'Nothing's stopping me. Nothing at all. Let's go.'
The moon was bright that evening as the four new comrades arrived at the door of a modest dwelling, the only structure in a dark clearing surrounded by forest. Tuka rapped loudly on an ancient door knocker, but there was no answer.
'Isn't that just like him? Didn't even leave us a key. He's so preoccupied, all he thinks of are his spells. Fenzig, why don't you give us a hand?' The belching thief approached the door lock, did some expert twisting and jamming, and it sprung free. Tuka extended his hand. 'See? It's perfectly all right. You first, Sir Evertongue, in case there are any trap-any magic items of which we should be aware.'
Wiglaf swallowed hard and entered the doorway. He walked for a few feet in utter darkness, then thought he could make out a warm glow ahead of him. Heart pounding in his head, he cautiously followed the light down a corridor for what seemed like minutes. Finally the light grew brighter, and he stepped through into a large open space. Then he stopped short in amazement.
A soft, welcoming, dark-orange light issued from the walls as he entered, to reveal an interior that was, incredibly, much larger than it should have been. The ceiling of the vast studio appeared to be at least thirty feet high- many times taller than the outside of the house. He looked back, and was shocked to see an open door just a few steps away, with Tuka peering in. He shook off his confusion and whirled back around. What was behind him was not important. Before him, his good fortune was boundless.
For the room was full of magic.
Wiglaf s jaw was slack as he slowly turned in a circle. He had come to the right place. His eyes simply couldn't take in all the fabulous magical arcana. Here, on a mammoth rack of ironwork, hung row after row of staves and weapons, several of which seemed to glow faintly. On this mantel of gorgeous dark wood stood dozens of vials containing a dizzying array of potions that glittered and smoked in their confinements. Above him and ringing the room, handsome shelves bulged with spellbooks of all shapes and sizes. Most curious, there was the finest collection of material components Wiglaf had ever seen, an oddball flea market seemingly stored at random, the mundane joining the thrilling. Carefully arranged locks of hair were set next to a box brimming with jewels, lumps of coal were stored beside ornate wax sculptures, vials of brightly multicolored sand rested next to cupfuls of soot.
There was a curious painting, a forest glade, that poly-morphed slowly through all four seasons as Wiglaf watched in stupefaction. He picked up a small hand mirror and was astonished to see a wizened, ancient face staring back at him-much older, but still recognizably his own. A wand swirled and roiled with colored mist down its length, and softly pulsated as he turned it with his fin gers. More and more, on and on, everywhere he turned, the marvels continued. This was a lifetime's worth of collecting-and the potential beginning of Wiglafs accelerated studies program. He was overcome with the immensity of the opportunity. The fraternity of magic was so incredibly generous: what a grand gesture by the old mage, to lend a helping hand like this.
Then he saw it. Hanging regally from a very tall coat-rack was the most marvelous robe there could possibly be. Wiglaf motioned the others inside, but absently: he could not take his eyes off the garment. It was surely the old man's own, like the rest of the wonders in this room, but still it called to Wiglaf. He took the robe into his hands. It flowed through his fingers like fine-grained sand, an immensely pleasurable sensation. It was surprisingly light, considering that it appeared to be several sizes too large for him, and wonderfully soft. He lifted it closer to his face to inspect the signs and sigils that covered its surface. Some were simple, childlike scrawls; others, intricate forms that may have had meaning in some exotic language. One he even recognized: the seven stars in a crescent around a wisp of mist, familiar even to a beginner, the symbol of Mystra herself. This was truly powerful magic.
Wiglaf noticed a full-length mirror and saw himself with the robe. He could resist no longer. They were a perfect match. He swallowed once and wriggled into the garment.
