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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
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Flaming Summer!

A Most Atrocious Parody by Chetwynd
Note: This takes place when Raistlin is ‘on visit’ to Wayreth. Thus, chronologically speaking, it should be Chapter 2-½. Bear with me. ;)
Chapter 3: Par-Salian’s Demise

The night hung over the Tower of High Sorcerymso-ansi-language: at Wayreth, and most of its inhabitants were sleeping like logs. However, not every one of them was. One of the latter was roaming its hallowed corridors hastily.
Raistlin Majere was the most powerful wizard born to Krynn, ever. His mastery of sorcery was renowned, as was his deep erudition in many arcane and mundane areas. All of these, nevertheless, were completely useless in his current endeavour: to avoid wetting himself.
Some illustrious mind had forgotten to leave a chamber pot in his rooms, or anything to serve as it. That wouldn’t be so serious were it not for the lack of any lavatories, or at least indicated ones. In addition, at these nightly hours there weren’t apprentices to point out the hidden facilities. Why couldn’t they use those oh-so-solicitous undeads he had back at home as servants? They never complained about overwork or night shifts. But no, those old hypocrites weren’t in favour of undead manpower, and made their apprentices serve as such. On the other hand, there was a cesspool in the dungeons, near Fistandantilus’ hideout, but it was known to be haunted by… things. Smelly, horrid things born of centuries of magic and shit. And using a window wouldn’t be wise either; no one knows if the next Raistlin is taking his or her Test out there. Moreover, the Forest had a nasty reputation.
And so, there he was, running surreptitiously through those musty corridors in search of a suitable place to relieve himself from his current, urgent need. Not able to hold it any longer, he opened the first door he came across, and entered. The room the wizard had broken into was a luxurious study, packed with bursting shelves of white-bound tomes, tastefully furnished and full of magical trinkets. Raistlin, though, never saw any of this. He took the first empty flask he was able to grab and used it, uttering a long, breathy sigh of relief.
The archmage was about to decide what to do with the now full flask when a mad flurry of white clothes burst into the study, and a cracked voice asked sternly: “Who are you? And what are you doing with my elixir of soothing peace?”
Before he could react, a decrepit old man wearing a worn, white dressing gown and fur-lined slippers took the flask away from his hands, tut-tuting in annoyance. Boggled surprise took his mind momentarily, or Raistlin would have blasted the old dodderer on the spot. But, however, the latter was left blissfully unaware of this, and was able to reach his cluttered vallenwood desk and take a seat.
He was Par-Salian, the former Head of the White Robes and the Conclave. And his smile was bright and unnaturally toothy.
“Oh, you are the young Majere that recently passed his Test at Palanthas, aren’t you?” the crock mused, placing the supposed elixir of soothing peace on his desk. His tone and attitude were amicable and gentle, unlike the ones he had used with Raistlin in the past, always stern and more than a little condescending and supercilious.
Reining in his ire, the younger mage took a seat when Par-Salian urged him to do it. Perhaps it might prove more entertaining killing the old man slowly and tortuously after getting his dirty secrets out of him. It was clear the bastard had not recognized him, he was as blind as the rest. Thus, he put ‘Palin’s smile’ on his face and nodded in agreement. “Yes, I am.”
“I see you have more sense than your late and evil uncle. You chose the White Robes,” Par-Salian commented, one of his bushy eyebrows arching. “You look remarkably like Raistlin. However, he always reminded me of a famished and crafty fox, whereas you seem… well, less foxy and undernourished than him. Don’t take it the wrong way, my lad,” he said hurriedly, when he saw Raistlin’s anger, mistaking his reasons for it.
The dark archmage forced his frown away and a smile to his thin lips. Keep your cool, you always can fry him later, he said to himself, again and again. “The gods decided that white was my colour,” he commented blandly. It wasn’t even a lie. “And, concerning Uncle Raistlin; I don’t think I’m the most suitable person to give my opinion about him.”
“Such a good boy, so respectful of the rules and your elders, and properly thankful to our Patrons. So different from Raistlin; who was so full of rebelliousness, always so ungrateful.” It was Par-Salian’s turn to frown. “And rotten to the core, don’t forget about that.”
