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Flaming Summer!	By : Miqael Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 1914 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the book(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Flaming Summer!

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd
Chapter 2: A-towering We Go!
After only several days lodging in Solace, Raistlin had concluded that the most sensible thing he could do was to hit the road and never return again; so there he was on his way to the Tower of Wayreth with his two ‘elder brothers’, Tanin and Sturm.
The most difficult task Raistlin had encountered at the Majere’s had not been, as he had previously supposed, impersonating Palin, but steering clear of his twin and refraining from murdering those nieces of his. He had really come to fear meeting Caramon alone —Come on, the man was insanely obsessed with him!— and the sisters were nothing but fiends disguised as girls that had been born with the sole purpose of making Palin’s —and his— life a living hell; they had thrown dirty water on his bed only to shout; “Palin is such a baby. He’s wet his bed again!” from the rooftops; hid his only robe in the most unlikely places; filled his boots with sharp pebbles; replaced the ink from his inkpot with mud, and so on. His ‘parents’, of course, had done nothing but smile at this and speak of ‘sisterly love’ whenever he had tried to complain, then told him to be more tolerant of them. As if! Therefore, he had a really hard time restraining himself from throttling the little imps in their sleep.
It was obvious that not one member of his family knew Palin all that well —except for the things that infuriated him, on the part of Laura and Dezra. When the brothers had returned home from some adventure or other, they had mentioned something about him shrinking a bit during his Test, but nothing more. Oh, they all were very proud of him, although they had a most peculiar way of showing it!
No wonder Palin had been so... singular.
Reaching into one of the secret pockets of his white —he shuddered— robe, he took out a letter addressed to him, that he had found the first time he put on the clothes. It read:
Dear Palin.
We had a row on this matter, but in the end we decided it was best if you donned the white robes. You see, Soli has not abandoned his White-Robe-being-the-Most-Powerful-Wizard-in-the-World foolishness. He’s upset because he thinks it’s his turn after Nui had Fistandantilus and yourself (Magius the Top doesn’t count). Thus, for your sake, all you wear from now on will become white the moment you put it on.
Best regards,
Luni
At the bottom of the letter, however, there was a note scribbled in a different handwriting.
I do not agree with my cousins, thus the black hemline to show my discord. And don’t worry, I’ll be waiting for you.
Nuitari
PS: You’ll find a token of my goodwill under the table.
And, as the god of dark magic’s note had claimed, under the table there had been the ultimate spellbook of Fistandantilus, considerably lighter. Delighted, he had got into position, ready to spend an entire afternoon in blessed study, only to discover it was the OTHER ultimate spellbook of Fistandantilus. At least the last empty pages had been useful to transcribe his own spells when he had filled every single one in Palin’s spellbook.
Nevertheless, his journey to Wayreth was quite enjoyable, even though his nephews tried to ‘make a man of him’ in every inn and tavern they stopped at, and all the wenches they tried to pair him with seemed, inexplicably, very happy to comply.
“Palin, that waitress was devouring you with her eyes, you know, and she was a beautiful bird,” Sturm had commented after the last break at a grotty tavern.
“Sorry to disappoint you, brother, but I’m a bit more selective,” he had snorted. He had started to feel that strange headache he got whenever his nephews insisted on speaking of sex.
“You are a bleeding prude,” both Tanin and Sturm had concluded at the same time.
Even so, when they weren’t nagging him about his non-existent sex life, the brothers were rather amiable and amusing, very different from his smothering twin. Tanin was a bit bossy, but that was included in the ‘elder brother’ role, and he was not even unreasonably so. Sturm, on the other hand, was a funny scatterbrain that knew more blue jokes and stories than a dirty old kender.
Be that as it may, he had managed to reach the wandering tower without being stripped of his ‘childhood’, to the eternal distress of the brothers, who, being unable to do as they wished due to the vows they had pledged upon joining the Knighthood as squires, wanted their ‘little brother’ to enjoy his freedom.
*************************
Upon reaching the ever-roaming Wayreth Forest, the Majeres’ were received by an apprentice that showed the mage to a room to wait for ‘Master Dalamar’, and shooed the brothers into the barn —the only place non-wizards deserved, according to magic users.
After waiting for a reasonable time —no less than five minutes—, Raistlin/Palin began to get impatient and angry at the dark elf’s tardiness. However, every thought of magicking his former apprentice into an hourglass departed with the apparition of a huge signboard and an arrow with the words ‘Power be here!’ in bright luminous letters. He knew it to be a trap as big and obvious as Takhisis' ego, but, as usual, his snoopiness switched on and overthrew logic and common sense. Thus, he followed the materializing signs to the deepest dungeons of Wayreth Tower.
