Reghar the Fang sat cross-legged in the middle of the summoning room, staring sullenly at his new creation.

Creeping Lust waved a grey tentacle between the bars of its cage as if trying to direct Reghar to its own plight. But the Fang only continued to stare as the beast tried to press its viscid bulk, unsuccessfully, through the bars. How had he ever imagined he could handle two direspawn at once? Clearly, he hadn't realized how difficult it would be to maintain control over his consciousness held in the simulacrum and control Creeping Lust. What if he were to receive a blow to the head? What would then become of his two direspawn?

Reghar blew air sharply between his teeth in disgust. His direspawn? The both of them? As if White Rage had ever been his own! Yay, it was I who drew White Rage from its home plane, the Fang thought bitterly to himself. But has the creature truly been mine thereafter? No, he concluded, only the poor jellied creature quivering in this cage belonged solely to him.

And what to do with it? How to control both creatures at once without losing one or the other?

Reghar blew another breath between his teeth, harder this time, remembering his encounter mere hours ago with his caustic mentor. The Fang, wanting only advice and loathing the asking of it, had strode purposely--all the more to hide his shame in the asking--into Grafter the Ageless's personal chamber.

The old man had looked up from his desk as if expecting his pupil's arrival.

Nevertheless ignoring the discerning look upon the Ageless One's face, Reghar stood before Grafter and posed his question--as unabashed as possible.

Grafter favored his pupil with the smile of one whose patience has worn thin and has been stretched to its utter limits. "It is simple," the old man spoke firmly. "You will control only one direspawn--the very one I instructed you to bring over. When Rakmir and his band have been routed from the Grip, you may play with your new toy, sending it wherever you choose." Then his thin, razored lips pursed sourly. "You should never have created another direspawn in the first place--yet, despite my warnings, you did as you pleased. You knew that I granted permission for you to create the direspawn over my own objections."

Reghar began to feel his vitals shivering with anger. "If you are so knowing and so powerful," the Fang ground, "then why is it not you who controls White Rage? And as I have said before, the creature belongs to you and not I."

Grafter stood up and moved quickly around his desk like a man young again, facing his student squarely. "You continue to speak of 'ownership' of the direspawn--is it your premise that either of us retain title upon these creatures? Surely, they are here for our bidding and perhaps that must imply ownership of a kind. But make no mistake," the old man's eyes narrowed as he continued, "White Rage is no more 'mine' than that quivering mass you brought over belongs to you. I have the strength to control either of them--but White Rage needs your anger: the anger you so easily and readily present to the world. I have been tracking White Rage since you began the summoning of your new direspawn--regretful I am that I bade you permission to do such a unfortunate thing. I found, lamentably, that White Rage is now in sorry condition, thanks to your indifference to its welfare. Just because you do not claim proprietorship over the beast does not negate your responsibility for it."

Unnerved by Grafter's daggered stare, Reghar spoke: "White Rage is nearly finished off--your precious direspawn is now barely a threat to Rakmir and the others--they've gauged its weaknesses and have conjured their defenses accordingly. You do need my direspawn now: something Rakmir and the others are completely unaware of."

"Oh? And have you discovered just how you will unleash your creature upon our foes?" The sarcastic tone again.

Reghar felt the question hit his mind with the numbing thickness of a square of mortar. How would he use Creeping Lust? He new who he wanted to use the beast against--but not how he would use it. With dull, sudden horror he realized that he hadn't thought his plan through: giving further credence to Grafter's criticisms of the Fang's methods. Merely sending the creature out to set upon one's opponents was not enough. The creature had to have both method and purpose. The latter was clear; the former he hadn't fully fleshed out in his mind. Hadn't the Ageless One drummed that oath into him long enough?

Grafter the Ageless spared his pupil the shame of admitting his unpreparedness. "You will cage your creature as best you can, then you will concentrate on bringing White Rage from its stumbling stupor. The first direspawn must be brought back to the Grip immediately."

"And for what?" was Reghar's morose reply. "Rakmir and the others will be prepared for White Rage once they see it."

Grafter's smile widened. "Oh, whether White Rage survives or not really isn't important. Rakmir still knows he must defeat the creature--and to do that, he must follow it. White Rage will lead Rakmir to the place where I can then defeat the Master of Cloudreach once and for all."

"And where will that be?"

Grafter's smile began to fade to a thin, dark line. "You need not know everything, my young student. Not everything--yet."

###

Now Reghar the Fang sat, staring glumly at Creeping Lust squirming in its cage.

As he stared, Reghar began his search for White Rage. Yet, try as he might, he could not devote his mind completely to the task. Instead, his consciousness continued to be sullied by other thoughts which floated, vaporous, through his mind. Somewhere, out in the vast distance beyond the Grip, White Rage must be stumbling aimlessly about--but even that pathetic image did nothing to dispel Reghar's inner ruminations. The Fang tapped a finger absently against his temple, giving himself up for the moment to the imposing thoughts.