How dare he? The cheek!
“Possibly you had a hand in that rot you speak of,” the younger man nearly spat, trying to keep his voice free of the venom that filled his mouth. “My father told me…”
Par-Salian held up his hand in a pacifying gesture.
“Undoubtedly, you have been told many lies, my lad. No, no, I’m not saying your father lied to you knowingly; his head was filled with his twin’s poisonous whispers. He was a little viper, your uncle Raistlin was. And a very dangerous one.” The old geezer gestured for him to approach, and he did, the words of a very necromantic spell on the tip of his soured tongue.
“I see that you have a righteous soul, as pure as your uncle’s was dark. I know I can trust you, young man, and it’s time for someone, apart from me and the Gods, to know the truth at last. To bequeath my legacy. Between you and me, Solinari knows I tried, but trying to make Raistlin see the light was truly a waste of time and effort.”
“You see, Paladine spoke to me. ‘Thou are to seek a Sword to vanquish Darkness,’ he commanded. And I, like the devoted servant I am, did. Of course, I was not going to look for it among our good youths; vanquishing darkness is a very dirty and ungrateful job, you know, not suitable for those who truly deserve the gifts of the Gods. That was a job to be carried out by an expendable candidate to the Red or the Black Robes. Oh, but you seem shocked. Don’t be, my young friend. Only the White Order matters, you know it as well as I do. Look into your heart and ask yourself if neutrality and evil should be allowed to coexist with the greater good, tarnishing it.”
Raistlin was amazed into silence by the enormity of Par-Salian’s hypocrisy. For decades, as the Head of the Conclave, the old man had played the role of the fair leader, follower of the Balance Doctrine, fooling everybody into believing that he advanced the interests of the three Orders. Publicly he paid lip service to the Three Cousins, possibly licking only Solinari’s boots in private. Manipulative git! This might be the true explanation why so few aspiring White Robes were killed in the Test during his leadership…
Par-Salian, unaware of the cogs wheeling in Raistlin’s devious mind, carried on with his monologue.
“And your uncle was the ideal candidate; he had the potential, the guts, and the lack of scruples to be a bloody good sword. He was flawed, however. Raistlin needed to be stronger, and tougher, and to understand the true nature of Good, to become the suitable tool required by the God to chase away evil. Therefore, I endeavoured to help him to overcome his imperfections.”
I wonder when you did that, Raistlin thought, too fascinated by the old wizard’s ‘righteous’ two-facedness to blast him to his dear Solinari.
“Yes, I tried to aid your uncle to become a better person, hence a little more worthy of the immense honour granted to him. Nevertheless, I knew he was already born bad; so set into his dark path he was, I was certain he wouldn’t listen to reason if treated with gentleness, patience, and care. Raistlin was a special person that needed a special method to be dealt with: Inverted Logic.”
Not only is the bastard manipulative, but mad as a hatter too, the younger archmage mused. He wondered if squashing the old man’s head with the platinum statuette of Paladine on the side table would be as satisfying as he imagined.
“According to this infallible method,” ─Raistlin couldn’t help but snort─, “you must apply a contrary negative force to obtain a positive reaction. Take for example his strength; we needed him to be tougher, therefore I made them break his health irreversibly and erased the little vigour he had ever had. That made him stronger indeed. Not physically, mind you, but in spirit and resolve, which were what mattered.”
Raistlin looked at the old White Robe agape. This loon had him tortured ─tortured!─ gratuitously during his Test to put into practice his crazed psychological theories. All had been orchestrated for him to become a cripple! He felt light-headed and nauseous. Hardly able to rein in the fury that threatened to smash his mask of amazed blandness, he plucked up courage and studied Par-Salian through hooded eyes as the old mage continued his innermost confession.
“Then, I strived to teach him compassion. How? Being incredibly cruel to him, of course. I will have you know, young man, that there’s not an ounce of cruelty in my body; carrying out my mission was abhorring for me, but necessary. It was for the sake of the Greater Good. Anyway, I forced myself to cast on him the Curse of Reylanna. Have you heard about it? Yes, it was those famous hourglass pupils Raistlin sported. They made him see the effect of the passing of time. Entropy at its barest. Therefore, he saw everything and everybody rotting away.”
