Then, faintly, there came a sign-not a word or a message so much as the faintest of impulses, a hint of comfort, a signal that the ancient strength was being stirred and restored. The forest, like the Tower, was alive!

The Master of the Tower strained to enhance that contact, to reassure, to invigorate, but the weakness and hopelessness were too pervasive. Long years, decades, of catatonic unawareness had sapped the Tower's ability to project strength, to wield the sorcerous fundament that was its reason for existing.

But that arcane power held on and began to grow, and the master felt the power of all three gods of magic begin to thrum through those stones, parapets, and foundation. That magical might flowed into the surrounding forest, and the trees and shrubs and grasses began to show small signs of life. Over the course of another moon cycle, limbs once withered and drooping began to grow straight and strong, brown and rotted foliage fell away to be replaced by green buds that, in the course of only a few more days, turned into leaves and blossoms, fruits and nuts.

Slowly that warm embrace encircled the Tower, and the Master felt the vitality of ancient strength build and grow.

But the world beyond remained a vast wilderness, a haven of wild magic and blasphemy, a dark blight of ignorance, of seeking based on false gods. There was no time for rest, or reflection. There was an urgency in the summons of the gods, an urgency that the Tower and forest felt and shared. They had important work to do, and time was the enemy; for, with each passing sunset, the chaotic force of wild magic grew stronger in the world.

The Master of the Tower was a bulwark against that surging tide, but he alone was not strong enough, nor vital enough. The Tower needed a wizard, a mortal master to return here, to take up the challenge. The pulse had gone out across the world, a vibration through the ether that would tickle the fabric of magic, to seek, and to bring such a wizard home, to the Tower.

And now a wizard had come.

Kalrakin stared at the door, his bristling brows tautly knit together by the force of his concentration. Wild magic surrounded him, energy surging through the stones of the floor, entering his feet, climbing his legs, suffusing his body with the force of imminent, inevitable explosion. The sorcerer raised his right hand, where the Irda Stone shimmered with its pearly glow. For more than a day, he had prepared this spell, using the artifact to draw the power from many parts of the Tower, gathering it for this powerful blast.

Kalrakin concentrated his powerful store of magic not at the door-that barrier had resisted all of his previous efforts- but at the granite frame surrounding this entryway. With a cry of exultation, he let the spell go, hurling all his power-and the power of the Irda Stone-at that smooth granite.

Pain wracked his hands, his arms, and his shoulders. A vise closed around his heart, and his cry became a shriek of pain. Kalrakin stumbled backward, smashing his back against the opposite wall. Fire tinged the fringes of his vision, and he choked in agony, straining for a single breath of air. But his lungs would not respond. Blackness closed in, and though he fought to keep standing, he could not prevent himself from sliding down to slump on the floor, shoulders flat against the wall.

Very slowly, he drew a ragged breath, precious air driving back the unconsciousness that threatened to overwhelm him. His legs twitched convulsively. He was drooling into his beard-yet Kalrakin was unable to raise a hand, even to wipe his lips. He groaned. Bracing his hands to either side, he forced himself to sit upright and wiped his mouth spasmodically.

Crimson streaked his hand-from a cut on his lip and from blood streaming from his nose. His fists clenched in fury, and he spat contemptuously at the stubborn door, a glob of bloody saliva that dripped slowly down the deceptively mundane-looking planks.

Finally, he stood, turning toward the opposite wall of the hallway, confronting his own reflection in a crystal mirror, in an ornate platinum frame. With a strangled cry, Kalrakin smashed his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass. Ignoring the shards on the floor, he stalked on through the Tower.

This was the second time he had assaulted the wizard-locked door. The first had been weeks earlier, shortly after he and Luthar had arrived here. The first time the sorcerer had smashed the planks with a great battle axe. The blade, heavy steel of dwarven manufacture, enchanted with ancient magic, had bounced off the wooden planks without making so much as a scratch. Kalrakin had exhausted himself banging on the portal, without making any progress.

This time, he had focused on the stone, holding it while he caressed a multitude of magical items that he had collected while ransacking the Tower. Thus he had drained away the enchantments in pitchers that never emptied, weapons of rare ensorcellment, doorknobs and saddles and lamps that had each been infused with potent magical power. They were mundane and lifeless now, the enchantments having been absorbed by the Irda Stone.

But even that potent blast of stored magic had been thwarted by the wizard lock.

Kalrakin spiraled down a long ways, past many other doors and landings, passages leading through the still-imperfectly mapped tower. He found Luthar in the great dining room in the foretower. The rotund mage sat at the big table, eating noisily.

"Come-I wish to try again."

"You can't wait for tomorrow?" Luthar said with a grimace.

"We have been waiting for too many tomorrows," snapped the tall sorcerer. His hawk-nose jutted angrily toward his compatriot. "We are making no progress-none at all! That door must be sealed by the power of the gods themselves! I sent a surge of wild magic that would have torn down a castle-but it rebounded against me, had no effect on either the door or its frame."

"That makes only five rooms, all sealed, in this whole tower," Luthar reflected. "There are a hundred times that many we are able to enter and make our own. Again, Master, I counsel patience. These doors will open to us, in time. In the meantime, think what we have: food of any variety, as much as we want, provided by the Tower; drink; and treasures galore!"

"Bah-I have no patience for petty delights! Or for fools, Luthar. We have discovered apartments both Spartan and sumptuous; galleries of rare art, pantries and cisterns and training halls. All of them are filled with silly trinkets and novelties-paintings with moving pictures, dishes that wash themselves, rings and bracelets of various natures. But where are the true artifacts: the library of scrolls, the laboratory of potions and elixirs? What of the treasures of the ages, those items that will pave my way to ultimate mastery?

"No, my slow-witted friend, these all-important relics are still hidden away from us. And those are the secrets of the five doors, the doors locked by the ancient wizards, doors that still resist our most potent magic."

"Every lock can be broken," Luthar replied plaintively. "If not with a spell, then with great force. You must collect a greater force.

"No, these ancient wizard locks require a clever solution." Kalrakin said. "Clearly they encompass all sides of these chambers, including the floor and ceiling-I have tried to warp the stones in all dimensions, but they resist every probe, every advance of my wild magic. I need to find another way."

"There are times, Master, when I feel as though this cursed tower is alive, is working against us-it's like a secret enemy, lurking around the corner of every hallway-watching, scheming. I tell you, I don't like it! It is dangerous here, and we don't need this place! The whole world is open to us-maybe we should just go somewhere else?"

"No. There is a purpose here, a reason that we were invited in. The Tower beckoned to us, drew us through the dark wood, brought us safely within. It wanted us to come."