“Um, this seems familiar,” he mused once a trapdoor closed over his head. It was exceedingly dark, but he was unafraid —it was not bedtime yet. He was ready to cast a light spell when a raspy voice came from the darkness.
“Welcome to my domain, young one," it drawled.
The voice was very familiar, indeed!
“Oh, it’s you,” Raistlin sighed dejectedly. He had hoped for something interesting, not this.
“What? Oh, no! What are you doing here again, runt?” the voice snapped, gloomy.
“Shirak.”
A small sphere of light showed him a small, damp room carved into the tower’s stone. In the centre there was a simple table with two chairs, and sitting in the one opposite to him, was a decaying humanoid. He was glaring at the mage balefully with his red-abyssal-lights-passing-as-eyes. The scene brought past memories to Raistlin, but he noted a difference —possibly because the first and only time there, he had been terrified—, such as an obscene quantity of creased and dirty parchment scattered over the chamber floor. All of them seemed full of the same crooked scrawl.
Although the... being seemed angry, an interested spark danced in his ‘eyes’ as he studied the newcomer.
“You are different... not as runty as the last time,” it commented.
“That’s what happens when a crazed middle-aged woman armed with deadly skillets gets obsessed with fatting you up like a turkey,” Raistlin sighed. “Or perhaps it is that you, like the rest of Krynn, suffer from optical disability.”
The thing at the table shrugged bonily.
“Let’s make a deal, eh? Your unfairly youthful body in exchange for... mmm... let’s see... immortality. That’s it! Immortality!”
“Sorry, Fistandantilus, but I think I’ll pass. I don’t wish to spend eternity as a rotting corpse,” the younger archmage snorted. “By the way, what are you doing alive—I mean, un-dead? I killed you in the past!”
Fistandantilus scratched his not quite bald skull in a thoughtful gesture.
“I’m not sure. I don't remember anything about anyone killing me... Maybe it's a temporal paradox, you know. Did you travel in company of kender?"
Raistlin mumbled something unintelligible.
“I assume that’s a ‘yes’.”
“I did not. It was that imbecile Par-Salian!”
The wizened mage shrugged again. He opened the horrible hole only a very objective and coldblooded person would have called a mouth, to remark something. Suddenly, however, a shadowy form leapt from the corner it had been lurking in; it’s terrible jaws wide open, dribbling fetid drool, and clamped them viciously on Fistandantilus’ head.
“Ouch,” he said, without too much spirit.
Raistlin recoiled in abject terror. Perched on the lich’s skull with an unhallowed hold, a very dead bunny glared at him with myxomatosious red eyes all the while gnawing with sharp incisors. Maybe in some age past —possibly the Age of Dreams—, the fur had been white, shiny, and soft to the touch, in the way bunnies usually look in order to lure their predators. Now, however, where it had fur at all, it was dirty and matted and… rotting. Like the rest of its body.
It was a zombie bunny.
“Excuse me,” mumbled the dead wizard. Sitting down on one of the chairs, he produced out of nowhere a flat device that opened like a book but not quite so, put it on the table, pressed some yielding part —which made the thing reply with weird sounds some seconds later—, and began to hit it with his bony fingers in a easy way that bespoke of habit. The soft light coming from the device bathed his putrid features with a ghostly brightness, and made his empty eyes sparkle as they regarded the young man. “I’m sorry, but I must slash you.”
The casual threat snapped Raistlin from his terror-induced daze. Wrenching his gaze from the monstrosity with ex-fluffy ears, he glared disdainfully at the undead wizard, then smirked.
“And how do you intend to do it? I bested you once, I can do it again. Easily…”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that way,” the lich cut him off, never stopping his clicking hits on the device. “You see, some time ago I suffered from verbal incontinence and called Nuitari a nerd and a geek to his back. The freak heard me, nevertheless, and cursed me with these beasts. They are called ‘bunny plots’. Oh, yes, there are several of them, you would do well in keeping an eye on where you step. And since I’m one of the undead, they are too. Only to ensure they won’t die of old age and I escape from my ‘punishment’, you know. Now and then, they attack me, and when they manage to bite me, I must write a story inspired by them.”
“Can’t you simply destroy them?”
“Oh, I tried, but then where there was one, another two appear.”
