to clutch at the Lord of Spells … limbs that caught fire for all of the time it took Elminster to gasp in alarm before they met with some invisible force that melted them away, boiling off flesh and gore like black smoke. The screams were incredible, but Azuth's gentle, kindly voice cut through them like lantern light stabbing into darkness.
'Mystra loves you as no other,' the god told the mage, 'but she loves many, including myself and others neither of us know about, some in ways that would astonish or even disgust you. Be content with knowing that among all who share her love, you are the bright spirit and youth she cherishes, and I am the old wise teacher, None of us is better than the other, and she needs us all. Let jealousy of other Chosen…of other mages of any race, station, or outlook…never taint your soul.'
Elminster's goblet was full again. He nodded his understanding to the god through its wisps of smoke, as a score of winged she-fiends stabbed at the god with lances that blazed with red flame…and the air, with a silent lack of fuss, ate both weapons and fire.
One of the dusky-skinned fiend-women strayed a little too close to Azuth in her boldness and lost a wing to hungry empty air in a single blurred instant. Shrieking and sobbing, she tumbled away, falling to death below…a death that came rather more swiftly than the waiting ground, as other erinyes, eyes blazing with bloodlust, swooped on her and drove their lances home. Transfixed, the stricken erinyes stiffened, spurted blood in several directions, and fell like a stone.
Ignoring all of this, the god spoke serenely on. 'Magisters are wizards who achieve a measure of special recognition…powers, of course, as we spell hurlers measure things…in the eyes of Mystra, by being 'the best' of her mortal worshipers in terms of magical might. Most achieve the title by defeating the incumbent Magister and lose it by the same means…a process often fatal.'
As cornugons and pit fiends raged around the Height, watching their spells claw vainly at the god's unseen barrier, Azuth sipped from his own goblet and continued, 'Our Lady and I are working to change the nature of the Magister right now…though not overmuch…to make the Magisters less killers-of-rivals and more creators of new spells and ways of employing magic. Only one wizard is the Magister at a time. By serving themselves, they serve to proliferate and develop magic … and there is no greater way to serve Mystra. The purpose of her clergy is more to order and instruct, so that novices of the Art don't destroy themselves and Toril many times over before they've mastered basic understandings of magic … but were this task not governing them, the priests of Mystra would bend their talents more to what we now leave to the Magister.'
Azuth leaned forward, the fire brighter now, and said through the flames, 'You serve Mystra differently. She watches you and learns the human side of magic in all its hues from your experiences and the doings of those you meet…foes and friends alike. Yet the time has come for you to change, and grow, to serve as she'll need you to, in the centuries ahead.'
'Centuries?' Elminster murmured and discovered suddenly that he needed the contents of his goblet rather urgently. 'Watches me?'
Azuth smiled. 'Indiscretions with alluring ladies and all. Set all thoughts of that aside…she needs the entertainment 'you just being you' affords her more than she needs someone playacting to impress her. Now attend my words, Elminster Aumar. You are to learn and grow by using as little magic as possible in the year ahead. Use what is needful and no more.'
Elminster sputtered over his goblet, opened his mouth to protest…and met Azuth's kindly, knowing, almost mocking gaze. He drew in a deep breath, smiled, and sat back without saying anything.
Azuth smiled at that, and added, 'Moreover, you are not to have any deliberate contact with your own pet project, the Harpers, until Mystra advises you otherwise. They must learn to work and think for themselves, not forever looking over their shoulders for praise and guidance from Elminster.'
It was Elminster's turn to smile ruefully. 'Hard lessons in independent achievements and self-reliance for us all, eh?' he ventured.
'Precisely,' the Lord of Spells agreed. 'As for me, I shall be learning to guide and minister to the mages of all Toril without Mystra to call upon, for a time.'
'She's…'going away'?' El's tone made it clear that he didn't believe a goddess truly could withdraw from contact with her world, her worshipers, and her work.
Azuth's smile deepened. 'An inevitable task confronts her,' he said, 'that she dare not put off longer: contingencies that must be determined and ordered, for the good and stability of the Weave. Neither of us may hear from her or see any manifestation of her presence or powers for some time to come.'
' 'Dare not'? Does Mystra serve the commands of something higher, or do ye speak of what the Weave requires?'
'The Weave by its very nature places constant demands on those attuned to it and who truly care for it … and the nature of all life and stability on this world it dominates. It is a delight and a craft…and something of a game…to anticipate the needs of the Weave, to address those needs, and to make the Weave something greater than it was when you found it.'
T don't believe ye quite revealed the nature of the Lady's 'inevitable task,' or whom…if anything…she answers to and obeys,' Elminster said with a smile of his own.
Azuth's own smile broadened. 'No, I don't believe I did,' he replied softly, merriment dancing in his eyes as he raised his goblet to his lips.
Elminster found himself sinking gently and being brought upright, to stand on the stony ground once more with a landing as soft as a feather landing on velvet. Once, long ago, in Hastarl, the young thief Elminster had spent several minutes watching a scrap of pigeon-down floating down onto a cushion, ever so
Azuth was standing, too, bare feet treading an inch or so of air. It seemed their converse was at an end. Though he hadn't even looked at the raging fiends, they were suddenly tumbling away in all directions, wreathed in white flames, their bodies dwindling in struggling silence as they went. The siege of the Height, it seemed, was at an end.
The High One didn't seem to step forward, but he was suddenly nearer to Elminster. 'We may not respond, but call upon us. Look to see us not, but have faith. We do see you.'
He reached out a hand, wonderingly, Elminster extended his own.
The god's hand felt like a man's.. warm and solid, gripping firmly.
A moment later, Elminster roared…or tried to, the breath had been shocked right out of his lungs. Silver fire was surging through him, laced with a peculiarly vivid deep blue streak that must be Azuth's own essence or signature. El saw it clearly as jets of flame burst forth from his own nose, mouth, and ears.
It was surging through him, burning everything it found, wrenching him in spasms of utter agony as organs were consumed, blood blazed away, and skin popped as the flesh beneath boiled away … through swimming eyes, Elminster saw Azuth become an upright spindle of flame…a spindle that seemed somehow to watch him closely as it swooped nearer and murmured (despite its lack of any mouth El could see), 'The fire cleanses and heals. Awaken stronger, most precious of men.'
The spindle whirled nearer, touching the nimbus of magical fire around Elminster, fed by the silver jets still erupting from him…and the world suddenly leaped aloft with a silver-throated roar, whirling Elminster up into ecstasy and ragged ruin, torn apart into dark droplets spewed into a looping river of gold … gold too bright to look upon, outshining the sun.
The last Prince of Athalantar lay sprawled on the stones, senseless, with silver fires raging around him and two goblets floating nearby, a cruising spindle of flame between them. The flames touched the goblet Elminster had held, and it jumped a little and vanished into the conflagration, spewing forth fat golden sparks some moments later.
Then the spindle of flame touched the flames raging around Elminster. They rushed into it, and the reinforced, towering Azuth-flames collapsed with a roar that shook all Halidae's Height, washing over Elminster… who convulsed, but did not awaken…then gathered themselves. With sinuous grace and suddenly leisurely speed, the flames rose into a column and flowed up over the edge of Azuth's floating goblet into the steaming wine there. Length after length of roaring flame followed behind, vanishing into the liquid.
In the end, all that was left was that goblet, wisps of wine rising off its brimful contents like smoke whipped by a breeze.
It was the first thing Elminster saw…and drank… the next morning.
The goblet vanished into the air during his last swallow, leaving nothing behind. Elminster smiled at where it
