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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