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“What’s your business here, wraith?”
    “Well,” said Boric, “I was hoping you could help me. You see, I’ve been cursed.”
    “You don’t say!” exclaimed the witch. “So was I! Tell me, wraith, were you thrown out of the court of Kra’al Brobdingdon on trumped-up charges of practicing black magic and forced into thirty-eight years of exile?”
    “Well, no,” said Boric. “But I was recently killed and by all rights should be drinking mead in the Halls of Avandoor. Instead, as you see, I am occupying my own corpse.”
    “We’ve all got problems,” said the witch with a shrug.
    “Please,” said Boric. “All I want is to die a natural death before I become even more of a monster. Your knowledge of the dark arts is well known throughout Ytrisk — ”
    “Bah!” growled the witch. “Cease your foolish talk and I will do what I can for you. Follow me.”
    The witch strode past him toward the cottage.
    “I…ah…” said Boric.
    “Afraid of a little sunlight, are you?” asked the witch, turning back to face him. “Part of the price of your bargain, I suppose. Well, you know where to find me.” She walked across the clearing and disappeared into the cottage.
    Boric cursed and squinted up at the dazzling bright blue sky. Ytrisk was known for its almost invariably gray and depressing weather, but today there was hardly a cloud in the sky. He waited nearly an hour for a little puffy cloud to pass in front of the sun before sprinting across the clearing, his cloak wrapped tightly about him. The sunlight burned even through the thick cloak.
    Unable to see where he was going, he slammed abruptly into the door of the cottage. “Open up!” he cried. His upper back and face felt like they were on fire.
    “Who is it?” called the witch voice from inside.
    “Boric!” rasped Boric.
    “Boric who?”
    “Boric the wraith! Please, it burns!”
    The door opened and the witch regarded him suspiciously. “I don’t get it,” she said.
    Boric rushed past her and fell to the floor, shaking feverishly.
    The witch shrugged and closed the door, returning to a pot of stew she was cooking. The scent was nauseating.
    “Ugh,” Boric groaned, still writhing on the floor. “What is that?”
    “Rabbit,” said the witch. “You want some?”
    If Boric had been capable of vomiting, he would have.
    “Oh, I forgot!” exclaimed the witch. “You’re undead. The smell of cooking meat probably nauseates you!”
    Boric grunted and nodded his head weakly.
    “Pity,” she said. She put a lid on the pot and opened the shuttered windows. The light hurt Boric’s eyes, but it was preferable to the stench of the stew. After some time, he shakily got to his feet and took a seat in a nearby chair.
    “Now, what seems to be the problem?” asked the witch.
    Boric was beginning to lose patience. “I’m a corpse ,” he snarled.
    “Well, sure,” agreed the witch, “but plenty of corpses get on just fine. Perhaps your problem is that your expectations are too high. Try lying down for a bit.”
    “Damn it, woman!” growled Boric. “I won’t be spoken to in this matter. Do you know who I am?”
    “I know who you were ,” laughed the witch. “Boric the Implacable, King of Ytrisk. Who you are is another matter. Or should I say, what you are. You’re a sack of rotting meat, Boric the Impractical.”
    “I came here for your help, witch,” rasped Boric, “not to be insulted.”
    “You came here because although I am an embarrassment to the court of Ytrisk, I remain the only one in the kingdom who knows anything of the arcane arts. You cast me out and then go looking for me amongst the trash. I insult you because you’re a fool, Boric the Impractical, just like your mother and father were.”
    Boric had seen this coming. Best to get it over with.
    The Witch of Twyllic hadn’t always lived alone in a cottage in the woods. She was born the daughter of one of the Librarians of Avaress, in the final days of the Old Realm.