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building with narrow windows and ivy-covered turrets. It seemed to Colivar that a vague pall of sorcerous irritation hung over it, thick in the humid afternoon air. He reclaimed his human form, brushed a bit of dirt from his black linen shirt, and tried not to let his amusement show as he climbed the great stairs to the entrance. But it would be a mistake to think that the challenge was over merely because he had reached his destination safely. Magisters played a longer game.
    The front doors opened at his approach with no human hand to guide them. A whisper of energy, sent to greet him, beckoned for him to follow it. Colivar expended enough athra to confirm its purpose and—when he was satisfied as to Ramirus’ intentions—let it lead him deep into the house. Shadowy halls were punctuated by thin beams of dusty sunlight, a setting oddly reminiscent of King Danton’s depressing keep. You served Aurelius for too long, Ramirus. He thought it loudly, just in case his host was trying to read his thoughts. It has soured your taste .
    The chamber at his journey’s end was a study of sorts, with glass-fronted cabinets containing book, scrolls, and even a few clay tablets. Colivar resisted the impulse to identify the latter with his sorcery. Such tablets could be items of great age, and therefore of great value, or they could simply be another test, a trick, one last temptation for him to waste his power before negotiations began.
    Ramirus stood when he entered; it would be hard to say whether his stern expression was meant to communicate respect or distaste. Probably both, Colivar thought. He looked much the same as he had the day King Danton had banished him—long white hair and beard flawlessly groomed, ebony robe falling in graceful folds, expression darkly serene. And why not? Danton was dead now, along with a good part of his family. Ramirus probably considered it divine justice. Even a high king should think twice before insulting a Magister.
    â€œColivar. What a surprise.” Ramirus’ tone was dry. “I would offer you refreshment, but I find myself lacking anything . . . appropriate.”
    The black-haired Magister chuckled. “Poison’s all in the moat, eh?”
    A cold smile flickered across those ancient lips. Age was an art form to Ramirus, each line and wrinkle applied to his face with the meticulous care of a master painter. It was more than mere aesthetic conceit, Colivar knew. Even by Magister standards Ramirus was said to be old, and for such a man the trappings of physical age were a badge of honor. Even with his eyes hooded by folds of flesh like fine aged vellum, the piercing clarity of his gaze was undiminished. “I would not insult a visitor in such a manner.” The velvet words masked a razor’s edge. “Not one who comes in peace.”
    Colivar bowed his head ever so slightly. “You no longer serve the Aurelius, so we have no reason to be enemies.”
    â€œIndeed. No more than any two Magisters. Which is not saying much, is it?” He peered at Colivar, studying him closely, as one might do with some strange winged creature that had flown in the window of its own accord, trying to assess whether or not it could be trusted not to make a mess on the rug.
    â€œPlease have a seat,” he said at last.
    Colivar did so, guessing at the chair his host favored and, in a rare show of graciousness, choosing another. “You go without a patron these days, I hear.”
    â€œPerhaps. Or perhaps I am simply discreet about my business.” Again he smiled, ever so briefly. “It is not a quality I expect you to understand.”
    The windows were cloaked in heavy curtains, Colivar noted, shutting out the sun. A single amber lamp struggled in vain to illuminate the gloomy chamber. Either Ramirus had absorbed too much of Danton’s aesthetic while he worked for the man, or he wished to protect the contents of the room from the damaging