green wizard gestured curtly. The twig flew toward his open, waiting hand. Before it got there, Elminster snapped his fingers and wiggled his eyebrows. As a result, the twig shot upward, curved in a smooth arc, and darted back toward the Old Mage. The wizard in green frowned and gestured again. The twig slowed abruptly, but continued to drift toward the smiling face of Elminster. The wizard's hands moved again, almost frantically, but the twig's flight-and Elminster's gentle smile- held steady as the wood settled into the Old Mage's hand. Elminster bowed to the white-faced, shaking wizard. Pleasantly he said, ”But if it's this magical staff ye want-“ the twig instantly became a grand-looking, ten- foot-long, smooth black staff with brass ends wrought in coiling-snake designs ”- by all means have it.“ And the staff flew gently across empty air to the astonished man's hands. ”But. . . your staff?“ Storm asked in wonder as she watched the sweating, dumbfounded wizard in green catch the staff not four paces away. ”How will you replace it?“ ”Cut myself another one,“ the Old Mage replied serenely. ”They grow on trees.“ Clutching the staff and eyeing Elminster anxiously, the velvet-clad wizard reclaimed his pipe, muttered something, and rapidly gestured. Abruptly, he was gone, staff and all, as though he had never been there at all. Elminster shook his head disapprovingly. ”Bad manners,“ he said severely. ”Very. Teleporting at the magefair! It just wasn't done in my day, let me tell ye-“ ”When was that, old man? Before the founding of Water-deep, I'll warrant,“ sneered a darkly handsome young man who stood nearby. Storm turned in her saddle. This mage was richly dressed in fur-trimmed silks. His black-browed, pinched face was always sneering, it seemed. Storm recognized him as one of the wizards who'd been speaking with Duara when Elminster arrived. His voice and manner radiated cold, scornful power as he curled back his lip a little farther and said, ”By the way, graybeard, you may call me 'Master.'“ Gripping his own staff-one made of shining red metal, twelve feet long and adorned with ornaments of gold-the dark-browed mage reached for the reins of the Old Mage's riderless horse. Storm kicked out at his hand from her saddle. The toe of her boot stung his fingers and smashed them away from Elminster's mount. The handsome mage turned on her angrily-to find a gleaming swordtip inches from his nose. ”Heh, heh,“ chuckled Elminster in thick, rich tones. ”Not learned to leave the
ladies alone yet, Young Master?“ The mage flushed red to the roots of his hair and whirled away from Storm's blade to face the old man again. ”Why, no, grandsire,“ he said sarcastically. ”Although it's obvious you've been without one for many a year!“ The loud insult brought a few snickers from the younger mages standing near, mingled with gasps and whistles of shocked amazement from older wizards who evidently knew Elminster. The murmuring intensified as some mages shoved closer to watch the coming confrontation, while others suddenly recalled pressing business elsewhere and slipped away to a safe distance. Elminster yawned. ”Put away thy blade,“ he said softly to Storm. Then he said more loudly and almost merrily, ”It appears boastful striplings still come to magefairs for no greater purpose than to insult their betters.“ The Old Mage sighed theatrically, and went on. ”I suppose, cockerel, that now ye've picked a quarrel and will challenge me, eh? Nay, nay, that's not fair. After all, I've the wisdom of ages with which to make the right choices, whereas ye have only the hot vigor of youth ... um, pretty phrase, that... so I'll even thy odds a trifle: I'll challenge thee! Fireball-throwing, hey? What say ye?“ A cheer arose. The red-faced mage waited for it to die, then said scornfully, ”A sport for children and, I suppose, old lackwits.“ Elminster smiled, very like a cat gloating over cornered prey, and said, ”Perhaps. On the other hand, perhaps ye are frightened of losing?“ The mage's face grew redder still. He cast a look around at the interested, watching