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excruciating. But it will not last long, apprentice, if you do not struggle against it. Give in and you will quickly lose consciousness. From what I have observed, fighting only prolongs the agony.”
    “Are there no words to be spoken?” Raistlin asked, shivering.
    “Of course,” Fistandantilus replied coolly, his body bending down near Raistlin’s, his eyes nearly on a level with the young mage’s. Carefully, he placed the bloodstone on Raistlin’s chest. “You are about to hear them.… They will be the last sounds you ever hear.…”
    Raistlin felt his flesh crawl at the touch and for a moment could barely restrain himself from breaking away and fleeing. No, he told himself coldly, clenching his hands, digging his nails into the flesh so that the pain would distract his thoughts from fear,
I must hear the words!
    Quivering, he forced himself to lie there, but he could not refrain from closing his eyes, blotting out the sight of the evil, wizened face so near his own that he could smell the decaying breath.…
    “That’s right,” said a soft voice, “relax.…” Fistandantilus began to chant.
    Concentrating on the complex spell, the wizard closed hisown eyes, swaying back and forth as he pressed the bloodstone pendant into Raistlin’s flesh. Fistandantilus did not notice, therefore, that his words were being repeated, murmured feverishly by the intended victim. By the time he realized something was wrong, he had ended the reciting of the spell and was standing, waiting, for the first infusion of new life to warm his ancient bones.
    There was nothing.
    Alarmed, Fistandantilus opened his eyes. He stared in astonishment at the black-robed young mage lying on the cold stone slab, and then the wizard made a strange, inarticulate sound and staggered backward in a sudden fear he could not hide.
    “I see you recognize me at last,” said Raistlin, sitting up. One hand rested upon the stone slab, but the other was in one of the secret pockets of his robes. “So much for the body waiting for you in the future.”
    Fistandantilus did not answer. His gaze darted to Raistlin’s pocket, as though he would pierce through the fabric with his black eyes.
    Quickly he regained his composure. “Did the great Par-Salian send you back here, little mage?” he asked derisively. But his gaze remained on the mage’s pocket.
    Raistlin shook his head as he slid off the stone slab. Keeping one hand in the pocket of his robes, he moved the other to draw back the black hood, allowing Fistandantilus to see his true face, not the illusion he had maintained for these past long months. “I came myself. I am Master of the Tower now.”
    “That’s impossible,” the wizard snarled.
    Raistlin smiled, but there was no answering smile in his cold eyes, which kept Fistandantilus always in their mirrorlike gaze. “So you thought. But you made a mistake. You underestimated me. You wrenched part of my lifeforce from me during the Test, in return for protecting me from the drow. You forced me to live a life of constant pain in a shattered body, doomed me to dependence on my brother. You taught me to use the dragon orb and kept me alive when I would have died at the Great Library of Palanthas. During the War of the Lance,you helped me drive the Queen of Darkness back to the Abyss where she was no longer a threat to the world—or to you. Then, when you had gained enough strength in this time, you intended to return to the future and claim
my
body!
You
would have become
me.”
    Raistlin saw Fistandantilus’s eyes narrow, and the young mage tensed, his hand closing over the object he carried in his robes. But the wizard only said mildly, “That is all correct. What do you intend to do about it? Murder me?”
    “No,” said Raistlin softly,
“I
intend to become
you!”
    “Fool!” Fistandantilus laughed shrilly. Raising a withered hand, he held up the bloodstone pendant. “The only way you could do that is to use this on me! And it is