"This tower has become the foundation of my being. It is slowly dying, and with each shattered block, each fresh hole in the wall, every blasted stone or swath of ceiling plaster, the power abandons these ancient stones and flows to me. As this structure, raised from the very bones of the world-as the wizards were once so fond of claiming-yields its power to me, it rots away, just as old bones rot. It is dissolving around us even as we grow stronger because of it. When it passes from the world of Krynn, I will take its place… strong, even indestructible, and everlasting."

"Do you mean you are becoming immortal?" In spite of his best efforts, Luthar sounded skeptical, and the shorter mage sneaked a close look at Kalrakin, wondering if he might glimpse a glimmer of derangement.

"More than immortal!" Kalrakin crowed. "I am becoming not just godlike, but mightier than the gods! Those three pathetic moons who created, who watch over this place-they are my puppets, my toys, my bread! I consume them, and they deliver me ultimate power!"

With a gesture of his hand, Kalrakin swatted at the fire and a great explosion pulsed through the room, knocking Luthar to the floor. The great force of the blast rushed outward, smashing right through the outer wall of the tower, leaving a gaping hole in the stones and sending the logs, embers, and coals plunging downward to the courtyard forty feet below.

"I am feeding, Luthar, and I grow stronger with every meal!"

The tall mage strode right into the smoldering ruins of the fireplace, placing his hand on a shattered stone, leaning outward through the hole in the wall to admire his handiwork. The larger logs, sooty and still burning, were scattered like matchsticks; a smoky cloud lingered in the air.

Abruptly Kalrakin turned and stalked from the wrecked room, heading for the main hall. All around him were shattered doors, scorched walls, and rubble. The alcoves between each apartment once were magically illuminated and once had displayed the treasures of history: a scepter from Silvanesti sparkling with gems excavated during the Age of Dreams; a vase of icy crystal, permanently chilled, reputed to have come, a dozen centuries ago, from some land far across the sea; a pair of bracers that had been worn by Huma himself when he flew against the Dark Queen. Now the alcoves were empty, the enchantments drained away, the ground was strewn with shards of broken glass and scattered jewels gleaming weakly in the sunlight that spilled through the various breaches in the outer wall.

This had once been a level of luxuriously appointed apartments, quarters for the mightiest of the wizards who had studied, taught, and convened here. Paintings from the old masters of Krynn had decorated each anteroom, with many of the canvasses predating the first Cataclysm. Now the frames were broken, the images stained and distorted and shredded by wild magic.

Kalrakin paused to admire one of the ruined paintings. Once it had been an intricate moving painting, a ritual display of elegant dancers performing their stylized steps at a grand ball in the grand manor of the Lord of Palanthas. The sorcerer snorted in amusement-the painting still moved-but now the lord in the image was dead, impaled by a decorative halberd, while the dancers moaned and writhed on the floor, their faces pocked by plague, blood running from their mouths and ears.

He placed his hand against the wall, and a blue-lit doorway opened. Two steps took Kalrakin through the outer wall of the Tower, emerging at ground level. He advanced until he stood just within the gates in the outer courtyard. Here his golem stood silent watch, its marbled brows tiered in a constant frown, the boulders of its fists dangling at its sides. Those fists, at the low terminus of two long, powerful arms, hung high above the tall sorcerer's head.

"Keep a careful watch, my stone sentry," Kalrakin said, tracing his hand over the craggy outline of one of its massive boots. "Be ready to smite the lackeys of the three gods-I know they will be here soon."

Of course there came no reply, but the wild mage nodded serenely, utterly reassured by the emanations of readiness he felt within the stone sentry. When it was needed, the golem would be ready.

Then Kalrakin was back in the Tower of Sorcery, this time in the hallway outside that vexing door that still resisted his most determined efforts. He stood on one of the damaged floorboards, staring at the barrier contemptuously. He toyed with the thought of another convulsive blast of magic, but decided the contemptible chamber was not worth his efforts; instead, he turned and stalked away, following the broken boards like a rickety bridge toward the stone stairwell at the end of the hall.

Halfway there he halted, frozen in his tracks. His mind churning with pent-up frustration, he whirled, his long finger extended toward that vexing door. An inarticulate cry exploded from his mouth, and wild magic shimmered in the air. That power lashed out, smashed into the door-and then burst backward against the spellcaster, slamming Kalrakin down onto the remains of the floor, rolling him along until he fell between two support beams, barely catching himself with a desperate grab of one lanky arm.

He pulled himself back and staggered toward the stairs, growing stronger every minute. Lost in thought, he opened another dimension door in the stone wall. His next step brought him back to the anteroom.

"Luthar! Bring me drink!" he called, his voice booming and echoing through the empty chamber and its towering adjacent hallways.

"Yes-of course, Master!" Kalrakin heard footsteps from the direction of the kitchen and, moments later, Luthar hastened into view. He carried a crystal pitcher, the outside of it slick with condensation.

"Chilled water," offered the short mage.

Taking the pitcher with a swipe of his hand, Kalrakin leaned his head back and poured the ice-cold contents into his gaping mouth. He ignored the spillage, though in fact much of the water splashed through his beard, soaked his robe, and fell into a growing puddle on the floor. When the pitcher was empty, the mage sent it flying across the hall; it shattered against the stone hearth, and joined the wreckage on the floor.

"Would you like something to eat?" asked Luthar.

"Hah!" Kalrakin sneered at the very idea. "Wild magic is my breath, and the body of this tower is my bread! I have no need of sleep, and I have no need of food, not while this ancient totem still stands."

"Dare I ask-how long will that be?" said the shorter mage somewhat wearily. "I am ready to go away from here, Master. There is a sense of doom about this place that allows me no peace."

"We do not need peace, my friend-for we have power!"

Magic sparked from Kalrakin's slender fingertips, arcing through the room in repeated, visible streams. The stone over the door began to melt, flowing like mud, seeping right across the wooden panel that had allowed access into and out of the tower. Pieces of black stone tumbled to the floor, sparking and flaming, rolling around the room, trailing plumes of thick smoke. Luthar cried out and fled from the room, though not before one of the rolling chunks of molten rock scorched the hem of his robe.

Kalrakin took scant notice. He flexed his fist and his voice rose in a keening, bestial cry, and still the very substance of the Tower broke apart and flowed down and added to his magic. Deeper and deeper the molten stone piled, sludgy waves of darkness rolling down across already-cooling base elements. By the time he was finished, the door was gone, buried under a sheen of hard black stone.