From: bshsiung@undergrad.math.waterloo.edu (Bernard Hsiung)
Subject: [R] Dariel:  Somewhere in the Rezzian desert
Organization: University of Waterloo
Date: Sat, 29 Aug 1992 03:33:57 GMT

     Even the desert is beautiful, in its own way.  The midday sun climbed
high over the gently rolling dunes, which stretched as far as I could see.  I
walked a slow circle around the razed tower, enjoying the feel of the warm
sand against my feet, as I studied the horizon in each direction.  Surely the
Archon hadn't chosen a completely isolated location.  It couldn't afford to,
even if--for that matter, especially if--it didn't trust its fellows.
     There.  That faint pulse of life would be a city.  How far away and how
large?  I wasn't able to tell.  A brief check confirmed it was the only one.
That simplified matters; I would head that way.  [I was running, staggering,
through the blowing sand...]  Shrugging off the sudden premonition, I sighted
a slightly flattened dune some distance away in the direction of the city,
took a step--and appeared directly on top of it.  Perfect.  Glancing back
three steps later, I was no longer able to see the remains of the tower.
     The sandstorm started shortly after my forty-third step.  At first, it
was a gentle breeze that stirred the sand and plucked at my robes.  The winds
picked up while I paused to examine my bearings.  [I was caught within a
mirrored cage...]  Uneasily, I lifted my foot to take another step, towards a
new row of dunes.  The air erupted, the wind hurling sheets of sand at me.  I
lost my balance and fell.
     The sand swirled violently around me.  I stood carefully against the
gusts of wind, shielding my eyes with my left arm, and started forward again.
Maybe I could move out of the storm, get in the clear, and continue on my way.
     I was unable to fix a reference point to transport myself as I had been
doing before the storm began.  For that matter, I could barely see my hand in
front of my face.  I ran onward, the sand tearing at me, entering my mouth and
nostrils.  My ears were filled with the roaring of the storm.
     The strength of the winds reduced my progress to a staggering walk.  The
harder I tried to press forward, the harder they pushed back against me.
There was something wrong, something unnatural, about this sandstorm...
I slowed, then stopped.  My robes flapped wildly about me as I searched for
the heart of the tempest.  The storm was a localized phenomenon, I soon
realized--and it followed me.  Wiping the sand from my eyes, I could see where
the tendrils of Power bound the air and forced it to oppose me.  I moved to
pit my will against that of the being who had done this, but defeating the
Archon had weakened me considerably.  Even so, I was somewhat stronger than my
opponent.  However, I was unskilled in the subtleties of Power in this Place,
and my opponent defended his creation like a native, which he undoubtedly was.
I watched the rippling energies of his counterstrokes intensely, adjusting my
own efforts to make them more efficient, even as the sand lashed my body.  It
was not quite enough, and these were not exactly the best circumstances in
which to analyze the channels of Power that were being used.
     I relaxed my will and stopped trying to dispell or leave the storm.  The
winds withdrew from me, carrying the sand in a circle around and above me, an
arm's length away.  I could not see through the moving sands in any direction,
but it seemed that they whirled faster and faster.  There was a whitish glow
as the Power guiding the wind descended into the sands surrounding me, fusing
them into a single object.
     The sand had been transformed into an unusual glassy material which
reflected my appearance.  The substance flickered with Power reinforcing
Power, to bind and contain.  Brushing the sand from my hair and robes, I
tentatively stepped forward to examine one of the walls.  Interesting...
It felt smooth and cold, and yielded not at all to my touch, nor to a blow,
nor to rudimentary tampering with its field of Power.
     I was caught within a mirrored cage...

			*             *              *
     
     The winds ceased to blow when the great mage Amaan lowered his arms and
mopped the sweat from his brow.  That had been much closer than he wanted to
admit, even to himself.  He rubbed the sore muscles in his neck as he turned
from his window to his workbench.  He had been preparing for this event for
more than a month, ever since he saw the falling star.  It looked like the
payoff would be worth it.  He grinned to himself, exposing teeth yellowed and
blackened with age and tobacco.  Today was going to be a profitable day.
     It was time to read the omens again.  He took the powders he would need
from his bench, tucked his sharpest knife into his sash and went to the
prognostication room.  Some of the powders he scattered around the room, some
he burned, others he inhaled.  He checked the entranced slave one last time.
It was a boy who couldn't be older than twelve years of age.  Amaan grunted.
Although it wasn't the best he had, it should be sufficient.
     With a deft slash, he cut the child's abdomen open and pulled his
intestines out, spreading the still-warm entrails across the floor.  Hmmm...
Nothing new there.  The Shaheran was still worried about him.  Let him worry.
He cut some more.  The embassy from Generica was well on its way.  He would
have to start making special preparations for them; think about that later.
His third cut gave him the directions to the being he had imprisoned in the
desert.  Now, wait...  There was something unusual about his visit to Generica,
something strange about the Mage's Guild.  He cut again--and ran out of
entrails.  Amaan cursed his own stupidity, throwing his knife to the ground in
frustration.  It served him right for accepting a child.  Now he would have to
do it all over again.  Later.  He had some errands to run first.
     He changed his blood-splattered robe, put on his travelling pouch, picked
up his staff, and sat on the thick, heavily decorated carpet in his workroom.
At his word of command, the carpet rose up into the air and bore him through
the window.  He headed out over the desert.
     He might never have found it, if he hadn't read the entrails.  The light
reflected poorly off the semi-translucent crystal.  He landed next to the
magical prison, a sphere of perhaps ten feet in diameter.  That would never
do.  Raising his staff, he chanted the words to a spell which he had prepared,
while slowly closing his left hand.  The sphere flared and shrunk, until it
became a ball of crystal that was small enough to fit comfortably in one hand.
     He knelt next to the crystal ball, careful not to touch it, opened his
pouch, and removed a beautifully carved wand.  When he gingerly touched it to
the sphere, the wand gave off such a bright flash of light that he nearly
dropped it in surprise.  He hadn't expected quite that much...  Returning the
wand to his pouch, he lifted the crystal and raised it to the sunlight.  Inside
the sphere he thought he could see a young man dressed in white robes.
     Placing the shrunken sphere in his pouch, Amaan returned to his flying
carpet.  Yes, he thought to himself, today was a very profitable day.
--
Bernard Hsiung (bshsiung@descartes.waterloo.edu)