At last, however, that was working to his advantage. For while Thorne Hagen’s contemporaries had aged and were now firmly ensconced in late middle age, Thorne, with the proper attire and the clean-shaven demeanor he preferred, could easily pass for a man of thirty. And there was no doubt, he thought, as he recalled the charming creature who had just left him, that the appearance of youth did have its advantages.

Briefly Thorne considered calling his body servants to help him bathe and dress for the Council session, then decided against it. He had a little extra time. With care, he should be able to work that water spell that Laran had been trying to teach him for the past month. He was peeved that he could not seem to master the spell. There seemed to be a certain point of coordination beyond which he simply could not go. But only practice and perseverance would get him past that point.

Moving into the center of the room, Thorne planted his bare feet about a shoulder-width apart and drew himself to his full height, joining his palms above his head to form a wedge-shaped silhouette in the flickering candlelight. As he began chanting the words of an incantation under his breath, water vapor began to condense around him like a miniature thunderstorm, complete with tiny lightning. He closed his eyes tightly and held his breath as the water scrubbed across his body, wriggling slightly in pleasure at the tingle of the tame lightning bolts. Then, still in complete control at this point, he tensed himself for the difficult part of the spell.

Lowering his hands to chest-level, palms vaguely defining a head-sized space before his breast, Thorne gathered up the tame lightning and rain and willed it to gather between his two hands: a tiny storm cloud crackling and spitting in the candlelight. He cracked his eyes open and saw it hovering there, and had just begun to maneuver it carefully toward the window to dump it when a brilliant flash lit the room from behind him, in the direction of his Transfer Portal. He whipped his head around to see who was there—and, in that instant, lost control of the spell.

Miniature lightning spat from cloud to sorcerer in a painful arc, breaking his concentration; the captive rain fell to the floor with a magnificent splash, drenching the marble flagstones, a priceless tapestry rug, and Thorne’s dignity; and as Rhydon of Eastmarch stepped from the Transfer Portal, Thorne began cursing fluently, his baby-blue eyes flashing with anger and indignation.

“The Devil take you, Rhydon!” Thorne sputtered, when he at last became coherent. “Can’t you ever announce yourself? I would have done it that time. Now you’ve made me flood the entire room!”

He backed out of the puddle and stamped his bare feet, trying in vain to shake them dry and maintain some shred of dignity in his nakedness, glaring at Rhydon as his fellow sorcerer crossed the room and did his best not to smirk.