“And how in the abyss was that going to teach him compassion?” Raistlin managed to ask through lips devoid of all colour. This was a matter that had occupied his mind for years, and he never had reached a coherent conclusion.
“Ah, the question was to be ruthless with him. Don’t you see? Cruelty engenders compassion.”
“So the curse had no specific purpose?” Raistlin chocked out.
“Well, no. It was the cruellest thing that crossed my mind at the time.” The nutcase regarded him beatifically, never imagining that in front of him there was a volcano ready to erupt. “And to finish it all off, I gave him the Staff of Magius. A plaything to lay into dragons with, the bigger and the nastier the better.” A wicked smile crossed his lips and he giggled softly. “No one knows it, but that artefact has a hidden power: It drives its wielder to search the most evil and powerful dragons to kill them.”
Now I understand why I did such stupidity as trying to overthrow Takhisis and seize her divinity, Raistlin marvelled. Throughout his period of sleep in the immortal plane he had wondered what induced him to do that; he had always thought that the godly trade had to be a complete pain in the arse, always putting up with whining faithfuls and their demands of miracles. And, worst of all, the rest of gods. In addition, one had to be an idiot to limit oneself to a divine portfolio. Take for instance Takhisis, the Queen of Dorkness.
“However, he was not supposed to survive the war,” huffed Par-Salian. His creased expression conveyed clearly the disgust he felt at Raistlin’s insolence. “That bastard somehow resisted the lure of the Staff; managed to trick his destiny and insult the trust placed on him. He turned his nose up at his rightful place in history as heroic martyr of Good! And the ungrateful wretch repaid my magnanimousness by turning renegade, squatting in the Tower of Palanthas, taking it for himself, and kicking up that jam of killing a goddess! That miserable git was so… so difficult. At least he had the decency of committing suicide via claw rending. I hope now he is learning of his mistakes amidst unmentionable suffering, as he deserves.”
The fake White Robe didn’t know whether to burst of indignation or laugh at the uncanny insanity of the fusty wizard. He felt a little better, though, his sight cleared of that blood-red film that had covered it momentarily. Even if Par-Salian was stark raving mad, that wouldn’t save the old man from his vengeance. And it was at hand…
“A question, Great One,” he said, cutting off the string of complaints with his best sickly-sweet voice. “All this talk about Uncle Raistlin is very interesting, and I feel truly, deeply honoured at being the repository of your legacy.” Hah! “However, I’ve always wanted to speak with a true master wizard about my studies.”
Par-Salian’s face brightened and he abandoned his long-winded peevish speech. “Of course, my good boy, ask away, ask away.”
Raistlin’s smile was so gentle his face hurt, and would continue doing so for at least a week after.
“You see, master, I have a spell… Allow me to demonstrate it!” And he launched in to the intricate casting while his clueless victim regarded him with a contented grin on his lips. He was the very picture of dear grandfatherlyness, the bastard; as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
After a while ─well, the darned spell was a difficult one─, that shiny smile slackened a little. Maybe he was starting to wonder how a newly robed mage was able to weave such a long and complex incantation, especially one that he’d never heard before.
With a soft clenching of his right hand, Raistlin uttered the last arcane words, which hung briefly in the air only to dissipate as if never voiced. Then, he lay back on his seat and smiled. Contrary to his former honeyed grin, this one was very, very foxy. The grin of a trickster.
It was extremely satisfying to observe how it had the effect of wiping Par-Salian’s smile from his wrinkled face.
“Er… What…?” The old archmage faltered, eyeing him, half-confused and half-suspicious. Then, he seemed to get his wits back. The grandfatherly smile reappeared. “You have cast it wrongly, lad. I know you are anxious to learn, but you shouldn’t tax your abilities in this way…”
Raistlin’s smirk became even more noticeable. “I have not, Great One.” No one else would’ve been able to put so much mockery in two words. “You don’t even know what it is, do you? Oh, no, no, don’t try to excuse yourself - and quit simpering; it’s perfectly logical you don’t, since I invented it.”