Of a sudden, he felt a tingling: not unpleasant, but definitely unusual. The robe that had seemed much too long for Wiglaf now felt as if it were stirring around him, clinging and conforming to his size and shape. He looked at the mirror and saw that it was true: the robe was alive, pouring itself around him, fitting to his contours like a sleepy cat in his lap. The hem slowly rode off the floor as he watched. The symbols themselves were now moving: crawling across the robe's surface and giving off a warm glow that reached inside Wiglaf, soothing and comforting him. It was glorious. He felt his senses heightened somehow: his sight seemed to be sharper, his hearing more acute. And just now he heard Tuka and Sasha appraising the collection.
'Delightful,' said Tuka. 'Now how selfish can one be to hoard all these lovely baubles oneself?'
'You're not suggesting we take them?' asked Wiglaf.
'Theft? From a friend? Don't insult us. But why don't you borrvw a few things and use them to get some practical experience? Bring them back when you're through- maybe with a little something extra for interest?'
'Do you think he would mind?'
'My lord, didn't I say he was a teacher? His mission in life is to educate young mages like yourself,' said Tuka. 'You'll be making him a happy man-and making him happy is the least you can do to repay his immense magnanimity.'
'The way you explain it, it makes sense.'
'It would,' said Sasha.
'Well, take what you need, and let's get out of here,' Tuka said.
Wiglaf paused to think. A few spellbooks, some components-what harm could it do? It wasn't as if anyone else was using them. And he wouldn't disturb the very rarest items. He scooped up his choices, stuffed them into his pack, and stepped out into the night. The robe had become such a comfortable part of him that he didn't realize he was still wearing it.
As the others came out of the magician's studio, fiddling with their pockets, a soft growling sound made the hairs on the back of Wiglaf s head rise. 'Wh-What was that?' he whimpered.
'Wild dog,' said Sasha. 'They're everywhere at night. Hell taste steel if he gets closer.'
'Just so long as he doesn't taste as,' said Tuka.
The growl was punctuated by a piercing basso bark, and then the single sound became a din. Two, three, a whole pack of feral hounds rushed into the clearing and faced the adventurers, showing teeth, drooling with famished anticipation. There were more than ten of the huge, menacing beasts, and although Sasha and the others quickly had weapons drawn, they were clearly outnumbered. The largest of the pack, the leader, pawed its way slowly toward Wiglaf, snarling louder as it came, never taking its eyes off him, until it was only an arm's length away.
Wiglaf had never been in such a situation. He was frozen to the spot. It would be only a matter of time until they were overrun, and he would be the first one to go.
'Okay, Mister Magic,' Sasha shouted, 'here's your chance. Do something.' The others laughed grimly and prepared for carnage.
Wiglaf was terrified, but he forced himself to move. He reached into his battered pack and felt for his well- thumbed spellbook. There wasn't much of value written down, since study had always been difficult for him. Mostly drawings and doodles. Wiglaf had 'studied' spells of alteration-the most impressive kind of magic, he'd always felt-and collected the requisite components, but the only spell he'd ever managed to memorize and use with any slight authority was one for burning hands, and it had never really worked properly; on his most successful practice run, he had only singed his fingers. But with no time to think about it, this was his best shot. If he didn't try now, he would become not a magician but an entree.
Wiglaf pulled back the sleeves of the robe, held his hands palms down, thumbs together, spread his fingers into a fan shape, and mumbled both an incantation and a quick prayer for good measure, just as the salivating hound tensed its legs and leaned back to spring.
FOOM! A jet of superheated flame shot out from his fingertips and roared toward the dog. The startled animal leapt backward away from the magical fire, yelping and howling, spots of fur smoking as it retreated. The other dogs matched their leader's howls, eyes wide with panic and confusion. Wiglaf turned at the sound, his arms still extended, but the flame remained, pouring in an arc toward the other dogs. The area was lit as brightly as if it were noon. The lead dog was already darting away, tail between its legs, and the others did not hesitate to follow. In a few seconds, they were gone.
Wiglaf curled his fingers into fists, and the flame stopped* instantaneously. It was dead quiet, except for the whining of the dog pack receding in the distance. He looked stupidly at his hands. He felt heat on his cheeks.
Transfixed, Sasha dropped her sword and panted at the others. 'By a gullyful of goblins! Did you see that? He
