Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

He cast a disparaging glance over Raistlin's thin frame and sniffed. "Not the best body I have inhabited, but one that is powerful in magic. And with my knowledge and wisdom, you will become more powerful still. I hope that will be a final comfort to you in your last moments."

Raistlin lashed out with the Staff of Magius, aiming a blow at the wizard's hooded head. But he was not particularly skilled as a fighter, not like Caramon. His strike was clumsy and slow. Fistandantilus ducked. He caught hold of the staff, and jerked it out of Raistlin's hands.

The staff's magic crackled. Fistandantilus cried in rage and flung the staff halfway down the corridor. Raistlin heard the crystal globe crack as the staff struck the stone floor. The glow of magic dimmed.

Raistlin glanced back over his shoulder and marked where the staff lay. He fell back a step, his hand fumbling beneath his robes for the pouches that held the dragon orb and his spell components. Fistandantilus saw what he intended. He pointed at the pouches and spoke words of magic. Like iron to lodestone, the pouches flew out of Raistlin's hands and into the hands of the old man.

"Bat dung and rose petals!" Fistandantilus cast the pouches disdainfully to the floor. "When I am you, you will have no need of such ingredients. The Master of Past and Present will craft magnificent magic. Too bad you will not be there to see it."

Fistandantilus extended his hands, fingers spread, and began to chant, "Kalith karan, tobanis-kar…"

Raistlin recognized the spell and hurled himself to the floor. Blazing arrows of fire shot from the old man's fingertips and sizzled over Raistlin's head. The scorching heat burned his hair. The Staff of Magius lay just beyond reach. The crystal globe had cracked, but the magical light continued to shine and he saw, in its light, something sparkle.

He was about to try to make a grab for it when he heard footsteps behind him-Fistandantilus coming to finish him off. Raistlin gave a moan and tried to rise, only to collapse onto the floor again.

Fistandantilus laughed, amused at his struggles. "When I am in your body, Majere, I will hunt down and slay your imbecile brother, who is now trying to fight his way to the Foundation Stone. Caramon will think, in his final, despairing moments, that his beloved twin was his murderer. But then that's nothing new to poor Caramon, is it? He's already seen you kill him!"

Fistandantilus began chanting a spell. Raistlin did not recognize the words; he had no idea what the spell would do. Something horrible, that was certain. He moaned again and glanced surreptitiously behind him. When Fistandantilus was near, Raistlin lashed out with his feet, striking the old man in the shins and sending him crashing to the floor. The spell ended in a garbled cry and a thud.

Raistlin made a lunge and a grab for the small, sparkling object. His hand closed over the dragon orb, and he scrambled to his feet.

A trumpet blast echoed through the corridor.

Fistandantilus did not bother to rise. He sat on the floor, slapped his hands on his knees, and grinned up at him. "Some moron has tripped your spell trap."

The old man gathered his black robes around him and pushed himself to his feet. He took a step toward Raistlin, who opened his palm. The dragon orb's colors swirled and glowed, illuminating the corridor.

"Well, go ahead, young magus," said Fistandantilus. "You have the orb. Use it. Call upon the power of the dragons to smash me to a bloody pulp."

Raistlin looked at the orb, at the colors swirling inside. His mouth twisted, and he looked away.

Fistandantilus smiled grimly. "You don't dare use it. You are too weak. You fear the orb will take hold of you and you'll end up a drooling idiot like poor Lorac."

He lifted the bloodstone pendant. "I promise, Majere, I won't let that happen. Your end will be swift, though not exactly painless. And now, much as I have enjoyed our little contest, my Queen needs my services elsewhere."

Fistandantilus began to chant.

Raistlin closed his fist over the orb. The bright light welled out between his fingers: five rays, five different colors, slanting off in different directions. Raistlin raised his hand.

"Cease your spell-casting, old man, or I will hurl the orb to the floor. The orb is made of crystal. It can be broken."

Fistandantilus frowned. His chanting ceased. He held up the bloodstone pendant and made a squeezing motion with his hand.

Raistlin's heart quivered and bounded in his chest. He gasped, unable to breathe. Fistandantilus tightened his grip, and Raistlin's heart stopped beating. He could not breathe. Black spots burst before his eyes, and he felt himself falling.

Fistandantilus relaxed his grip a fraction.

Raistlin's heart gave a painful lurch, and he was able to draw in a breath. Fistandantilus squeezed his hand again, and Raistlin cried out in agony and fell to the floor. He lay on his back, staring up at Fistandantilus. The old man knelt down beside Raistlin and pressed the bloodstone against Raistlin's heart.

Fear, raw and bitter, gripped Raistlin. His mouth went dry; his arm muscles clenched; sickening, hot liquid burned his throat. His fear wrung him, drained him, leaving him confused and shaken. He was not afraid of death. Weak and frail, he had fought death from the moment of his birth. Death held no terror for him; even now, it would be easier to simply shut his eyes and let the easeful darkness wash over him.

He did not fear dying. He did fear oblivion.

He would be consumed by Fistandantilus. His soul devoured, swallowed up, and digested. His body would go on living, but he would not. And no one would know the difference. In the end, it would be as if he had never been.

"Farewell, Raistlin Majere…"

Raistlin was swimming in the ocean, trying to keep afloat, but he was trapped in the Maelstrom and there was no escape; the blood-red water was dragging him down, dragging him under.

"Caramon! Where are you?" Raistlin cried. "Caramon, I need you!"

He felt an arm clasp hold of him, and for a moment relief flooded through him. Then he realized that the arm was not the muscular arm of his twin. It was the bony arm of Fistandantilus, clutching his victim closer, preparing to suck out his life. Fistandantilus pried open Raistlin's fingers and took hold of the dragon orb. He held it up before him and laughed.

Raistlin saw to his horror his own face laughing at him. The eyes were his eyes, the pupils the shape of hourglasses. The hand that held the dragon orb was his hand. The light of the staff, which was fast dimming, glimmered on golden skin. The delicate bones, the maze of blue veins, were all his.

He was losing himself, dwindling away to nothingness.

Rage blazed inside Raistlin. He was too weak to use his magic. The spells writhed like snakes in his mind and slithered away, and he could not catch them. But he had another weapon-the weapon a mage could use when all other weapons had failed him.

Raistlin gave a flick of his wrist, and the little silver knife he wore on the thong around his forearm slid into his palm. His hand closed spasmodically over the hilt and, with his dying strength, he wrapped his arm around Fistandantilus and pulled him close and thrust the knife into him. Raistlin felt the knife pierce flesh, and he felt it scrape horribly against bone. He had struck a rib. He jerked the knife free. Blood, warm and sticky, gummed his fingers.

Fistandantilus flinched and gave a puzzled grunt, wondering at first what was wrong. Then the pain hit him, and he realized what had happened. His face that was Raistlin's face contorted. The hourglass eyes darkened with pain and fury. Raistlin had not dealt his foe a mortal blow, but he had gained precious time.

His strength was almost gone. He had one more chance, and it would be his last. Unwittingly, Fistandantilus helped him, twisting his body in an effort to try to seize the knife. Raistlin stabbed and the blade sank deep. Fistandantilus gave a cry, only it was Raistlin's voice that screamed. Raistlin saw his own face contort in agony. He shuddered and closed his eyes and thrust the knife in deeper. He gave the blade a twist.