Carefully he shifted around to a sitting position, expecting his guts to start heaving at any time. Yet, strangely, his stomach felt all right, and even the throbbing between his temples was fading rapidly.

Finally he stood halfway upright, leaning against one of the shacks that formed this secluded alley, the place where he had been drinking too much and sleeping it off for so many years. He raised the bottle, brought the mouth to his lips-

And then he glimpsed the moon.

Solinari was setting, full and white and even larger than normal because of its proximity to the horizon. He could see that white orb clearly, as he had since its return to Krynn some months ago, but now, for the first time, he sensed that it was calling him.

There was a second's pause as he looked at the bottle, then decisively, he cast it away. Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself to his feet, ready to lean on the shack for balance. But his legs were feeling strong, his breathing grew steady-he wasn't even drunk anymore!

His eyes fell upon the dirty brown rag of his garment, and he felt a crush of shame that brought tears to his eyes. Again, he looked to that moon, and made a silent plea for forgiveness.

The blessing of Solinari flowed around him, a shower of cool white light encircling, washing, and warming him.

By the time he started toward the end of the alley, he was fully awake, and his robe, though still tattered, was a gleaming, ivory white.

And so the smoke from the three globes fanned out across the world, serving as beacons of the gods of magic, seeking, searching, and finding those few magic users who had survived, who had lived through the long twilit years when their gods had been absent from the world. The vaporous tendrils spanned mountains, pierced the deepest jungle, and scoured the deserts. They reached deep into the ground, through caverns and dungeons, and penetrated to the upper vaults of the loftiest castles. Mostly the plumes flowed past, but every so often one found a latent coal, an ember of magic that was kindled to life, fanned into a renewed flame.

For more than four decades the followers of the three gods had known only a painful absence, gaping holes where the cherished part of their lives had cruelly stolen away. There was nothing to reward the faith and the skills of those lost souls-no power, no hope, no future.

Many of their number had died, as often as not in wretchedness and despair. Others had turned to wild magic, seduced so fully that they would never be called back. Indeed, there were many sorcerers who cowered and cringed under the Night of the Eye. They felt in that prominence of moonlight the presence of an enemy, an intractable and revitalized foe.

As to those whose magic was kindled, be it black, red, or white, they were awakened, they knew resurgent hope on the Night of the Eye And they turned their steps toward Wayreth Forest.

The Bastion

Will this cursed night never end?" demanded Kalrakin, stalking through the largest room in the Tower, the Hall of Mages. The ceiling was lost in the vast black space, obscured by shadows; the sorcerer's words echoed as he threw back his head and shouted skyward. "Those moons taunt me, vex me. If they would but come closer, I would smite them all!"

Wild magic pulsed suddenly, a flash of light emanating from the white stone he perpetually held in his hand. In that blink of time, he teleported, coming to stand again in the banquet hall where he had first encountered the Master of the Tower. He found food on the table, as usual, but the wizard disdained the splendid feast, knocking over a pitcher of milk in contempt, tumbling a bowl of fruit so that apples and melons rolled across the floor.

"Come to the door, my lord. I see the pink of dawn in the east." Luthar called from the anteroom. "This night is ending, at last!"

"It is about time!" snapped Kalrakin. "And Luthar…?"

"Yes, lord?"

"I have been thinking. I want you to call me 'master,' not lord," Kalrakin declared haughtily. "It seems more fitting, somehow, since I am the new master of the Tower of High Sorcery."

"Very well, my lo-Master," answered the other sorcerer, glancing nervously over his shoulder as Kalrakin approached. Luthar stepped back from the open door to let his companion see the fringe of light coming into view above the eastern horizon. "It is welcome, the sun, is it not?" he asked.

"Welcome in that it signals the conclusion of this accursed night!" snapped the sorcerer. "And the departure of those three moons that so vex my thoughts and my dreams!"

"Do they worry you very much, those moons?"

"No! They insult me-that is all. Of course, they signal their wizards who will come here, soon enough. The white-robed wench I chased away will certainly return, with all the assistance she can gather. But when they come, they will die. The moons taunt me, and for this insult I shall exact keen revenge!"

"How, Master?"

"When the wizards come, I will meet them with a surprise."

"What do you have planned?" Luthar asked, looking around nervously.

"Come!" Kalrakin seized the shorter man's shoulder in an iron grip. Wild magic swirled around them then they vanished, appearing in another second far above the ground level, standing side by side on the outer parapet of one of the tower's loftiest balconies. This was one of several perches supported by cantilevered beams, outcrops that jutted to the sides of the spire like a multitude of short, stubby branches. This platform was a small half circle, surrounded by a crenellated rim of carved black marble near the top of the north spire. Behind them a single door made of the same black stone as the tower's surface offered entry back into the spire.

"Please, Master-you frighten me!" Luthar gasped, cringing from the edge, pressing against the stone door that would allow passage back inside.

"I shall kill them slowly when they come-the red and the black will certainly die as painfully as possible. The white wench appeals to me-I think I may keep her alive for a time… after I cut the little bitch's tongue out, of course." He laughed dryly. "I will not have her casting any foolish spells."

"No, er, of course," Luthar said, with a sideways look at his master. The pudgy wizard looked a little pale. "But she seems like such a child-a mere girl! Surely her spells are foolish, as you say-and she is no threat?"

"Don't be beguiled by her appearance," warned the tall mage.

"I'm not beguiled!" Luthar insisted. "It is you that has an eye for her, after all!"

Kalrakin snorted. "I might find a use for her, that is all. Even you have your uses, old companion."

Luthar looked stricken at this remark but bit his lip and remained silent.

"You need more sun!" declared Kalrakin. "Come out here in the open, and savor my work."

"I can see very well from back here, Master."

Turning his back, contemptuously, on the other man, the master of wild magic studied the broad vista. "When these wizards of the three moons come to challenge me for this tower, I intend to greet them properly-in the form of a guardian at our gate. That should put them at their ease. And with a little fortune, all of them will be dead before they even reach our tower."

Stepping forward, Kalrakin placed his hand against the smooth, sun-warmed black marble forming the parapet of this high platform. He closed his eyes and drew upon wild magic, pulled it up from the depths of the world, summoned it through the foundation and walls of the Tower. He called that ancient sorcery to him, imbibing it like a powerful drug-even as its toxicity shook the tower. The ancient structure shuddered and writhed, and this brought a fierce grin to Kalrakin's face. The Irda Stone was like a hot ember, a powerful pulse in his hand. He squeezed and caressed the stone.