It was not a dark and stormy night. This was a depressing fact for Winslow, as he was just finishing his arcane research that would give him the hitherto forbidden powers that man should not wot of. And the sky remained clear and the stars cheerfully twinkly. It wasn't easy being an evil wizard. Still, once he was Lord of the Realm (Winslow really liked the title; he'd thought it up himself) he could make the bards - who would inevitably tell great tales of his genius and command of the anciente magicks, bless their dear wee hearts - say that it HAD been a dark and stormy night.

As Winslow turned the frail pages of the long-forgotten tomes, he began to think that maybe Winslow wasn't at all an appropriate name for a mighty wizard who was soon to be Lord of the Realm. He quickly dismissed such thoughts from his mind, now was no time for trifles! He must concentrate! Plenty of time for that sort of detail later. With trembling hands, he followed the scratchy writing on the aged parchment, observing with some trepidation how it quickly became more and more rushed, as if the writer was concerned about running out of time. Remembering that he was at the most critical part of the spell, he kept reading. To back out now would be fatal, the pent-up energies, suddenly released without direction could be catastrophic. Slowly, he continued, summoning all his strength to stop his voice shaking. Beads of sweat rolled slowly down his face and dripped onto the dark wood of the table.

Winslow came to the final instruction "Read these words over the orb of power". He began reading...but wait! What orb of power? That had never been mentioned before!

This disruption of focus proved irrepairable, and Winslow felt the air around him begin to tingle. He hastily snatched up the crystal ball from the tabletop and spoke the words...slowly, the air calmed, and brilliant scarlet tendrils, like lightening, glowed in the depths of the crystal ball. Winslow watched as the tendrils became fiercer, hyperactively buzzing inside the ball. He had enough presence of mind to hurl it across the room and duck under the table as the ball exploded.


PART THE 2

The smoke was horrendous. It rolled over the floor like a liquid, thick and brown. Half of Winslow's massive desk had been turned into sawdust. A metallic tang in the air was all that remained of the crystal ball that he'd paid £7 for in that suspicious boutique that smelled of herbal tea and what Winslow assumed were Turkish cigarettes.

He slowly stood up, beating out the small fires in his beard, which now looked rather like a half-bald ferret attached to his chin, and surveyed the damage. Most of his books were gone, presumably vapourised, and his furniture would now only be of interest to an abstract sculpter. Strangely, the ancient book containing the spell was intact, and gently resting on mostly thin air, half over the gaping hole in his desk. Winslow was rather relieved at this, as he was now even more determined to wield the awesome power he had just seen a glimpse of in his laboratory. He gingerly lifted the tome, opened a few windows (blinking at the unfamiliar touch of the sunlight) and sat down beside the remains of his desk.

It was several hours later that a very depressed Winslow was attending to his ale in the local tavern. It seemed that the author had feared the power that he had discovered - cowardly fool - and had hidden the Orb of Power under the roots of an old oak tree at the bottom of a great mountain far to the west. Winslow in all his many (14) years of studying ancient lore and magical places had never heard of it. Beyond the fact that he would now have to journey to afar to find the Orb, what Winslow found even more depressing was the fact that whoever had hidden it hadn't even chosen a suitably mystical location. It was as if he didn't want anyone to find the Orb! The tome had been similarly placed, he had found it in the bottom of an old chest among his grandfathers things after the old man had finally given up the ghost. Winslow dreaded the thought of getting old. At first he hadn't taken much notice of the book, until a warning note, hastily scribbled on the inside of the front cover had made him look twice, then start to read. 17 months later, here he was. So close, and yet so far from ultimate power.

Winslow was beginning to sob quietly into his half-finished drink, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
"Oi, you," came a voice with gravel in it, "are you trying to be a wizard or something?"
A chorus of sniggers followed this question.
"I'm not TRYING to be a wizard, I am one," replied Winslow haughtily. "In fact, I may be the greatest wizard ever to grace this world with his presence!"
This went down like a lead balloon, as you might expect given the situation.
"Ooooo, Mr Big-shot Wizard, huh!" smirked the voice, who turned out to be about 8 inches taller than Winslow, and wearing enough leather to be single-handedly responsible for the deaths of 4 cattle except that he had a two-handed sword.
The others sniggered again. "He's even got a fake beard!" commented one.
"This is a REAL beard!" snapped Winslow.
"Can't you grow something healthier than that?!" chortled another.
"It's better than having just stubble!" declared Winslow.

