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. His damp palms
moved stickily over the glossy wood panels. A strange,
irresistible smell came to Sturm's nostrils, an odor of spice
such as he had never known before. Where the corridor
crossed another he stopped, uncertain which way to go. A
fresh waft of spice drew him to the right. Down the hall a
high, curving staircase of black marble spiraled up,
following the sweep of the palace wall. Midway up, a single
torch burned in an iron bracket.
Sturm mounted the steps. The odor was stronger and
more compelling with every rising step. As he passed under
the torch, Sturm heard a peculiar sound - the gurgle of slow-
moving liquid. The steps ended at a black door studded with
silver spikes. It was ajar.
Sturm's hand reached out, wavered ... He could not
resist. He touched the door with one finger, and it opened
wide for him.
Even yellow light filled the room beyond. It was a
workshop of some sort, filled with all sorts of strange
things: tables laden with crystals of odd color and shape;
stuffed animals with glass-bead eyes that stared knowingly
back at Sturm. Shelves lined with fancy canisters and
bundles of dried herbs, neatly labeled in some foreign
script. And books. More books than Sturm had ever seen in
his life
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