The Black Robe's face grew pale, and his knuckles tightened where he gripped his staff. "How dare you!" he hissed.

Kalrakin merely sneered. "I have no need to kowtow to you or your silly gods. Your era, and theirs, is through. It is time you made way for me!"

"You shall not dare to blaspheme the gods of magic, not here, in this most sacred of places!" declared the Black Robe in outrage. "Perhaps I have made a mistake. You and your friend must leave this place-now!"

"I have no intention of leaving," Kalrakin replied. With elaborate casualness he poured himself another goblet of wine, took a deep and messy drink, and hurled this second vessel against the wall so that it burst amid the shards of the previous shattered goblet. "No, I like it here," he declared with a bark of a laugh. "And you do not frighten me, Black Robe."

"Go!" roared the wizard, in a voice that rattled the windows and rumbled through the floor and the walls. His robe flapped as if in the midst of a gale, and the staff grew longer in his hand. The gold dragon head seemed to darken until it was blood red in color, and now flames flickered within the image's eyes. "Go at once, if you wish to leave here alive!"

"Let us leave, my lord," Luthar urged in a whisper, coming around the great table to tug on his companion's arm. "We should do as he suggests!"

"Be silent!" Kalrakin snapped, seizing Luthar by the face and pushing him down hard. The rotund sorcerer toppled back heavily to the floor, where he looked between the other two men with wide, frightened eyes.

"Do you not recognize this flesh?" demanded the Black Robe, stepping closer, stamping his staff against the stone floor. More thunder rolled, and his dark eyes flashed as if they might release the force of lightning at any second. Dark smoke spumed from the flared nostrils of the dragon head.

"I see a simple-minded mage," Kalrakin declared, sneering. "One who does not realize that his era is gone. One who is about to learn some lessons."

"I am Fistandantilus!" roared the wizard. "I am the most feared wielder of magic in the history of Krynn! I have consumed the souls of greater men than you, and I am always hungry for more! You are a fool if you do not flee now, running for your wretched lives! Or perhaps you want to feel the tortures of a thousand years-do you think I can't arrange that!?"

"Cheap tricks," Kalrakin said with an arrogant shrug. Once again he flipped the white Irda Stone between his hands. Then he laughed, a sound that brought an almost comical expression of outrage to the face of Fistandantilus. "I do not fear you. In fact, I doubt your power. Your impotence is proof that your time is passed… that my era commences."

"Doubt at your own risk, fool! Depart at once, or I shall unleash that might to your unending regret!" declared the Black Robe. "The black moon is high in the sky, and the power of Nuitari once again thrums in the world!"

"Power? You speak of power! Here is power!"

The sorcerer held up the white bauble. It pulsed, and a stab of light flew outward, a spear of pure energy. The white light made no sound, but the flash of brilliance lingered in the room almost like an echo, ebbing and flowing ominously around the form of the ancient, black-robed wizard. A corona that shone like the sun outlined the shape of the wizard; his staff glowed fiercely. And then the illumination began to grow even brighter, until it seemed that it must turn into fire-yet there was no heat.

Slowly, gradually, it began to wane, allowing the shadows back into the room, plunging everything suddenly into darkness. And when the light had finally faded altogether, the Black Robe was gone. There was no residue where he had stood, no mark to prove that he had even been there.

"Wh-hat happened? Where did he go?" stammered Luthar, climbing nervously to his feet. He had been holding his hands over his eyes so tightly that he left red impressions of his fingers in his cheeks and forehead.

Kalrakin shrugged. "What does it matter? He is gone and will trouble us no more. First let us eat. Then we will have a look around our new home."

Wizards of White and Black

Dalamar the Dark rode his magic steed through the skies of Krynn. Wind whistled past, flapping his black robe against his lean frame, streaming his hair into a long tail behind him. He squinted, leaned low, and looked down to study the forest of Qualinesti as it undulated past. To his right, the snowy peaks of the High Kharolis gleamed, a horizontal necklace of eternal ice. Dark thunderheads loomed over that great mountain range, though the air before the wizard was clear, lofting to a sky of pale blue.

The phantom steed he rode was a ghostly shape, sleek and horselike as it pulsed and shimmered in the air, vaulting the dark elf through the sky with speed approaching dragon-flight. For hours he had flown over a seemingly endless forest, but he knew that before midafternoon he would arrive at his destination-even though Solace lay hundreds of miles to the northeast, beyond the far border of Qualinesti.

A sense of growing urgency propelled him, allowing for no delay. He recognized that he needed help. For too long he had been alone. Since he had awakened, starving and weak in a small cave in Silvanesti, he had learned to relish his mortal flesh again, even those flaws, those proofs of life, such as the hunger that periodically gnawed at his belly. While he languished under the black power of Mina, those things had been gone from his existence.

Dalamar shuddered momentarily then sneered at the memory of Mina; it didn't matter. That was over now, her dark power broken. He flexed his muscles, feeling them ripple beneath his smooth, unblemished skin. He rotated his arms, flexed his fingers, leaned back, and relished the smooth and uncomplaining response of his muscles. Another treasure.of life… another thing for him to cherish.

He had learned to cherish the bad along with the good. He remembered, upon awakening, that he had pulled aside the black robe covering his chest and looked down to see five bleeding sores. These had been marks of discipline, the punishment of his Shalafi many decades ago. They would never heal, not so long as he breathed-and for once, the presence of the oozing marks reassured, even pleased, him.

For, by all the gods, he lived again!

That life itself was a reward of sorts surprised him, but he was grateful that it had been granted to him. The greatest gift, the true blessing that the gods had bestowed upon him when they restored him to life, was neither the pumping of his blood, nor his complete control over the physical form of his body. It was something that he sensed in his mind and in his soul, a churning, growing power that bubbled there, percolating through his thoughts, permeating his very being. And he knew:

His master of magic had returned. Nuitari, the black moon, once again soared through the skies of Krynn.

Even before Mina had taken him, the dark elf had languished for long years, despairing of ever wielding his black arts again. Of course, he had dabbled in the wild sorcery, even learned some of the art of necromancy, but that had been a pale imitation of true magic, the blessed power of his god, Nuitari. Always there had been the taint of corruption around the wild magic. Now that the god Nuitari, and his magical cousins, had returned to the cosmos, wild sorcery was nothing less than pale imitation-no, blasphemy.

Indeed, Dalamar knew his destiny: He would be the leading prophet of that ancient magic, and he would drive the corruption of sorcery back into the shadows where it belonged. Lovingly Dalamar traced his hands over the silver runes embroidered into his robe, as the material fluttered and flapped in the wind of his passage. For decades the runes had been dull and silent; now they glowed and sparkled, and he could feel the warmth of their power in the mere touch of his fingers. They were potent again, and this robe was no longer a mere garment. It was his badge, his armor, his herald, all in one.