"Hey, mista, read yer fortune? Only ten nuyen ..." My voice sounded plaintive, even to me, and I must have looked like just another street beggar in my gypsy skirt and patched peasant blouse. His raincoat was far more appropriate to the drizzly Seattle scene, but we elves don’t suffer as much from the cold as do you mundanes. As he approached, the glossy black optics that replaced his eyes reflected my own image— a dark girl, too thin to be pretty, clad in rags and worn-out paint, whose short black hair formed tight curls against the big-brained elven skull. I was sitting on the stoop in front of Denton’s Lorestore, with the green leather bag carrying all the tools and talismans of my magical trade pushed behind me into a corner.