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Caramon fell backward. "All right," he mumbled. "I'll. . . I'll
meet you . . . outside." He flashed the Mage a threatening glance.
Then he turned and walked out of the chamber, his huge
battlesword clanking against his thigh.
A door thudded, then there was silence.
"I apologize for my brother," Raistlin said, his lips barely
moving.
"Do you?" Par-Salian asked. "Why?"
The young man scowled. "Because he always . . . Oh, can't we
just get on with this?" His hands clenched beneath the sleeves of
his robe.
"Of course," the Mage replied, leaning back in his chair.
Raistlin stood straight, eyes open and unblinking. Then he drew in
a sharp breath.
The Mage made a gesture. There was a sound, a shattering
crack. Quickly, the conjurer vanished.
A VOICE SPOKE FROM THE NETHER REGIONS.
"WHY MUST WE TEST THIS ONE SO SEVERELY?"
PAR-SALIAN'S TWISTED HANDS CLASPED AND
UNCLASPED. "WHO QUESTIONS THE GODS?" HE
FROWNED. "THEY DEMANDED A SWORD. I FOUND ONE,
BUT HIS METAL IS WHITE HOT. HE MUST BE BEATEN . . .
TEMPERED. . . MADE USEFUL."
"AND IF HE BREAKS?"
"THEN WE WILL BURY THE PIECES," MURMURED THE
MAGE.
Raistlin dragged himself away from the dead body of the dark
elf. Wounded and exhausted, he crawled into a shadowy corridor
and slumped against a wall. Pain twisted him. He clutched his
stomach and retched. When the convulsion subsided, he lay back
on the stone floor and waited for death
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