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cloaked figure.
    Stumbling up and leaving his bags on the floor, the Weather Mage demanded, “Who are you? What do you want?”
    “Why, what I’ve always wanted, Weather Mage. You .”
    The Weather Mage vaguely recognized the man’s voice but couldn’t place it. Deciding that he’d teach this idiot a lesson, he called lightning to his fingertips. A costly magical measure, but one that always sent thieves and vagabonds running away as fast as they could. The cloaked man didn’t move.
    Smiling, the Weather Mage thought just before he threw the ball of lightning, He can’t say I didn’t warn him.
    He watched as the ball of lightning—enough to destroy a man, and usually in spectacular fashion—arced toward his victim. He had to give the man praise; he didn’t run, he didn’t scream or cower. Instead he stood still in the face of certain death. And when the lightning ball his him directly in the chest, the man absorbed it. The Weather Mage watched in astonishment as the lightning hit a writhing dark, shadowy thing on the person’s chest and was gone, like it was never there. And then the Weather Mage knew dread. He was in trouble.
    The cloaked man laughed and strode forward, unafraid. When the Weather Mage tried to run, he felt the wall behind him grab him. Screaming in fear, he saw dark shadows come down over his shoulders and slither up his thighs to bind him to the wall. As the cloaked man stopped in front of him and pulled back his hood to reveal his face, the Weather Mage still didn’t recognize him. But he recognized that smell —the smell of death.
    Shaking as the man traced a finger down his trembling face, the Weather Mage licked his lips and said, “Please. I’m a wealthy man. Anything. Anything I have can be yours.”
    “You see, Weather Mage,” said the man with surprising gentleness, “I already have what I want.”
    And then he clutched the Weather Mage’s face in one hand, and shadows began to pour down the mage’s throat. Before he lost consciousness, the Weather Mage thought, They feel just like slugs.

Chapter 5
    A few hours later, Ciardis was rushing across the outer courtyard of the Companions’ Guild. As she reached the courtyard’s center where the cobblestones started radiating out in ever-growing rings, she stopped and stuck out her hand in confusion. Frowning, she took in the falling precipation in dismay. It was snowing ...in fall. It was far too early for this sort of nonsense. It shouldn’t be snowing for at least another four months. Maybe five. And even then the snow was only likely to fall in the early morning hours when night had yet to release its hold and the sun still slept.
    Snow never lasted long in Sandrin. The capitol city was too close to the sea and too warm year-round for it to have a regular annual snowfall. She lifted her hand hesitantly and watched as snowflakes dropped from the sky and dissolved in the heat of her palm.
    So why I am looking up in the sky and seeing flurries come down?
    Shaking her head at the bizarre weather, Ciardis hurried forward to get access to the Archives. She hadn’t wanted to go her normal route through the colonnade and into the main entrance. Too many prying eyes. So instead she went outside, across the courtyard, and cut through a side garden to a small entrance adjacent to the side garden’s entrance.
    It allowed direct access to the older portion of the Archives where the large, detailed maps of the Algardis Empire were on display. Moving around the long tables and framed panels quickly, she found a quiet reading nook to curl up in. Sighing heavily, she fingered the ankle bracelet on her leg and hoped this worked.
    Five minutes passed, then ten minutes, as Ciardis anxiously waited. What if he had forgotten or deemed a court function more important than their rendezvous?
    And then she felt the familiar tug of power radiating from the bracelet and she reappeared in the Aether Realm, seated in a flowering garden bower. She stared