Tlaerune's, the one that makes men swoon and-'
Shaking her head, Storm hurried on through the magical bedlam, trying to catch up with the Old Mage. Where had he gone? She looked up and down the crowded gorge- there were hundreds of mages here! Yet, thanks to her keen eyes, she managed to find Elminster again. The Old Mage continued to cut through the gathered wizards without slowing or dismounting-until he came to a tree-shaded corner on the far, rocky wall of the gorge. There, in the dappled gloom, a short, stunningly beautiful lady mage was talking with five or six obviously smitten men of the Art.
Storm saw laughing black eyes, flowing black hair, and a gown whose scanty front seemed to be made of glowing, always-shifting flowers. Then the Old Mage vaulted, or rather fell, straight from his horse into the arms of the lady, with the words, 'Duara! My
Dark eyes sparkled up into his, and the Old Mage's effusive greetings were temporarily stilled by a deep kiss. Slim hands went around his neck, stroked his tangle of white hair, and then moved downward, in a tight, passionate embrace.
After Elminster's glad greetings and the long kiss, Storm heard a low, purring voice replying enthusiastically. On the faces of the men around she saw astonishment, then anger, resignation, or disgust, and finally resigned disinterest. Storm also noticed Duara's fingers at the mage's belt, moving nimbly.
Other eyes had seen it, too-particularly those of a tall, hook-nosed man in a dark green velvet doublet with slashed and puffed sleeves. He'd been watching the Old Mage's affectionate greeting closely, his expression hidden by the smoke from his long, slim clay pipe.
When Elminster finally bid the smiling beauty a noisy adieu, the hook-nosed wizard let his pipe float by itself as he strode forward, gesturing wordlessly. In response, Elminster's pouch levitated upward and opened in midair. Silence fell among the mages standing near. It was obvious by their expressions that the green-clad wizard's spellwork was a serious breach of etiquette.
Storm half-drew her sword, but Elminster's bony hand stayed her firmly. In merry tones, he asked, 'Lost thy magic, colleague? Want to borrow a cup of this or that?'
The wizard in green looked narrowly at him and at the lone item the pouch held: a twig. 'Where is it, old man?'
'The powerful magic ye seek? Why, in here,' replied Elminster, tapping his own head with one finger. Unsettled, Storm peered at him; his voice seemed thicker than usual, but his eyes were as bright as ever. 'But ye can't get it with a simple snatching spell cast in a moment, ye know. Years of study, it took me, to master even-'
The green wizard gestured curtly. The twig flew toward his open, waiting hand. Before it got there, Elminster snapped his fingers and wiggled his eyebrows. As a result, the twig shot upward, curved in a smooth arc, and darted back toward the Old Mage.
The wizard in green frowned and gestured again. The twig slowed abruptly, but continued to drift toward the smiling face of Elminster. The wizard's hands moved again, almost frantically, but the twig's flight-and Elminster's gentle smile-held steady as the wood settled into the Old Mage's hand.
Elminster bowed to the white-faced, shaking wizard. Pleasantly he said, 'But if it's this magical staff ye want-' the twig instantly became a grand-looking, ten-foot-long, smooth black staff with brass ends wrought in coiling-snake designs '-by all means have it.' And the staff flew gently across empty air to the astonished man's hands.
'But. . your staff?' Storm asked in wonder as she watched the sweating, dumbfounded wizard in green catch the staff not four paces away. 'How will you replace it?'
'Cut myself another one,' the Old Mage replied serenely. 'They grow on trees.'
Clutching the staff and eyeing Elminster anxiously, the velvet-clad wizard reclaimed his pipe, muttered something, and rapidly gestured. Abruptly, he was gone, staff and all, as though he had never been there at all.
Elminster shook his head disapprovingly. 'Bad manners,' he said severely. 'Very. Teleporting at the magefair! It just wasn't done in my day, let me tell ye-'
'When was that, old man? Before the founding of Water-deep, I'll warrant,' sneered a darkly handsome young man who stood nearby. Storm turned in her saddle.
This mage was richly dressed in fur-trimmed silks. His black-browed, pinched face was always sneering, it seemed. Storm recognized him as one of the wizards who'd been speaking with Duara when Elminster arrived. His voice and manner radiated cold, scornful power as he curled back his lip a little farther and said, 'By the way, graybeard, you may call me 'Master.''
Gripping his own staff-one made of shining red metal, twelve feet long and adorned with ornaments of gold- the dark-browed mage reached for the reins of the Old Mage's riderless horse.
Storm kicked out at his hand from her saddle. The toe of her boot stung his fingers and smashed them away from Elminster's mount. The handsome mage turned on her angrily-to find a gleaming swordtip inches from his nose.
'Heh, heh,' chuckled Elminster in thick, rich tones. 'Not learned to leave the ladies alone yet, Young Master?'
The mage flushed red to the roots of his hair and whirled away from Storm's blade to face the old man again. 'Why, no, grandsire,' he said sarcastically. 'Although it's obvious you've been without one for many a year!'
The loud insult brought a few snickers from the younger mages standing near, mingled with gasps and whistles of shocked amazement from older wizards who evidently knew Elminster. The murmuring intensified as some mages shoved closer to watch the coming confrontation, while others suddenly recalled pressing business elsewhere and slipped away to a safe distance.
Elminster yawned. 'Put away thy blade,' he said softly to Storm. Then he said more loudly and almost merrily, 'It appears boastful striplings still come to magefairs for no greater purpose than to insult their betters.'
The Old Mage sighed theatrically, and went on. 'I suppose, cockerel, that now ye've picked a quarrel and will challenge me, eh? Nay, nay, that's not fair. After all, I've the wisdom of ages with which to make the right choices, whereas ye have only the hot vigor of youth … um, pretty phrase, that… so I'll even thy odds a trifle: I'll challenge
A cheer arose. The red-faced mage waited for it to die, then said scornfully, 'A sport for children and, I suppose, old lackwits.'
Elminster smiled, very like a cat gloating over cornered prey, and said, 'Perhaps. On the other hand, perhaps ye are frightened of losing?'
The mage's face grew redder still. He cast a look around at the interested, watching faces, and snapped 'I accept.' Then he struck an ostentatious pose and vanished.
An instant later, amid a puff of scarlet smoke, he reappeared on the edge of the gorge and made an insulting gesture at the Old Mage from afar. Elminster chuckled, waved a lazy hand in reply, and climbed clumsily back up onto his long-suffering horse. Storm saw him salute Duara with a wink. Then Duara's eyes met her own, and Storm could read the silent plea in them as clearly as if the young sorceress had shouted it in her ear:
By the time they had ridden up out of the valley to the meadows beyond, many wizards had gathered to watch. Haughty young sorcerers had been hurling fire about all day, but the expectant silence hanging over the scene seemed to indicate that the mage with the red staff had won a reputation at the fair, or many elders remembered Elminster, or perhaps even both.
With more haste than grace, Elminster fell from his saddle. He hit the ground at a stumbling run, staggered to a halt, and dusted himself off. Then he saw his waiting opponent and, with obvious pleasant surprise, said, 'Well… lead off, boy!'
'One side, old man,' said the young mage darkly, waving his staff. 'Or have you no fear of dying in a ball of flame?'
Elminster stroked his beard. 'Yes, yes,' he said eagerly, his mind seemingly far away. 'Well do I remember! Oho, those were the days … great bursts of fire in the sky….'
The young mage pushed past him.
