“Greetings, Brethren,” said Draconas pleasantly. Sweeping past them, his robes flapping around his ankles, he glanced skyward. “At least it has stopped raining for the moment. I trust I will be finished with my business and back safely in my bed before another storm breaks.”

He kept walking as he spoke, as if crossing the bridge in the night was an everyday occurrence. None of the monks said a word or made a move, and he thought he was going to make it. He took another step, then one of them glided sideways to take up a position directly in front of Draconas.

“None may pass,” said the monk. He was polite, not threatening, merely stating a fact. The monk’s eyes were neither unfocused nor wandering. His eyes looked quite sane. All too sane.

“I have the dragon’s sanction.” Draconas affected surprise. “I was told to inspect the shipment of weapons that was brought into the palace this day. It seems that the dragon is concerned about their quality. He may decide to take the smith to task on the morrow.”

“You need not concern yourself with this, Brother. The matter will be dealt with by those within,” said the monk calmly.

“But I was told to handle this myself,” protested Draconas.

“Then whoever told you that was mistaken.”

The monk was calm, imperturbable, and immovable as the mountain. Less movable, maybe, for an earthquake might shake the mountain, but it seemed that nothing would shift this monk. Draconas glanced past the man to the other end of the bridge. He could always make a run for it and, with his dragon strength and speed, he could easily outdistance the human. He was turning back to the monk when his eye caught a faint shimmer of light like a fine spray of water sparkling in the sunshine—except that there was no water and no sun. He looked hard at the end of bridge and the shimmer vanished. When he looked away, the shimmer reappeared.

Draconas was thwarted. He’d been in enough dragon lairs to recognize a magical barrier when he saw it; a barrier that was undoubtedly so sensitive it would detect a rat’s whisker. Draconas could use his magic against the monk and then against the barrier, but he had the feeling—looking into those all too sane eyes—that this monk knew a few magic tricks of his own, and the last thing Draconas wanted was the eruption of a magical firestorm in front of Grald’s living quarters.

Draconas could think of no other persuasive arguments. Muttering that he was going to get into trouble with his superiors, he stomped angrily off the bridge and retreated up the street. Halting in an alleyway, he eyed the bridge and the stanchionlike guardian and the unseen barrier.