“Then, you are going to write about me being slashed?”
“That’s just right.” He took a pot from under the table, rummaged about its insides with his almost skeletal hand and took out a little piece of parchment. He read it and sighed heavily. “Just my luck. This one is sooo typical. Sorry again, young man, but I must slash you with Dalamar,” the ancient wizard explained mournfully while he waved the piece of yellowed and dirty parchment.
An incongruous image of Fistandantilus wielding an unbelievably stiffened Dalamar in his bony hands, and trying to harm him, brandishing the elf like an awfully balanced two-handed sword came to his mind. That, apart from nearly breaking his steely control, and making him roar with laughter, reminded him that the head of the Black Robes was possibly in his study wondering where in the abyss Palin was. That and the fact that the lich was completely around the bend.
“Through this lapdog,” the undead indicated with his head, already sheathed in a shroud of dead bunny drool, the strange device he hit with his claws, “I can put my stories in a sort of library on a plane called the Internet, where other beings also affected by this curse can read them. They are supposed to review the work of the rest, these beings, but most of them suffer from severe shyness or laziness. However, a month ago I met one who was willing to date me. That’s why I need a decent body, not this rotting mess!” The last remaining bit of his nose splashed the device when he shook his head (and bunny) vehemently.
Raistlin, who had inched stealthily towards the ladder while Fistandantilus spoke, shrugged, all the while looking for rabid zombie bunnies. “That’s not my problem, old ruin. I need my body for my own goals.”
Fistandantilus regarded him through half-closed eyes. Well, he tried to, but he was not too successful because his eyelids had rotted away some centuries ago. “This time I’ll make you the uke!” he hissed, his voice full of poison. The bunny gnawed more frantically in response.
Instead of laughing ‘till the tears ran down his cheeks at the lich’s helplessness as he wanted to, the young man forced a sneering half-smile to his lips, and, with a last scornful glance, climbed the ladder. Once outside the stinking chamber, he closed the trapdoor, warded it with the most powerful locking spell he knew, and painted a big red cross on it. In addition, he spread out over it a neat parchment with the following warning: Danger! Pervy undead hazard. Do not trespass unless you want your body snatched from you and your soul bored to death.
He thought about the ‘pervy’ part and almost crossed it out. After all, Fistandantilus had not said anything about writing pornography with him as the main character, as would have been characteristic of such a randy old goat; he had only mentioned bizarre transmutation stories where people became weapons. However, he still bore a grudge against him for sucking up his lifeforce during the Test. Therefore, the warning stayed as it was.
Whistling a merry tune he had heard some decades ago in Neraka, he went to meet his former apprentice.
*************************
If Dalamar was displeased with him for his wanderings, he didn’t show it. At least not to his face; although the ‘I’m-going-to-throttle-you’ gestures he made when he thought Palin/Raistlin was not looking were very revealing.
“Nice to meet you again, young magus,” said the dark elf once they were alone in the Black Robe’s rooms. He gestured towards a bottle and several fine glasses on a little table. “Would you like some light, elven wine?”
Raistlin knew all too well Dalamar’s tactic of intoxicating his victims with his ‘light, elven wine’ before a hard interrogation; the ex-Silvanesti was an incompetent at discerning the human psyche —not that he was much better at the elven one—, so he had to resort to little dirty tricks like this one. Knowing that a retort about where he could put his bottle would be uncharacteristic of his mild nephew, the archmage swallowed his venom and replied instead: “No, thank you. I’m teetotal.”
“Oh? I would think otherwise with your father’s history,” the elf mused, with his typical lack of tact.
“Well, what do you want of me?” Raistlin nearly snapped.
He saw as the Black Robe tried to maintain his cool, but was obviously taken aback by the bold question. After some moments, however, Dalamar smirked. “You are rather like your uncle, young man. And not only physically. After our meeting in Palanthas I thought you hadn’t much spine, but it seems it’s not so; you bark like him. Very much like him.”

Bark and bite, you dork.
“Should it upset me, Dalamar?”
“Er... I suppose so... Um... So... Well, I wanted to propose to you, with you being so like your late uncle, er... come to Palanthas to be my apprentice,” the elf said, eyeing him warily.
Raistlin’s smile was frighteningly fierce. “I would be honoured, Dalamar. After all, he would have wanted me to take possession of his Tower.”
