Book One:
WIZARD WEATHER
In the archmage s sumptuous purple bedroom， the woman
astride him took two pins from her silver-shot hair. It was
dark--his choice; and damp with cloying shadows--his ro-
manticism. A conjured moon in a spellbound sky was being
swallowed by effigy-clouds where the vaulted roof indubitably
yet arced， even as he shuddered under the tutored and inex-
ornble attentions of the girl Lastel had brought to his party. She
had refused to tell him her name because he would not give
his， but had told him what she would do for him so eloquently
with her eyes and her body that he d spent the entire evening
figuring out a way the two of them might slip up here unnoticed.
Not that he feared her escort s jealousy--though the drug dealer
might conceivably entertain such a sentiment--Lastel no longer
had the courage (or the contractual protective wardings) to dare
a reprisal against a Hazard-class mage.
Of all the enchanters in wizard-ridden Sanctuary， only three
were archmages， nameless adepts beyond sununoning or re-
sponsibility， and this Hazard was one. In fact， he was the very
strongest of those three. When he had been young， he had had
a name， but he will forget it， and everything else， quite promptly.
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