There was a perceptible drop in temperature, and a long silence. Winslow began to consider that a better idea might have been to just have kept his mouth shut. The silence was broken by the sound a sword with many notches makes when it is slowly and deliberately drawn. Winslow was grabbed by his collar and held a foot above the floor, the warrior's fiery eyes scant centimetres from his own. It was now that Winslow realised that the awful smell he'd been noticing for the past few minutes was coming from the warrior's mouth. At least, Winslow thought it was a mouth. It had what appeared to be teeth in it, so that was probably the best word for it. This train of thought was rudely interrupted by a cold, sharp feeling about halfway between his collarbone and chin, and a centimetre and a half to the left.
"I think that was an insult, don't you boys?" hissed the leader. Out of the corner of his eye, Winslow saw the others nod assent, never once taking their eyes off his throat.
"We don't apprectiate being insulted," said the leader, stating the obvious.


PART THE 3

The small band of warriors, who had previously just been looking for a cheap bit of fun on a Friday evening at the expense of a particularly funny-looking local, were now deadly serious. A similar statement could soon be made about Winslow.

"Are you goin' ta apologize?" demanded the leader.
"No," said Winslow, and smiled knowingly. There was a blinding white-hot flash of light.

Noting the build up of tension, Winslow had for the previous few minutes been quietly preparing an impressive and deadly spell behind his back. He couldn't remember the name - something like "So-and-so's Incendiary Bomb", these egotistical wizards always named spells they created after themselves - but then, he never felt that names were all that important as long as you could work the spell. Kind of like the self-taught mechanic who can dismantle, tune, and reassemble an internal combustion engine, but has no idea what most of the parts are called.

It was the sort of flash that, while only lasting a fraction of a second, leaves after-images for about a minute and a half. The other warriors found it rather disturbing that the after-image seemed to be a skeletal figure in a pose rather like their leader had been adopting when they'd last seen him. They quickly shook off this feeling, and glared anew at Winslow, who was picking himself up off the floor and feeling rather smug.

"He toasted Ragnar, get 'im!" shouted one of the remaining warriors, and Winslow was brought back to earth with a thump. Even the most powerful wizard cannot release several spells in a short space of time without preparing them beforehand, and Winslow felt rather like one of the warriors would feel if he'd got himself into a fight then remembered he left his sword at home. Fortunately for Winslow, wizards who cannot react quickly in a crisis seldom reach their final exams, let alone pass. The quickest spell he could think of was a "Mystic Torch" by someone-or-other, but with a little acting, he should be able to get away with it.

Winslow cast the spell on his right hand, then held it towards the advancing warriors. Seeing a suspiciously magical glow around Winslow's hand, and the expression on his face, they nonchalantly shuffled out of his way and let him leave the tavern.

As soon as he got out, Winslow finished the spell, and was about to start running when he had an idea. After all, he wouldn't need a horse any more. Five minutes later, he was inexpertly galloping home to quickly grab some extra supplies, then set off to the west, following the sunset. Finally, the weather was behaving itself and adding drama to his actions! Winslow considered whether it would be worthwhile setting up some sort of talisman for short-range weather control, but decided it would have to wait, as he had another quest ahead of him.


PART THE 4

According to all the laws of narrative drama, the next day should have dawned bright and early, and seen Winslow trotting merrily on his way with the strains of the latest music (like the popular Number 1 Hit "Greensleeves") playing in the background, adding that necessary period ambience. However, instead it saw Winslow soaked to the skin, determined that he would make a weather talisman as soon as possible. It was that sort of rain that, while not too worrisome in itself, tended to settle in for a long time, so that if you were out in it, even though it seemed light enough to be hardly noticable, you would eventually get very wet.

Looking at the expression on Winslow's face, one might almost think that he did control the weather, only through his emotions, not his thoughts. He was - needless to say - very gloomy, and very lost. He'd been headed through the same forest all morning, and had no idea if he was still going west. Several times he'd approached what seemed to be an end to the trees, only to find himself in a small clearing, and either there were several that looked the same, or he was going around in circles.