As he spoke, the ex-Silvanesti paled and froze, his slanted eyes as wide as saucers. The dark elf tried to say something several times, opening and closing his mouth like a beach-stranded fish. The archmage found it a great effort to not burst out laughing at that stricken face and, full of wicked glee, thought about putting one of Fistandantilus’ spells to good use. He schooled his features into Palin’s mild smile and patted the shocked elf’s shoulder amiably. “Don’t worry, I was kidding! Never fear, I’ve no desire to become a Black Robe; my mum would pan my head open and Father would have a fit.” Well, that last one was a tempting thought...
“Really? For–for a moment I’d swear... you were the shalafi. I thought he had possessed your bo–body...” Dalamar stammered. He drunk his glass of wine in one gulp, his hands still shaking, and sighed, relieved.
Inside, Raistlin was cackling in mirth. He disliked the smug expression his ex-apprentice usually wore on his face and enjoyed wiping it off; Dalamar was most handsome when scared... I didn’t think Dalamar as handsome, did I? Argh, get out, get out, you filthy thought!
“Ha, ha... Everybody says I do a great impersonation of Uncle Raistlin,” he mentioned aloud, all the while mentally chastising himself.
“They’re right, you do.” the Black Robe laughed weakly, having another swing at the wine. After a tense silence, he added: “Um, you may leave. Justarius is probably waiting for you.”
Raistlin blinked, confused.
“That’s all?”
The dark elf glowered at him, and nearly growled as he swallowed the remaining wine.
“Yes, I made you come here to tempt you, as is expected of me. Now, go away, young man. I will meet you and the Heads of the Conclave in a moment.”
After a somewhat poisonous glance from the Head of Black Robes, Raistlin shrugged and finally left. A half-asleep apprentice who had been waiting for him in the corridor guided him to the rooms where he was to meet Justarius and the Head of the White Robes, someone with the strange name of Dumb.
********************************
Actually, the Head of the White Robes was dumb. Master Dumb in fact, just as Justarius was. And Dalamar too.
While they were waiting for the dark elf to arrive, the older mages offered him cookies and tea, and asked him about the weather in Solace and how his family was and other exasperating trivialities. They were amiable in an unsettled sort of way, chattering like old windbags, all the while looking at him out of the corners of their eyes as if they didn’t believe he was real. None broached a minimally interesting topic and he grew more deadly bored by the second.
And so, there he was, pondering the best way to silence the pair of blabbering old coots, when Dalamar staggered into the room, bottle of elven wine in hand, and completely plastered. His usually nimble feet stumbled, one stepping on the other, until he reached and fell on the armchair prepared to that effect. As the three humans watched —two indifferently, one incredulously—, he filled a teacup to the brim, all the while slagging someone off in a muttered Silvanesti. To judge by the colourful terms he used, the dark elf referred to his former shalafi and some joker nephew of his or other. Raistlin understood everything, although refrained from commenting; seeing how his former apprentice drowned his sorrows in that dreadful beverage was fun enough.
At that moment, Justarius decided that the presence of a drunken elf justified the abandonment of idle chitchat. Ever the Head of the Conclave, the lame tried to question the young mage about his Test without giving the impression he hadn’t the foggiest idea of what had transpired in the Tower of Palanthas. He tried to be shrewd, really, he did, but he had the subtlety of a dwarf cleric of Kiri-Jolith charging against hooting goblins. Poor Justarius was nothing like Par-Salian, who in the old times would have managed to sell a broomstick to a desert barbarian and even be thanked for it.
Raistlin, however, not ensnared by the Red Robe’s not very deceitful verbal traps, decided to amuse himself and launched on an epic tale of magic, with a side of sob story included. There wasn’t a jot of truth in it; not even a kender would have believed such tall story. Nevertheless, the three Heads of the Conclave of the Orders of High Sorcery fell for it. Even the part with the furry tiny dragons with an aesthete complex. When he finished, the big black human and the elf were crying. Dalamar had an excuse though; he was completely pissed.
Clearing his throat, Justarius spoke.
“Thus, your uncle saved you from Takhisis.” The younger man nodded, torn between adding a new grandiloquent fib or leaving it at that. Some hours ago he would have thought it to be a great risk for his charade, but now he was toying with the idea of telling them his own version of the War of the Lance. He had always wanted to explain his theory about why Sturm was so stuck-up. “That was very brave on his part.”
“Yes, it was,” he echoed mournfully. And it was, facing a goddess that wanted to eat you was incredibly brave. Stupid too, of course, but some men cannot choose between dangerous bravery/stupidity and safe cowardice/common sense. Possibly because there are gods involved.