Purpose. That word rose like a demon before him, prodding him insistently. What purpose could he instill in his creature that would impel Creeping Lust upon its path toward Terjal Rakmir? How would he, Reghar the Fang, imbue his new creation with the same anger that he had funneled into White Rage? For with a shaming dismay he'd finally realized that it had been Grafter all along who'd siphoned Reghar's rage into the first direspawn--not himself after all. He'd been used by the Ageless One as nothing more than a mere container of rage and hate. With grating certainty Reghar knew--knew--the old man would not help him do the same with Creeping Lust.

The key, once again, lay in "purpose." Such a simple word to define, Reghar thought bitterly, but so difficult to enact. He needed a tangible catalyst for Creeping Lust--something which could be gleaned from its primary target: Terjal Rakmir. Reghar moved his finger down to stroke his full lower lip as his thoughts coiled round this quandary. Perhaps, he smiled wryly to himself, the growing love bond between Terjal and Aiya could guide his new direspawn (hadn't that discovery been the impetus for the creature's naming?) to it mark. Yes, that would be Creeping Lust's purpose--one which would define its existence and set the creature into motion.

Oh, the possibilities, Reghar thought with a swelling of happiness he hadn't felt in a good many years.

Now, with Creeping Lust's purpose in this plane settled, Reghar gave his mind over to the task of locating White Rage. He knew it would take a long time to fill the beast with his old anger, which had ebbed somewhat in the wake of other pressing thoughts. Yes, it would take a long time, but he had enough of it to spare.

All the time in the world, so long as he achieved his own goal.

Reghar's smile widened.

###

Grafter the Ageless paced restlessly about his personal chambers, thin and bony hands clasped tightly behind his back.

Everything was going according to his plans, yet somehow Grafter still felt a sense of coming dread. No matter how hard he tried to allay his feelings of anxiety, they still nagged at his mind like a persistent and unwanted ex-lover. It would seem, he thought sardonically, that my failures in the past dictate my mood now. This must have been how the ill-fated Kamyarg had felt when at last he'd achieved his goal of uniting all forms of magics--only to have his stunning accomplishment cause utter destruction.

Grafter shook his head sadly, though a slight smile of irony strayed upon his lips. Ah, Kamyarg--he remembered tales from his own youth of the powerful Invoker. How long ago had such come to pass? A hundred years? Two hundred? He'd stopped counting his own years after he'd entered his eighth decade--when he'd discovered the secret of immortality--all other years thereafter becoming non sequitur.

Kamyarg the Invoker.

A strangled chuckle escaped Grafter's lips. What an ambitious fool! True, Kamyarg's ability to shape magical energy had been renowned among other Invokers of his time. Yet even he should have known that he alone could not successfully bring all theories of magic together--and have their energies remain stable.

So intent was Kamyarg on tying together Conjuration, Divination, Invocation, Thought and Necromancy under one roof, he did not realize that, although his predecessors failed in their own previous attempts, they had created magical fields which his tampering increased to potent forces without any outlet to reduce their destructive potential. Kamyarg had forgotten, fatefully, that he was, after all, only an Invoker--a shaper of magic.

Once Kamyarg had crossed the threshold of the various magics, disaster instantly followed his apparent triumph. Grafter's mouth turned down grimly as he recalled the accounts of the corrosive flash, a wave of magical energy erupting from Kamyarg's holding, as it swept the land mercilessly. In its wake went Divination, Invocation, and Necromancy--Thought remained only because Kamyarg had yet to completely master the art. Conjuration also stayed since its magics spanned the planes instead of concentrating in a single location where it could be fundamentally altered by someone of Kamyarg's inclinations.

Kamyarg, Grafter thought bitterly now, misused his mage gifts in exchange for an attempt at attaining a falsely noble cause and the nobility of purpose--and his consuming passion for it--was the flaw that lay ultimately in the Invoker's plan. If the Invoker had only sought to unite a few of the magics at a time, perhaps he might have achieved his goal. The rewards would have come slowly, yes, but without the devastation that eventually followed.

"Kamyarg had no patience!" Grafter spoke aloud, his fists raised and shaking, stirring the air before him. "Much like my young pupil--he'd as surely be my undoing as Kamyarg's restless ambition was his own undoing." Which brought the anxiety back to sting his thoughts once again. "No, I'll not become Kamyarg--I'd sooner sacrifice my apprentice."

Grafter strolled over to his chamber's only window. As he surveyed the foliage-choked land surrounding his keep, Pedistal, feeling the hot and humid blast of air upon his cheeks, he counted his advantages. He still retained mind control of his "ally" among Rakmir's band; it no longer mattered to him that the Master of Cloudreach had surmised his Blade was under the influence of another. Nor did it trouble him that Rakmir had discovered the chinurras' monument to their master and benefactor. The better to bring Rakmir closer to his destruction.

It did not matter that Rakmir and his band of conjurers had managed to defeat each one of Grafter's own conjured creatures. What matters, the Ageless One thought to himself, smiling, is the amount of spell power being drained from them with each encounter. With scarcely any time to recover, once Rakmir and the others reach Pedistal, they'll meet White Rage for the last time and I shall be rid of them all in one fell swoop. Even though Rakmir had also guessed the true purpose of the ensorceled traps, the conjurer had no choice but to expend his spell energy upon them: a spellcaster's paradox of sorts.

Grafter the Ageless's smile grew wider. The anxiety was gone. Forever, he hoped.

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