“Are there no words to be spoken?” Raistlin asked, shivering.
“Of course,” Fistandantilus replied coolly, his body bending down near Raistlin’s, his eyes nearly on a level with the young mage’s. Carefully, he placed the bloodstone on Raistlin’s chest. “You are about to hear them... They will be the last sounds you ever hear...”
Raistlin felt his flesh crawl at the touch and for a moment could barely restrain himself from breaking away and fleeing. No, he told himself coldly, clenching his hands, digging his nails into the flesh so that the pain would distract his thoughts from fear, I must hear the words!
Quivering, he forced himself to lie there, but he could not refrain from closing his eyes, blotting out the sight of the evil, wizened face so near his own that he could smell the decaying breath...
“That’s right,” said a soft voice, “relax...” Fistandantilus began to chant.
Concentrating on the complex spell, the wizard closed his own eyes, swaying back and forth as he pressed the bloodstone pendant into Raistlin’s flesh. Fistandantilus did not notice, therefore, that his words were being repeated, murmured feverishly by the intended victim. By the time he realized something was wrong, he had ended the reciting of the spell and was standing, waiting, for the first infusion of new life to warm his ancient bones.
There was nothing.
Alarmed, Fistandantilus opened his eyes. He stared in astonishment at the black-robed young mage lying on the cold stone slab, and then the wizard made a strange, inarticulate sound and staggered backward in a sudden fear he could not hide.
“I see you recognize me at last,” said Raistlin, sitting up. One hand rested upon the stone slab, but the other was in one of the secret pockets of his robes. “So much for the body waiting for you in the future.”
Fistandantilus did not answer. His gaze darted to Raistlin’s pocket, as though he would pierce through the fabric with his black eyes.
Quickly he regained his composure. “Did the great Par-Salian send you back here, little mage?” he asked derisively. But his gaze remained on the mage’s pocket.
Raistlin shook his head as he slid off the stone slab. Keeping one hand in the pocket of his robes, he moved the other to draw back the black hood, allowing Fistandantilus to see his true face, not the illusion he had maintained for these past long months. “I came myself. I am Master of the Tower now.”
“That’s impossible,” the wizard snarled.
Raistlin smiled, but there was no answering smile in his cold eyes, which kept Fistandantilus always in their mirror like gaze. “So you thought. But you made a mistake. You underestimated me. You wrenched part of my lifeforce from me during the Test, in return for protecting me from the drow. You forced me to live a life of constant pain in a shattered body, doomed me to dependence on my brother. You taught me to use the dragon orb and kept me alive when I would have died at the Great Library of Palanthas. During the War of the Lance, you helped me drive the Queen of Darkness back to the Abyss where she was no longer a threat to the world—or to you. Then, when you had gained enough strength in this time, you intended to return to the future and claim my body! You would have become me.”
Raistlin saw Fistandantilus’s eyes narrow, and the young mage tensed, his hand closing over the object he carried in his robes. But the wizard only said mildly, “That is all correct. What do you intend to do about it? Murder me?”
“No,” said Raistlin softly, “I intend to become you!”
“Fool!” Fistandantilus laughed shrilly. Raising a withered hand, he held up the bloodstone pendant. “The only way you could do that is to use this on me! And it is protected against all forms of magic by charms the power of which you have no conception, little mage—”
His voice died away to a whisper, strangled in sudden fear and shock as Raistlin removed his hand from his robe. In his palm lay the bloodstone pendant.
“Protected from all forms of magic,” said the young mage, his grin like that of a skull’s, “but not protected against sleight-of-hand. Not protected against the skills of a common street illusionist...”
Raistlin saw the wizard turn deathly pale. Fistandantilus’s eyes went feverishly to the chain on his neck. Now that the illusion was revealed, he realized he held nothing in his hand.
A rending, cracking sound shattered the silence. The stone floor beneath Raistlin’s feet heaved, sending the young mage stumbling to his knees. Rock blew apart as the foundation of the laboratory broke in half. Above the chaos rose Fistandantilus’s voice, chanting a powerful spell of summoning.
Recognizing it, Raistlin responded, clutching the bloodstone in his hand as he cast a spell of shielding around his body to give himself time to work his magic. Crouched on the floor, he twisted around to see a figure burst through the foundation, its hideous shape and visage something seen only in insane dreams.
“Seize him, hold him!” Fistandantilus shrieked, pointing at Raistlin. The apparition surged across the crumbling floor toward the young mage and reached for him with its writhing coils.
Fear overwhelmed Raistlin as the creature from beyond worked its own horrible magic on him.
The shielding spell crumbled beneath the onslaught. The apparition would devour his soul and feast upon his flesh.
Control! Long hours of study, long-practiced strength and rigorous self-discipline brought the words of the spell Raistlin needed to his mind. Within moments, it was complete. As the young mage began to chant the words of banishment, he felt the ecstasy of his magic flow through his body, delivering him from the fear.
The apparition hesitated.
Fistandantilus, furious, ordered it on.
Raistlin ordered it to halt.
The apparition glared at each, its coils twisting, its very appearance shifting and shimmering in the gusty winds of its creation. Both mages held it in check, watching the other intently, waiting for the eye blink, the lip twitch, the spasmodic jerk of a finger that would prove fatal.
Neither moved, neither seemed likely to move. Raistlin’s endurance was greater, but Fistandantilus’s magic came from ancient sources; he could call upon unseen powers to support him.
Finally, it was the apparition itself who could no longer endure. Caught between two equal, conflicting powers, tugged and pulled in opposite directions, its magical being could be held together no longer. With a brilliant flash, it exploded.
The force hurled both mages backward, slamming them into the walls. A horrible smell filled the chamber, and broken glass fell like rain. The walls of the laboratory were blackened and charred.
Here and there, small fires burned with bright, multicolored flames, casting a lurid glow over the site of the destruction.
Raistlin staggered swiftly to his feet, wiping blood from a cut on his forehead. His enemy was not less quick, both knowing weakness meant death. The two mages faced each other in the flickering light.
“So, it comes to this!” Fistandantilus said in his cracked and ancient voice. “You could have gone on, living a life of ease. I would have spared you the debilities, the indignities of old age. Why rush to your own destruction?”
“You know,” Raistlin said softly, breathing heavily, his strength nearly spent.
Fistandantilus nodded slowly, his eyes on Raistlin. “As I said,” he murmured softly, “it is a pity this must happen. We could have done much together, you and I. Now—”
“Life for one. Death for the other,” Raistlin said. Reaching out his hand, he carefully laid the bloodstone pendant upon the cold slab. Then he heard the words of chanting and raised his voice in an answering chant himself.