“Jeez,” Jerry shook his head as he shifted his chair back to his desk. “How long will it take to fix it?”
Wiz drained his drink before answering. “Couple of hours, I guess. I’ll have to run a bunch of tests to make sure nothing else is wrong.” He stood up and stretched. “But first I’m going to get another Coke—if the damn machine isn’t empty again. You want one?”
“Nah,” Jerry said, typing rapidly and not looking up. “I’m probably gonna knock off in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” said Wiz and sauntered out the office door.
Save for the clicking of Jerry’s keyboard and the hiss of the air conditioner the corridor was quiet. Wiz glanced at his watch and realized it was nearly five A.M. Not that it mattered much. Programmers set their own hours at ZetaSoft and that was one of the reasons Will Zumwalt was still with the company.
The drink machine was next to a side door and Wiz decided to step out for a breath of dawn air. He loved this time of day when everything was cool and quiet and even the air was still, waiting. As long as I don’t have to get up at this hour! he thought as he pushed the door open.
The magical lines of force gathered and curled about the old wizard. They twisted and warped, clawing at the very fabric of the Universe and bending it to a new shape. Far to the South, across the Freshened Sea, a point of light appeared in the watery depths of an enormous copper bowl.
“A hit,” proclaimed the watcher, a lean shaven-skull man in a brown robe.
“What is it?” asked Xind, Master of the Sea of Scrying. He descended heavily from his dais and waddled across the torch-lit chamber hewn of blackest basalt to peer over the acolyte’s shoulder.
Looking deep into the murky water his eyes traced the map of the World in the lines cut deep into the bowl’s bottom. There was indeed a spark there. Magic where no magic ought to be. Around the edge of the bowl the other three acolytes shifted nervously but kept their eyes fixed to their own sectors.
“I do not know, Master, but it’s strong and growing stronger. It looks like a major spell.”
Xind, sorcerer of the Third Circle as the Dark League counted such things, passed a fat hand over the water as if wiping away a smear. “Hmm, yes. Wait, there’s something . . . By the heavens and hells! There are no wards. That’s a great wizard without protection!” His head snapped up. “Let the word be passed quickly!” The gray-robed apprentice crouched at the foot of the dais jumped up and ran to do his bidding.
Xind stared back into the Sea of Scrying and his round, fat face creased into a particularly unattractive smile.
“Fool,” he muttered to the spark in the bottom of the bowl.
The haze in the clearing turned from wispy gray to opaque white to rosy pink. It contracted and coalesced until it took the form of a dark red door with a silver knob, floating a yard off the meadow. The grass bent away from it in all directions as if pressed down by an invisible ball. Moira concentrated on her chanting and pushed harder with all the magic she possessed.
As if in slow motion the door opened and a man came through. He stepped out as if he expected solid ground and slowly toppled through when he found air. His eyes widened and his mouth formed a soundless O. Then everything was moving at normal speed and the man extended his arms.
Wiz took two steps and fell three feet onto grass in what should have been a level walk. He caught himself with his arms and then collapsed with his nose in the green grass, weak, sick and disoriented. The light was different, he was facing the wrong way and he was so dizzy he couldn’t hold his head up. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on keeping his stomach in its proper place. The grass tickled his nose and the blades poked at his tightly shut eyes, but he ignored them.