“My shalafi wash a verry cor-coru-cou, pah, had a lot of gutss,” babbled Dalamar, standing riskily on his feet. “He wash ash ugly ash shin and alwaysh wash in a shitty mood, but got ballsh. Do you know what he did to me? He put hish hand on my chest and did… This!” And ripped the front of his robes before anyone could stop him. At the third attempt, though.
Raistlin felt embarrassed and a little angry; he had intended it to be a punishment, not an excuse for Dalamar to indulge in his flasher vice, for gods’ sake! In addition, he resented being called ugly. He was not! He was merely aesthetically challenged. Nevertheless, he stilled his hand as it inched towards the spell component pouch, remembering he would have his revenge on the Silvanesti very, very soon.
Fortunately, Justarius and his dumb mate seemed as appalled as the archmage was, and, already satisfied with the pack of lies Raistlin had fed them, ended the meeting despite the dark elf’s insistence on retelling his sad story as an uncovered traitor.

********************************
Raistlin meet his ‘brothers’ in the barn. They were trying to get off with a white robed elf despite the fact it was a ‘he’ and not a ‘she’, as the Majeres’ firmly thought. Since their intentions were innocent —at least he hoped so—, he didn’t bother to clarify that the expression they thought so cute was one of pure loathing.
“You seem happy, Palin,” Sturm commented after blowing a kiss to the enraged wizard. The latter let out a string of insults in Qualinesti, but none of the warrior brothers understood anything. “She has a rather melodious voice, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, my brother, she has. I wish I had paid attention to Tanis’ lessons,” sighed Tanin, waving goodbye to ‘her’ from his saddle. Since they turned their horses towards the appearing trail throughout Wayreth Forest, neither saw how the white mage had to be tackled by his colleagues to prevent him fireballing the humans.
Raistlin hid his amused snort behind a hand. He felt happy, his spirits high after facing the clueless idiots and establishing that his deception didn’t run the risk of being found out. Not that he feared them; if discovered, he could kill them all with a simple snap of his fingers. The wrathful gods that would fall on him then were a different matter though. Bastard busybodies.
His good mood —boosted by the hilarious comments of the brothers about what they would have done to the ‘fair maid’ if allowed by their vows— was completely destroyed some hours later, when he was cooking over the bonfire.
He had forgotten about the dratted Staff of Magius.
Fuming, Raistlin reflected on his dilemma. He couldn’t go back to Wayreth and demand Dalamar to give it to him; he expected the dark elf to be either sleeping off his binge or back at Palanthas. In addition, he didn’t want to reveal his charade yet. Pretending to be Palin allowed him freedom enough to plot safely. Thus, he had to devise another way to get his beloved staff.
Once certain that his nephews were far from the encampment gathering firewood, the archmage went over his spellbook in search of a suitable spell. None of those he had memorized or in his spellbooks were particularly useful for this endeavour, but after some hard pondering he thought he found one that would do.
Keeping an eye on the saucepan over the fire, Raistlin drew a circle of summoning on the dirt, then one of protection. The place was not the best for this kind of spell; however, the wizard doubted he would have any other chance of casting it in the near future. He checked twice the correctness of the circles and their trustworthiness, then began to chant the incantation, weaving with his hands an intricate web of wizardry.
A figure appeared in the middle of the circles.
“Hello, handsome. What do you want from me?” purred the beautiful, bat-winged woman standing before him. She looked around, a bit bewildered, and commented: “This seems a weird place to do it, but, hey, you are the customer. You won’t hear me complaining.”
Raistlin rolled his eyes and sighed. Damned Fistandantilus; why didn’t he include any non sex-related spell on his ultimate spellbook? His incipient-no-more headache worsened.
“Hear me out, succubus, you are not here to ‘do it’ as you put it,” he snarled in his best bastard voice.
“No? Then why have you summoned me?” the busty demoness seemed nonplussed momentarily, then narrowed her enchanting green eyes in a shrewd expression. “Ah, I see. You tried to summon an incubus, but you failed and magicked me instead. The formulae are very similar; many get the ith wrong.”
“No, that’s not it!” spluttered the archmage, indignant. “I did not make a mistake. I summoned you on purpose.”
“Really? Then what you are trying to hide under your robes is truly what it seems? I did wonder for a moment, master of mine.” She shrugged beautifully, flapping her wings in a lazy way. “But if you don’t want to have sex, what do you want? Are you of the voyeur sort? I don’t have much to remove.” She pointed to her skimpy attire, nothing more than two strips of cloth feigning to cover her pudendum.