It was then that Winslow noticed the rain had stopped, and a thick mist was rolling in. Within a few minutes, he couldn't see the wood or the trees. Common sense would tell him to stop and rest until it cleared, but Winslow never had a great deal of that, so he kept going. The horse didn't seem to care one way or the other, having been infected with Winslow's mood. Pretty soon, Winslow began to see things, just out of the corner of his eye. Dark shapes moving about in the fog. They could have been human-like figures, but then, they could have been something else. Winslow suddenly realised why he seemed to be so lost, and became rather concerned at the state of the situation. He decided that, like in the tavern, a demonstration was called for. Rather liking the idea of it, he prepared a "Digital Lightening" spell (AUTHOR: Please note, that this being a fantasy story, set in a time of swords and sorcery, etc, so here the word digital refers to the fact that the lightening eminates from the casters digits, not that he uses a nifty little computer program with some really cool fractal equations to simulate lightening. Also, this is meant to be a footnote). This took several minutes, being a particularly complicated spell.

Saying the last words, Winslow felt his fingertips tingle, and grinned to himself in a rather nasty, smug fashion. Strangely, there was little sign of the shadowy figures. Winslow waited. And waited. And waited some more. Nothing. Now he began to feel silly. He probably imagined the whole thing. There was nothing there, just his mind playing tricks on him, and the mist didn't help. Winslow was just about to cancel the spell and prepare one to clear the mist when a shadow darted past in front of him, making him leap a foot in the air and with knee-jerk reactions send a lightening bolt, fizzling in the thick mist, onto the spot it had been, leaving a small scorch mark and a strong smell of ozone.

Winslow tried to calm his breathing down, but every time he seemed to be getting under control, another shadow would appear in the corner of his eye, and another lightening bolt would blow up a small bush, or knock branches off a tree, always a second too late to catch the fast-moving figures. It was in attempting to let off one of these, that Winslow realised nothing had happened; the spell had run out. He licked suddenly dry lips, and quietly began reciting the words of the spell again, his eyes flicking back and forward nervously. He was halfway through, when a cloaked figure rose up in front of him, and he blacked out.


PART THE 5

What Winslow had run into were elves. In that sense he was awfully lucky. In the sense that he was currently lying on the ground, unconcious, next to his horse with three elves standing around wondering what to do with him, he wasn't very lucky. Elves for the most part are friendly, helpful creatures, but they don't appreciate nosy humans dropping in uninvited. A lot of things have been written about elves, not all of which are true. For a start, they're not immortal, or at least most of them aren't. Supposedly the high-elves are, but only elves know, and they're not telling. They do however live a great deal longer than humans. They are tall and athletic, and they can move like the whispering wind when they want to. The fact that Winslow noticed them at all shows that they let him. If you find elves in a forest, it's because they let you. If they don't want to be seen, humans can wander for hours, blissfully unaware that they are surrounded by elves (AUTHOR: And, as one of the elves has just reminded me, they're also very modest).

These elves had discovered Winslow riding into their forest like he owned the place. Granted, humans don't know where elves are living at any time, but this sort of thing was the height of rudeness. They had led him around for a while, thinking it amusing, but he didn't seem to care. Then they tried the guaranteed-to-work method of bringing in a fog and scaring them with ghostly shapes moving in the mist. This also failed to work. The elves discovered that the only effect this had was that the human began spellcasting. Elves, being attuned to the world around them, are sensitive to magic in a way that only the most proficient human sorcerers can match. They held a hasty discussion about what to do next, then proceeded to try and scare the human further and make him waste his spell. Amazingly, even when he ran out of lightening bolts, this human didn't panic and gallop off out of the woods. The elves were quite perplexed, and so decided to give him a dose of sleeping powder while they decided what to do next.

"They don't have much style, do they," commented one of the elves sadly, looking at the state of Winslow's hair and clothes, in much the same way as you'd pity a dog trying to jump up at something out of its reach.
"Don't be so pompous, Gaideln" admonished the oldest elf of the party. She was showing the other two some tricks of the trade when this human provided an excellent learning opportunity. However, even she was unsure about what to do next.
"Laine's right, we can't all be lucky enough to be born elves," added the third. Gaideln was beginning to suspect he had a crush on Laine. Either that, or he was a greaser. For the most part, it was something elves didn't really understand, and Gaideln wondered how Vaisen could do it.
"You're a greaser, Vaisen."
"You should look at yourself before judging others," replied Vaisen. A human would have said 'No, you are'.
"Arguing is counter-productive," said Laine, ending it, "let's take him back to the Bowery."

