The beings resembled animate tornados, upright cones with stinger tails formed of polished diamond. They were the phaerimm, the oldest race on Abeir-Toril. And as might be expected, there were few of them. A handful.
Men did not know the phaerimm existed, though some had been seen now and then, observers mistaking them for dust devils. Or upon discovering their true identity, being eaten. The phaerimm had slits all the way around their middles, slits lined with ridges harder than diamond, which could gape to suck in nourishment of a wide variety: tree roots, certain rocks, reptiles, insects, groundhogs, humans-all as easy to ingest as a bowl of mush. Phaerimm chose not to reveal themselves, for they feared slavery, though all were more powerful wizards than any humans that dwelt above ground.
Phaerimm could move through their own ancient passageways and chambers, or even through soil and rock almost as easily, for then they slipped into another dimension, leaving only a fragment of themselves behind for a toehold. Yet if one of the phaerimm blundered into a magic storm near the surface, it was immediately-and violently-shunted wholly into this dimension. Where soil and rock already existed, the phaerimm ceased to exist, and left only a cone-shaped crater.
Nothing works. We tried astral visitation and only drove wizards mad. They clawed out their eyes, tore out their hearts, killed their fellows until at last they killed themselves. We tried visions, we tried lifedrain. Now we've tried direct visitation.
And failed.
Maybe more than failed. Perhaps our efforts fuel the magic storms.
Impossible. We know magic. We invented it.
Untrue.
Cease to argue. Back to the reason for this conference. How next shall we experiment to stop the Neth from spinning magic into storms?
We cannot.
Then we will die.
And they.
And the whole world.
I have a suggestion.
Yes?
Let them squander more. Encourage them to squander.
Why?
Humans expending magic have generated magic storms, and the more humans working magic, the more storms, true? Were they to accelerate the pace of magic use, the humans might destroy themselves all the more rapidly.
And us, mushmouth.
Perhaps not. We can move humans hither and thither, we know. Already our lifedrain spells have caused their wheat to rot on the stalk. Starving them sets them moving, searching for food.
Too slow. The high wizards who fritter the magic are the last to suffer hunger.
Still, the spells work lifedrain. And the drain grows, feeding itself to spread and drain yet more life.
But not down here, one hopes.
As I was saying… If we can make the Neth squander magic faster, grow ever more reckless in pursuit of who-knows-what, perhaps only their immediate area will collapse. Perhaps they will destroy themselves in one final cataclysm, a hellfire to scour the earth and leave us masters again! Well?
It… is a thought.
No, it's foolishness.
It is fighting fire with fire, as humans say.
Human wisdom cannot save us.
What can, then?
Well…
Good. Think on my scheme. We have time. A little, anyway…
Candlemas's nose was red from breathing wheat rust. It clung to his skin and covered his robe with a fine coating. The stubby mage had supervised his underwizards all night long and most of the day, but they were still no closer to stopping the blight or finding its cause.
The door blew open and Sysquemalyn flounced in. Today she wore a red sheath from high collar to ankle that split all the way down the front. Much of her was revealed, but not all, for a purple mass, like a jellyfish, pulsed and writhed across her stomach and loins. Another of the grotesques she collected, Candlemas thought. A particularly ugly one, like the world's biggest bruise.
"What do you want?" he snapped.
"My, we're touchy. Solve your problem with rye blisters yet?"
"It's wheat blight. And no, I'm not even-"
"Too bad." She didn't listen, but sashayed around his workshop, touching a silver statue, an inlaid box, a glazed porcelain plate, a wreath of silver-gilt holly leaves.
"Don't touch my things!" Candlemas was touchy, not so much from loss of sleep as from frustration. A hurried query to his various substewards had confirmed his fears: wheat rust was everywhere throughout Lady Polaris's lands. There simply was no crop to speak of. "The last time, you threw one of my favorite pieces out the window-"
"And might again, if any of these trashy trinkets suit." Sysquemalyn stood with forefingers at the corners of her mouth, pouting prettily, but the spectacle was spoiled by the purple horror, which wriggled up her flesh and curled a tentacle around her breast. Idly, she scratched. "I've decided to up the stakes. Your mud man is too canny to stumble over the orcs."
"Those orcs bother me too." Candlemas arched his back, found it hurt, and stepped to a small, low table laden with jars and potions. He began to mix a soporific. "Those orcs are remarkably organized, for orcs. They wear uniforms, and all have that red hand painted on the front. I've never heard of-"
"Mud men, all of them." Sysquemalyn waggled purple fingernails in dismissal. "The antics of ants would concern me more, for they might get into the honey in the larder. Ah!"
From a table she plucked up a spun-glass ornament that resembled a crystalline praying mantis. "Since it's your mud man who must fight this, you won't mind sacrificing it."
"I do mind!" Candlemas took a slug of painkiller, grimaced at the taste, and added more blackberry brandy. "I don't come down to your kitchens and paw through your shelves!"
"No, you paw the scullery maids. There was one you stripped and smeared with raspberry vinegar, I'm told. Didn't that make your mouth pucker?" She stroked designs on the black palantir until she had a picture of Sunbright plodding through an icy mountain pass. The barbarian was bent double against an immense head wind. "Perfect!"
Stepping to a window on the western side, Sysquemalyn balanced the crystal on both palms, pushed past the mild shield on the windows, and puffed the glass creature into space. It zipped away from her hands as if launched by a crossbow.
Candlemas stood over the palantir. Ahead of Sunbright by perhaps a quarter mile, the glass object bounced off a wall and hit the icy ground. "Good shot. And it was raspberry jam, not vinegar. But your girls talk too much."
"Shall I have her rip out her own tongue?" Sysquemalyn asked sweetly as she dusted off her hands. "And smoke it for sandwich meat?"
Candlemas looked at her with a mix of disgust and pity. "You can't defame humans enough, can you? You think you're ready to move on to the next plane."
"Let's hope." A bright smile, a poke at the purple slime moving down over her flat stomach. "If I advance quickly enough, I plan to make Lady Polaris my personal chambermaid. She'll shine shoes and empty chamber pots, and no man will lust for her, for I'll slit her nose and slice off her eyelids. I'll make her feel like a lowly groundling."
Candlemas shook his head and tapped the palantir, making the snow scene within jiggle. "Care to watch? This lowly barbarian might surprise you."
"No, he won't. He'll die." Sysquemalyn stepped up beside him. The purple slime plucked a tentacle from her navel and tried to wrap itself around the man's wrist. He moved out of reach. "And I'll laugh, and then collect on the debt. Won't the maids be disappointed to hear of that tragedy?"
"You talk too much, too," Candlemas growled. "Look!"
Head down, Sunbright slipped and slid across lumpy glare ice.
The ice was old, he decided, probably old snowpack left from last winter. He found it hard to believe it had lasted the summer, but this granite-walled pass was deep and the bottom shadowed. And this evil unceasing wind had polished everything as smooth as glass.