wayreth when we experienced the change in the woodland this morning. We are bid welcome to the Tower of High Sorcery-and this is Wayreth Forest. It all makes sense, now. Opportunity awaits!"

"Yes, it can be nothing else!" Luthar agreed, leaning an outstretched arm against a tree and breathing heavily. "And that must mean-"

"That we have been invited, here, of course," Kalrakin concluded. He snorted at the irony: this hallowed place of ancient godly magic, for some reason-a mistake?-summoning two practitioners of wild sorcery.

"Is the Tower dangerous?" There was a clear tremor in the younger mage's voice. "Perhaps we should move farther away from it."

But Kalrakin was already advancing closer, his long legs swiftly carrying him toward the wall and gateway surrounding the Tower. The gate was a wispy thing, a spiderweb of magical strands, which swept open at their approach without any move on their part. Beyond the gate the Tower rose: two lofty, conical spires with a short, round foretower between them. The Tower thrust up from a flat meadow of neatly trimmed grass, the ground smooth underfoot. A single door stood in that smaller, central structure, a plain-looking barrier of weathered hardwood boards, banded by three stands of rusty iron. A large keyhole gaped just below a metal ring, which suggested use as both a knocker and handle.

The Tower rested upon a foundation that seemed to flow directly from the ground itself. It was all smooth black stone, almost glassy in appearance, which swept upward uninterrupted by any suggestion of a joint or seam. It was unmarred by cracks or blemishes. It was as though the bedrock itself had given birth to the Tower, magically extending toward the sky.

Kalrakin touched that cool, smooth black surface, pressing his white Irda Stone against the outer wall. He closed his eyes, shivering slightly.

"I see clearly that this foundation is set very deeply into the ground. The walls here are very, very thick. There are many levels in the Tower, chambers and stairways too numerous to estimate. I find at least one chamber that strangely seems much larger than the Tower itself!"

Kalrakin suddenly trembled, and his eyes opened, shining with excitement. "There is one room in the Tower, a chamber within walls of stone, masked by an enclosed barrier of solid metal. This is a special vault, a chamber of spectacular size built to hold unique treasures. The shell of iron masked my probing powers, but I could sense a quantity of magic there, magic in purity and potency that we have never before imagined."

He pressed his hands hard against the outer wall as if the sheer force of his will would push them physically into the treasure chamber.

But soon, with a shrug, Kalrakin turned and made his way back to the door. As he reached the portal, it opened automatically, swinging inward to reveal a small anteroom with a floor of black slate. A rug of exquisite beauty lay just within the entry.

"How did it open?" asked Luthar wonderingly as he hesitantly approached.

Kalrakin shook his head. "I don't know. I had yet to raise a hand when it swung wide. Once again, we are made welcome. We are invited."

Without delay he stepped through the entry, looking down with amusement at a colorful rug. He wiped his feet then watched with interest as the scuffs of mud vanished a second later, apparently absorbed by the threads of the fabric. Luthar followed him closely, but Kalrakin had already moved on. The anteroom opened into a huge, circular chamber with three large, different staircases spiraling upward, and several closed doors suggesting other rooms around the periphery of this central atrium.

When the tall sorcerer turned his attentions to one of the nearest of the closed doors, staring curiously, its portal swung open. Pleasing aromas-fresh-baked bread, roast meats-emerged, and Kalrakin stepped into a small banquet room. There was a table large enough for perhaps a dozen guests, but now it was set for two, with silver candleholders holding long, burning tapers. A bottle of wine rested in a platinum dish filled with crushed ice; beside it sat a decanter filled with dark red liquid. A haunch of roast beef, steaming hot, oozed juices on a large wooden board, while a loaf of fresh bread and a dish of soft butter were positioned near both settings.

Kalrakin laughed out loud. He stepped forward, poured a glass of the red wine into one of several crystal goblets on the table. He quaffed the drink, losing a few droplets into the tangle of his beard, then hurled the vessel at the stone wall, just above the dark, cool hearth. The glass shattered, shards exploding across the room, leaving crimson drops spattering across the wall.

"Was that necessary?"

The sorcerer whirled around at these words, his beard and hair flying wildly, eyes bulging in shock as a man in a long black robe entered the room from a discreet side door. He bore a staff capped by the golden image of a dragon's head, and his robe formed a hood that draped loosely over his head. His face was aged, but he moved with the grace of a younger man. His eyes were very deep set, and they flashed with challenge as he stepped into the dining room.

Luthar gasped in alarm, clapping a hand to his mouth. Kalrakin drew himself up to his full, imposing height, and glared at the Black Robe like a hawk ready to seize its prey.

"And just who are you?" Kalrakin demanded.

"I am the one who invited you here," said the newcomer. His tone was stern, yet not angry. "I saw that the gates were parted, the food was ready and available, for your pleasure. But I am surprised-and disappointed-that you do not treat this hallowed place with more respect. After all, you come with a legacy of magic; that much I could sense from a hundred… a thousand miles away. We should strive together to make this place alive, again!"

"A legacy of magic?" The sorcerer howled with laughter, and held up the Irda Stone. "This is what you sensed! My magic has fooled you. Yes, it has a legacy, but as different from yours as your three moons. As for me, I spit on your gods, your magic. I would spit on your three moons if I could!"