Laine went over to Winslow's horse and spoke soothingly in its ear before leading it into the rapidly-clearing mist. Gaideln and Vaisen picked up Winslow and carried him after her.


PART THE 6

It was the next morning before Winslow awoke, although that's not really a good word for it. Like other people, he remained half asleep, and enjoyed the comfortable bed he was in.
"Good morning!" sang an elf cheerily. Winslow grunted and rolled over. "Isn't the sun beautiful! Don't mornings like this just make you glad to be alive?" the elf continued, opening the curtains. Winslow muttered something it was probably just as well the elf couldn't understand and made rude gestures.

It is one of the things that has made humans rather jealous of elves, and probably led to elves liking for privacy, that elves are very definately morning people. Instead of sleeping, they take naps in convenient moments at different points of the day which keeps them well rested. They can go for several days without any rest, longer than humans, but can get irritable after a couple of weeks, and tend to sleep for a few days to recover. After which, they can still get up at 6 am to watch the sunrise, and annoy the heck out of any humans who are still trying to sleep.

Winslow eventually struggled into the seating position. The elf cheerfully observed that he could do with a comb and a haircut and went to tell the others he was awake. Winslow considered his options. He could try and get back to sleep, but an unhealthy amount of sunlight (ie there was some there) was streaming in the window onto his bed. He could get up and close the curtains, but then he'd be up. Besides which, the elf, or another, would be back soon. Winslow groaned and rubbed his eyes.

The elf returned with another, older elf. In human terms, he looked in his late forties, which probably meant he was at least 200. He was somewhat sterner looking than the younger elf. Winslow guessed he was probably the - what was it the elves called them? Not a sensible word like 'leader'.

"So, our uninvited guest has awaken," said the old elf solemnly. Winslow made a non-comittal grunt. "I suppose we can forgive you for trespassing in our forest, but you are an intriging human," the elf continued.
"I'm a wizard," said Winslow bluntly. He was about to add "perhaps the greatest that has ever lived!" but remembered that elves were renouned for their magical aptitude, and also what had happened last time he tried to blow his own trumpet when he wasn't paying attention.
"So what were you doing in our forest?"
"I'm on a quest."

These vague and useless answers were beginning to annoy the elf. Another feature of elves that puzzles humans is that they become very calm when you'd expect them to be angry. This is because elves have impressive self control, but also because anger gives them headaches. It is for this reason that you should be very careful if an elf is being unusually polite to you.

"I'm going to give you a warning," began the elf, pleasantly. Winslow snorted. The elf rubbed his forehead. "Are you even paying attention to me?!" he demanded, slightly less pleasantly. There was a short pause. Then Winslow sat up sharply.
"Teacher!" he said.
"What do you want," replied the elf, slightly testily.
"Nothing, that's just what you elves call your leaders," said Winslow. At this, the elf clutched his head, got up, and walked quickly and quietly out of the room.

Winslow sniffed haughtily at the elf's rudeness, and lay down to relax on the bed. He didn't have much chance to enoy it, however, as two elves came back into the room, and sternly carried him out.


PART THE 7

Despite Winslow's protestations, the elves dragged him outside, where he was surprised to see his horse, tidy, happy, and unharmed being tended to by a female elf. Winslow's jaw dropped as soon as he saw her. The Teacher began speaking to him again, but it seemed somehow far off. The Teacher realised Winslow wasn't listening, and turning to follow his blank gaze.

"Tutor Laine," he called. The female elf came closer. Winslow emitted a faint groaning noise. This was something he was not at all used to.
"What's wrong with it?" asked Laine, surprised at the lack of intellect evident in Winslow's face, "it was fine when we brought it in last night."
Somewhere, in the depths of his subconscious, unaffected by Cupid's arrows, Winslow's registered this, and fitted it into place in the events of the last day or so. On the surface, he was still, not to put too fine a point on it, away with the fairies. He was brought back to earth with a bump, or rather a right hook, when Laine hit him and stalked off. Winslow sat down and felt very sorry for himself for quite some time.

It is the subject of detailed study by some scholars into the nature of love. One of the conclusions they have reached is that, following the metaphor that love comes from being hit with one of Cupid's arrows, Cupid must spend most of his time with Baccus and, like drunk individuals trying to play pool, attempts trick shots that are way beyond his skill level at the best of times. Either that or he has a perverse sense of humour. However, these same scholars took up the study in the hopes of picking up tips from some of the great lovers of the time, but soon found that sitting around in quiet rooms reading about it and talking to ageing lotharios about their past conquests is no substitute for getting out in the fresh air and actually talking to members of the opposite sex.

