For several tense moments, I clung to the vines with white-knuckled hands. Then I heard the sound of a door opening below. At the same moment the blue magic barring the window flickered and vanished. Despite my exhaustion, I grinned fiercely in victory. Just as I had suspected, Zeth did not possess the fine control required to dismiss only one of the tower's protective magics. To open the door, he had been forced to lower all the wards. Before he could rebind the tower's protections, I pulled myself through the window and into the study beyond.

I was sitting in a comfortable chair, sipping a glass of ruby wine, when the study's door opened.

"Good evening, Zeth," I said smoothly.

He had clad himself in my best gray robe trimmed with silver thread. For a moment, his gaunt face paled in shock, then grew crimson with anger.

"Good evening, gelding," he spat. "I should have known you would find a way to follow me. But you have come too late." He gestured to the window. "Look. Even as we speak, the moon sets."

As I turned my head to gaze at the window, he thrust an outstretched finger in my direction. That was exactly what I had expected. I dived to the floor and rolled away as a bolt of green magic struck the chair, blasting a smoking hole in its back. I lunged forward, reaching out with my left hand-the hand that bore the sigil of the gor-kethal.

However, before I could touch him, he shouted a fearful word of magic and rose into the air. Floating swiftly across the room, he landed and turned to me. I tried to scramble to my feet, slipped, and fell back to the floor. He splayed his fingers in my direction. My plan had failed.

"You didn't have to come here, you know," he said, his voice almost sad. "You could have lived your life."

"As a gelding?" I said quietly. "No, Zeth. It would have driven me mad. Just as it has you."

His sadness gave way to renewed rage. "I need you no longer, Morhion Gen'dahar. There is no magic you possessed that I cannot now wield." Crimson sparks crackled around his outstretched fingers.

I gazed at Zeth in dread, knowing that this time there was no escaping his magic. Framed by the window behind him, the pale orb of the moon began to slip beneath the distant horizon. Instinctively I reached into the pocket of my doublet, as if to find the catalyst needed to cast a spell. But I knew no spells. All my hand found was a small, crumpled tube of straw…

"You're wrong, Zeth," I said suddenly. "There is one magic of mine you have not mastered." From my pocket I pulled the woven straw tube I had bought from the street urchin. I tossed it at his feet. "Unlock the riddle of this magic, wizard!"

Zeth's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but it was clear my words had pricked his arrogance. Like a starving man presented with a banquet, this onetime gelding could not resist even the smallest morsel of magic. Banishing the deadly crimson sparks with a careless wave, he bent to pick up the straw tube. Frowning, he studied it. He inserted a finger in one end, probing within, then stuck a second finger into the other end of the tube. He snorted in disgust. "There is nothing to master in this."

I nodded solemnly. "If that is what you believe, Zeth, then it is indeed time to kill me."

A cruel sneer crossed his face. "As you wish."

Zeth lifted a hand to cast a spell. Caught as it was in the straw tube, the other hand followed. With a puzzled look, he tried to pull his fingers free. They did not budge. With a look of growing panic, he tugged harder. It was no use. He could not free his fingers from the trap. Staring at me in sudden terror, he tried to cast a spell. However, without the use of his fingers to trace the arcane patterns necessary, working magic was impossible.

Now was my chance. I leapt to my feet. Zeth tried to lunge away but stumbled, crashing into a bookcase. I grabbed his collar. Before he could squirm away, I pressed my left palm against his sweating forehead.

Again came a flash, and this time a vast rushing sound as bright energy flowed into me. I stumbled backward, gasping. Every fiber of my body tingled with power. My magic had returned. Groaning, Zeth slumped to the floor. Branded now across his forehead was the sigil of the gor-kethal.

He raised his hands weakly, fingers still caught in the cheap finger trick. "There is no magic in this, is there?"

I shook my head. "No, Zeth. No magic at all." Now that I had defeated him, I found I could not hate the magic thief. His was a tortured soul. "Let me help you, Zeth," I said solemnly. "Maybe, working together, we can find you some peace with your fate."

For a moment, hope shone in his dark eyes. Then it was replaced by loathing, a hatred not directed toward me. "I said I don't want your pity," he snarled. "You think you've defeated me, but I still have won a victory. Now you will forever know that your power is flawed. I possessed all your magic, and yet you bested me with a mundane trick. It could happen to you just as easily. Let that knowledge gnaw at you for the rest of your wretched life, Morhion Gen'dahar!"

Too late, I saw what he intended. With a last, desperate cry, Zeth lunged to his feet and hurled his body through the window. He was dead before he struck the ground, slain by the magical aura that guarded the opening.

So passed Zeth, the gor-kethal, last of the magic thieves.

As I end this tale, I find myself gazing once more at the invitation Zeth left upon my doorstep. / believe there is much we can gain from one another, he had written.

Strangely, I know now that Zeth did give me something. He was right. My magic is flawed. I am not all-powerful. Yet he was wrong about one thing. That knowledge does not eat at my soul. For, as I learned in our final confrontation, sometimes there is weakness in power, and power in weakness. No longer am I so perfectly safe here in the fastness of my tower.

And by that I know that I am truly alive.

THE QUIET PLACE

Christie Golden

They were murderers, thieves, rapists; villains all. They deserved to die at least three times over for their crimes. But they were also men, and because the being who watched them prepare for their slumber was not human, he felt he could not pass proper judgment.

He waited patiently in the shadows, listening to their stories of mayhem and cruelty. His blood, had it still flowed warm in his veins, would have run cold at the tales and the bragging tones in which they were told. At last, with only one to watch-and he sitting a distance away from the firelight-they fell asleep.

The vampire waited until his exquisitely sharp sense of hearing picked up the sound of steady breathing; waited for the telltale rise and fall of barrel chests. Then he came, more silent than the shadows in which he had lurked.

In life, he had been a gold elf, a native of the fair, magical realm of Evermeet. His name was Jander Sunstar, and unlike most of those who had been turned into undead, he remembered compassion and fairness. He came, as always, only to feed, to slake the unbearable thirst that raged through his cold flesh. He did not come to kill. He never did.

Jander's nose wrinkled at the scent of unwashed bodies, but beneath that sour stench came the sweet fragrance of hot blood pumping through living flesh. Jander's fangs started to emerge, and bis mouth ached. He loathed his body's cry for the red fluid, hated that he could smell it, that he was incapable of resisting its hellish call. At least, he thought, I am kinder to my victims than these men were to theirs.

Jander bent over the first man, turned him gently with a soft touch of cold fingers, knelt, and bared his fangs. A slight nick, and the flesh of the neck yielded up its honey to the famished vampire. He was repelled by the sweaty taste of the man's skin, yet captivated by the sweet flavor of his blood. A few more swallows, and he was done.