“No, that’s not it either!” Raistlin growled. His headache was threatening to become a full-blown migraine. “No sex! No perversion at all! I want you to go to a place, take something, and return to me in order to give it to me. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Oh,” the succubus pouted with a moue of disappointment. Immediately, she plastered a haughty expression over her lovely features. “Am I perhaps to be your errand girl?”
“Exactly. Listen to me, you are to go to the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas.” He cut short her attempt of protest with a brusque gesture. “I will transport you there with a teleport spell. At the topmost level, behind a door guarded by a spectre, is the laboratory. Within, lays a magical staff. You will take it and bring it back to me immediately. I will provide you with the code words for the guardian and a little spell to allow you to touch the staff without being struck down.” The archmage smirked, feeling a little better at the demoness’ discomfort. However, his expression turned severe, and he frowned. “And when you come back, please, make sure of being more presentable.”
After enchanting a pebble to act as a protection charm, Raistlin gave it to the succubus. When he remembered she would have to cross the dreaded Shoikan Grove, smacked his front. Damn, he must provide the spell for that as well! He muttered a curse under his breath, at the thought of what it entailed.
With a wave of his hand, he dispelled the magic boundaries and beckoned for her to approach him.
“Yes, what is it? Have you changed you mind before sending me away?”
“Be quiet,” Raistlin growled. Quick as a snake, he pecked her on the front while whispering arcane words.
“Ow! So you are kinky after all.” Her brief expression of pain gave way to a salacious smile that revealed tiny pointed fangs.
The mage retreated hurriedly, giving her a warning look. “It was only a spell to allow you to traverse the haunted grove that guards the Tower. Now, farewell, succubus, and return to me as swiftly as you are able.” And the form of demoness faded, transported by his magic. “Ah, the password is ‘rabid bunnies’!”
He sighed relieved. Very soon the Staff would be in his hands again.
“Gah! The dinner!”

********************************
Some hours later, Raistlin and the Majere brothers were trying to digest the scorched stew the archmage had managed to scrape off the saucepan. Sturm, whose stomach surely had a steely coating, belched noisily, a sound not knightly at all. His brother ignored it, considering it usual, whereas the older-but-passing-as-younger Majere rolled his eyes and sighed.
“You seem tired after all that high cuisine, Palin. I think you are losing your touch,” Tanin commented, still munching the more than hard trailbread. He was to add something, but his eyes looked past the mage, bulging like a batrachian’s.
This, and the drooling expression on Sturm’s face, were warning enough; therefore, he wasn’t startled when a sultry voice breathed on his ear and something hard but warm pressed against his upper back.
“Hello again, my fidgety master,” the succubus whispered.
Raistlin turned around to gaze at the demoness. As he had ordered her, she had changed into more modest clothes. However, she was not exactly wearing a black robe. She was bursting it. There were too many dangerous curves and too little fabric to cover them.
“Oh, so you are the envoy Dalamar said he would send?” he asked aloud, looking her up and down sternly. “What do you have for me?”
The pretty fiend blinked in confusion. “Ah-Oh, yes. My master commanded me to bring you this gift.” Clever demon! The mage thought as he reached to take the Staff, eagerness clearly on his face. “And I think he commented something about you giving me something in return,” she added, moving aside the magical artefact before he could snatch it.
“Pardon?”
“Only a little kissy,” she begged, as she pursed her lips.
Looking down at his nephews, who were in a comatose state due to their extreme horniness, and had fallen on the ground foaming at the mouth, Raistlin stood up trying to tower over the succubus. He wasn’t successful; she was taller than him and her stiletto heels made her seem even taller.
“None of that. Give me my Staff,” he snarled. His hands clenched into fists and an almost perceptible aura of power began to emanate from them.
“Oh, but you are such a killjoy,” the field whined. She threw the artefact to him. “You seem to enjoy that piece of wood a bit too much,” she nagged nastily.
The archmage ignored her comments, basking as he was in the familiar and welcome feeling of belonging he had missed so much. “You may leave,” he whispered, nearly rubbing his head against the wood like a possessive cat. Certainly, he seemed like one with all that purring.
“As you with, master,” she said, and disappeared amid a burst of stinking fumes.
It was a long while later when he realized that he hadn’t ordered her to return to her home plane.
He had allowed a succubus to roam the lands of Krynn freely.
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Flaming Summer!