Anyway, it is now later, and Winslow is on his horse, being directed west by the elven Teacher, and trying to pinpoint the source of the quiet laughter he is sure he can hear.

"Now, I think the mountain you're looking for is just beyond the next mountain range to the west. There's a number of dwarves and goblins in those mountains, so be careful." finished the Teacher.
"But, I thought dwarves were pretty friendly, like elves?" said Winslow.
"Yes, mostly, but like elves they value their privacy, and are inclined to be grumpy," said the Teacher.

Having been wished well, Winslow quietly trotted off into the forest. By noon, he had come out of the woods, and could see the mountains ahead of him. That evening, he set up camp at the foot of them in a small cave, and fell asleep almost immediately.

Anyone watching the dancing shadows the fire made on the walls of the cave would almost have thought that there were others in there. Indeed, a reasonable number of them. There was no mistaking the sneaky, high-pitched voices, though. Goblins! At least 10 of them. Quietly, they began advancing on Winslow's sleeping form. Outside, the horse, smelling something amiss, gave a worried whinny. Winslow stirred and rolled over. The goblins continued forward, drawing their small, but sharp blades. The flickering light glinted off their teeth as they grinned nastily.


PART THE 8

The goblins reached Winslow. One carefully applied the point of its sword to the sole of Winslow's left foot. There was a loud yell, and Winslow sat bolt upright, hitting his head on a rock. He opened his eyes, and found himself surrounded.

The horse was only aware of a great commotion within the cave. There were shouts and yells, mostly from the goblins, and occasional flashes of light. Eventually there was silence, followed by the sound of Winslow snoring. The horse settled, and fell asleep.

One to learn from his past mistakes, Winslow had carefully prepared some spells before going to sleep. Now there was a suspicious greasy smoke in the air, and no sign of the goblins. Winslow chortled, remembering the elf's warning.
"Imagine thinking I would have difficulty with goblins!" he thought, pompously. The lone remaining goblin took this moment to put out the fire, then leap onto Winslow's head. Winslow again sat upright with a yell, only this time the goblin got the impact of the overhanging rock in the noggin. Winslow relit the fire, and discovered only one goblin. Unimpressed he picked it up by one leg and hurled it out into the night air, concussing a wolf that was slowly creeping up on the horse. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth (so to speak), the wolf dragged the goblin away for dinner, only to find later on that goblins really don't taste very nice, and are awfully stringy.

The next day, Winslow was quietly following a pass through the mountains, and trying to think up a more impressive name for himself. Winslow certainly failed to inspire dread. And he needed a haircut, a bath, and a new outfit. Really, it was no wonder people were treating him so poorly, he was a mess! His contemplations were interrupted by a small stone bouncing off his head.

"Ouch!" cried Winslow, and looked upwards. He couldn't see anything. But he could hear high-pitched sniggering. "More goblins..." he muttered tersely, and loosed an interesting spell known as "[someone]'s Mystical Wave". There was a sort of ripple in the air that moved towards the voices, and then a thud. After that, there was silence. Satisfied, Winslow continued on his way.

A little while later, he came to the top of a rise and was rewarded with an incredible view across the plains on the other side of the mountain range. The sun was beginning to sink in the sky, casting brilliant golden colours across the whole area. Winslow had to admit, he was impressed. Then he saw the next part of his quest; the mountain, slightly removed from the rest of the range. Many people at first thought it to be special for some mystical reason, but soon discovered it was just a large deposit left behind by a glacier back in the days when the land was cold, and people were few and far between.

Buoyed up in spirit, Winslow continued down the other side of the pass, and the mountain slowly sank out of sight, as he once more became surrounded by a myriad of gullys and crags.


PART THE 9

Winslow arrived at the base of the mountain by mid-afternoon. He was glad his quest was finally nearing an end, he was sick of travel and people (though he used the term loosely) bothering him. He was discouraged to discover, however, a multitude of trees around the mountain. They seemed to be of different types, but Winslow was uncertain which were oaks. Having spent most of his life indoors, he'd never learnt useful things like how to recognise trees, and which were good to eat and so forth. His stomach reminded him that his rations had run out the evening before.

