He did not wait long. Something smoldering and tentacled rose up out of the pool. The plumes of smoke rising from it thickened as it broke clear of the waters. It no longer looked anything like a human boy. Its mottled, bubbled skin seemed to flow and shift as Elminster watched it grow two limbs that became humanlike arms, the ends parting and melting into fingers. As the coalescing hands waved, butter-colored eyes swam into view in the thicker bulk below, fixing him with a hard stare. The skin parted in a gash that shaped itself into a mouth, that…

The spell the Old Mage hurled this time tore the very water out of the pool. Fish, startled turtles, and slimy plants flapped and spun in the air-and in their midst, bright blue flames raced over the tentacled form as it rose into the sky, screaming and twisting frantically. It struggled, arched a spine it hadn't possessed a moment earlier and then fell limp, a-dangle in midair.

Elminster's eyes were hard as he watched the tentacled mass drift toward him, held fast by his spell. Beyond its smoldering bulk there was a terrific crash as all the water fell back into the pool. Startled birds called, and then flapped hastily away from the trees around.

Elminster frowned. His pipe had gone out.

He guided the dead, tentacled thing to the grass at his feet. It landed with a wet plop, still enshrouded by flickering blue radiance.

The Old Mage snapped his fingers, and a long black staff inset with runes of silver appeared in his hands. He pointed one end of it at the ganglious bulk and waited, eyes never leaving the monstrous form. He raised his chin and said clearly to the empty air before him, "Torm. Rathan. Come to me, by the pool. I have need of ye."

He peered around warily, sniffing the air. Such otherworldly foes seldom hunted alone.

It seemed a very long time before he heard thudding feet and the warning clicking of the stones near at hand. The two summoned knights skidded to a stop when they saw the dead thing. They were breathing heavily in their haste, and they held weapons ready.

The slimmer, younger knight in the lead was Torm-a black-haired, green-eyed charmer with a fine mustache. Torm's shoulder was currently being used as a support by the stout and puffing cleric Rathan, whose brown hair and stubbly mustache were disheveled from the run, and whose strong features had gone quite red.

Torm looked down at the dead monster, then back up at Elminster, and he raised an impudent eyebrow. "Been fishing, have we?"

"This is a shapeshifter," Elminster replied calmly, "of a very powerful family who call themselves the Malaugrym. The glow denotes a spell of mine that holds it powerless to work magic."

Before Elminster could stop him, the thief Torm kicked one still-smoking tentacle. There was no response. Torm shrugged and said, "Looks dead to me."

"And that will stop it from using Art? "The Old Mage's voice was sarcastic. "My thanks for thy assurance; as one so learned in magic, thy judgment cannot help but be correct."

Torm shrugged. "Your blade hits home, Old Mage; I stand corrected."

Elminster held out the staff, keeping its end pointed at the fallen Malaugrym. "Take over my binding, Rathan. I must work a spell to seek out any kin of this one who may Lurk near."

The stout priest took the staff, and Elminster turned away, making complicated gestures and murmuring many odd-sounding words that the two knights could only half hear. Then the archmage paused, raised his hands, and turned slowly around. He nodded with a satisfied air.

Torm raised an eyebrow. Elminster saw it, and explained, "There was another Malaugrym present the sister of this one. My Art has entrapped her; she cannot use any spells while she remains in Faerun."

Torm glanced at the trees and meadows around them. "She fled?"

"For now; she'll return to take revenge on me. Spells I may have denied her, but she can still shift her shape." "Revenge for this?" Rathan asked, nodding his chin at the dead bulk of the tentacled thing.

"Aye, but there's an older score," the Old Mage said. "I slew their father, long ago. I wonder why they dared to come here, after all the years between." Then he stiffened. "She's after Shandril," he snapped. "Of course."

"Well, slay her, then. With your own spell laid on her, tracing her should be easy enough," Torm said. He looked around at the grass, trees, and muddy waters of the pool – and then, reluctantly, his gaze fell again to the dead monster at Elminster's feet.

Elminster shook his head. "I can only trace her when she takes her own form."

"That?" Torm asked, gesturing toward the rank heap on the ground.

Elminster nodded. "When she takes the shape of a creature of Faerun, she's hidden from me. Without magic, and given all those already hunting Shandril, her own hunt will cost her some time and care-and during it, she'll spend most of her time as a human, of course." He looked at the two knights, and the ghost of a smile crossed his face. "That's where the two of ye are called again to glory."

Two sighs answered him. "Why is it always us?" Torm asked the rock beside him. Wisely, it chose not to answer. As the light of Elminster's last spell faded in the spell chamber high in the Twisted Tower, Rathan sniffed at a burnt smell that seemed to cling to him. The gaze that he turned on Elminster was rather sour. "What have ye done to us this time, Old Mage?"

"Cast a fog of forgetfulness on ye; it'll make folk forget they've seen ye. It will also slightly alter thy looks from time to time, while it lasts."

Torm sighed. "Will I look human most of the time? Male? As handsome as usual?"

"As usual," Elminster agreed in dry tones. "I can't trace the Malaugrym herself, but I can find Shandril. I'll send ye to her-but mind ye keep back from the lass; if ye stand guard with her, she'll relax, and ye'll have no hope against the Malaugrym. Thy only hope of besting this menace in battle is to strike when she's already battling spellfire and those who stand with Shandril to defend her."

"This Malaugrym is that powerful, eh?" Rathan asked quietly, out of habit touching the silver pendant of his goddess. Tymora was said to grant luck to her faithful when it was truly needed-and Elminster was nodding his head rather grimly.

"Her name is Magusta, and she's one of a powerful clan who walk many worlds, shifting their forms to whatever best aids them in seizing all the power they can. We are very old enemies, they and I"

"If these folk are so old and powerful, how is it that we've heard nothing of them before?" Torm demanded, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are you sure this isn't another of your little plots?"

Rathan turned his head patiently to look at his longtime friend. "Would ye like me to tell ye what an idiot ye are, or shall I save the breath?"

At the same time, Elminster said with a dry smile, "Of course this is one of my little plots." He snorted. "My mastery of diplomacy forbids me from involving ye in any of my big ones."

Where she sat in the dimness against one wall of the chamber, Storm Silverhand smiled and spoke up for the first time. "It is another `little plot,' to be sure – but these Malaugrym are old indeed, Torm. Most folk in the Heartlands, if they've heard of them at all, know them as 'the Shadowmasters' Individually, their mastery of magic is about as powerful as that of an experienced mage. They are ruled by venom and pride, and practice at magic-or anything else-is foreign to their nature." She stretched, and added soberly, "It may be your only advantage against them."

Rathan had nodded in recognition at the name 'Shadowmaster.' Now he rumbled, "We two are poor weapons indeed to use against such a foe. I know that Those Who Harp are even busier than the Knights of Myth Drannor… but will we have no aid from thee?"