Sighing, Winslow turned the horse, and began scouring the nearby countryside for anyone he could get help from. Usually, Winslow wouldn't have accepted help from anyone, but right now, he was too tired and hungry to care. Predicably, the only sign of life was a small hut up the mountain. Winslow began to climb, his thoughts full of complaints every step of the way.

He was nearing the hut, when someone inside threw a brick at him, and he fell off the horse in his frantic efforts to avoid being hit. He picked himself up off the ground to the sound of someone apparently swearing at him - though he had difficulty making out the words - and saying something about getting of the property. Winslow was definitely non-plussed. He prepared a Ethereal Shield and advanced on the hut. He attempted to kick the door down, which only suceeded in hurting his foot and part of the roof falling on him, so he turned the handle and went in. Inside, he found a pleasant little home, with what appeared to be a small, hairy, ragged human hiding under the table and trying to hit his feet with a stick.

Winslow decided diplomacy was called for, so he sat down on the floor and spoke to the figure.
"Good afternoon," he said politely.
"B*****off!" replied the man, "This is my mountain! Leave me alone!"
"I appreciate your point of view, but I need your help," continued Winslow, laying it on fairly thick, "as you obviously have more expertise than I."
"For what?" asked the hermit, suspiciously.
"Well, first I could use something to eat; and I have to find an oak tree," replied Winslow.
"Just use the privy out the back," said the hermit.
"No no, there's...um..." Winslow quickly thought up a story, "My friend left a crystal ball for me, he said he hid it under an oak tree at the bottom of the mountain, but I don't know which one's an oak tree."

When the hermit had stopped laughing at Winslow's ineptitude, he crawled out from under the table and got Winslow some welcome - if a little late - lunch. Then they went down the mountain, and the hermit pointed out which trees were oaks.
"But there's at least 7 of them!" cried Winslow, "Which one did he bury it under?"
"Can't help you there," said the hermit, "I ain't seen nobody around here for years." So saying, the hermit went back up the mountain.

Winslow felt strangely grateful towards the ragged little man, and decided he'd leave him be on top of his mountain. He began scrabbling in the roots of the oak trees, occasionally using a scrying spell to help him.


PART THE 10

Eventually, after a few hours searching and actually getting his hands dirty for probably the first time in his life, Winslow found it. The object of his quest. The Orb of Power. Hopefully it could contain the spell that the cheap crystal ball so dramatically failed to.

Winslow pocketed the orb, and - not being overly hasty - quietly made his way across the rolling hills till he came to a small town. There, he got himself a room at the inn, and proceeded to have the best nights sleep he'd had for some time.

Waking refreshed and alert - which made a change - he then turned his thoughts to an appropriate name for himself. 'Winslow the Magnificent' just didn't cut it. It sounded like the sort of lame entertainer who travelled around doing cheap slight-of-hand tricks for the kiddies. And had an assistant called something like Gladys. These ruminations took some time, before he eventually came up with the name Zoltar, something he considered suitably impressive. (AUTHOR: In my opinion, it sounds awfully tacky, but I'm not about to tell him that.)

That dealt with, Zoltar (he already liked the way it - rolled wasn't quite the right word - sprang off the tongue) examined the orb. It was slightly smaller than he'd expected, about an inch across. It was rather like an expensive crystal ball, except when you looked into it it wasn't just clear. At different times, there seemed to be faint traces of different colours in the depths of it. It had a winding chain motif inlaid into the surface in fine silver lines, as though the chain was trying to hold the orb and stop it escaping. Zoltar gazed at it for some time, then turned back to the ancient tome that held the spell.

This time, it was dark by the time he came to the words of the spell, and there were ominous rumblings from the grey clouds outside. Whereas last time he had felt nervous and had difficulty concentrating, now Zoltar was totally focused, eager to finish the spell. Holding the orb aloft in his left hand, he recited the words of the spell. Again, violent red shaped formed in the depths of the orb, but this time, it did not explode. Instead it began to glow, and rose a little above his hand, spinning slowly. Zoltar was aware of a faint humming sound that was rising in volume with the speed the orb span. Soon, it was spinning so fast the air around it was steaming, and the noise was almost unbearable. Still, Zoltar stood his ground, concentrating with all his might on the orb. Suddenly, it stopped, and the noise subsided. Zoltar relaxed slightly and waited. The orb sank until again it was resting in his palm. It felt warm to the touch, and was vibrating slightly. Then, there was a blinding flash of light...