“But you…”
“But I. I am the genius who created this nice little spell. I call it ‘memento mori’,” he laughed softly, the embodiment of cool evilness. “You will know why very soon.”
Par-Salian, his eyes wide and full of dread, opened his mouth to say something, but only a strangled gasp escaped him. Suddenly, he paled, whiter than his own pristine dressing gown. As Raistlin watched amused, the old man began to make a great fuss, gesticulating wildly and taking great gulps of air.
Possibly the golden shade that now tinted his skin had something to do with it, the younger man reflected absently, studying his hands briefly. He shrugged.
Meanwhile, the musty archmage had thrown himself to the floor, and was now kicking out in a most undignified manner. He tried to reach the flask on the table ─one of the few things he hadn’t managed to knock over─ as Raistlin perched on it, highly amused. A violent spasm shook his frame, however, and his blue-veined hand fell to the floor, keeping him company in his death rattle.
It was over too soon.
“Pooh! How lame!” the living wizard complained. Nevertheless, he didn’t lose his satisfied smile. He even uttered a loud laugh. Still smirking, he made himself comfortable on Par-Salian’s former seat, he rested his booted feet on the disordered table and intertwined his fingers to rest his head on them as he lay back. “Well, we will see whether the next is more interesting.”
*********************************
A loud racket brought Par-Salian back from the icy depths of darkness. Numb, and still shaken by the terrible memories of what had happened in his study, he managed to open a rheum-encrusted eye, unsettled by the stir he sensed going on around him.
He was in his bed, clothed with his now-soppy nightshirt. That would have been a calming sight indeed, were it not for the three figures that loomed over him. These were, judging by their starched blue robes and professional demeanor, Mishakites. Servants of the Healing Hand had come to his aid! They were two men and a woman, too young for his liking ─the human male still sported pimples that bespoke of an adolescence left behind not too recently. It was when he paid attention to their heated discussion that he discovered that who called the tune ─the strapping and muscle-bound male elf with cropped hair─ was not a male, but a female. No one would have told by her appearance ─she was manlier than most of the males of her race.
“We must save this old ruin,” the beardless male human was saying, his tone one of affected exasperation.
“I know that,” replied the fair… elf. “This is our last chance at proving we are skilled enough to enter the Sisterhood, and I refuse to allow it to end in a bloomer again.”
Par-Salian’s pale eyes widened at those words. Looking for the first time at the holy symbols hanging around their necks, he noticed they were not the usual silvery ones that indicated a Revered Child of Mishakal. They were made from some tarnished, cheap metal, and below the eternity symbol of the goddess, there were engraved the following words: Para-cleric in training period.
“His breathing has quickened dangerously,” warned the female who up to that moment had remained silent. “And he’s too pale. I think he shows signs of the beginning of a stroke!”
“We won’t allow this dirty human to make us fail our test!” the elf shouted with stern resolution.
“No!” her two cohorts chorused heartily.
The terrified archmage tried to tell them that he was fine; their zealous disposition was the only cause of his agitation. However, he was unable; he only could look at them, distressed and paralysed, some evil power robbing him his voice and ability to move.
“Now he is asphyxiating!” cried the human female, pointing to his face, which had reddened due to his futile efforts to shoo them.
“I think he’s hyperventilating,” contradicted the male. “Look at his dilated pupils. We are going to lose him, like the others.”
“Not if I have any say in this!” growled the elf, and immediately after straddled his prone form. “Larissa, you are in charge of the resuscitation, I’ll take care of the cardiac massage; and Roderick… you count up.”
“All right, Thandintalianara,” he agreed, but grudgingly.
Larissa was at first sloppy, then deadly in her endeavour. Instead of helping him, she was smothering him! On Thandintalianara’s part, her zeal was a bit too much, particularly taking into account that his heart still beat in his chest as she hammered at it. Roderick was no better, losing count every five minutes.
The sound of bone breaking stilled their valiant efforts to save who didn’t need to be saved.
“Uh-oh, this seems really bad,” muttered the elf. She stood beside the bed to study the now gurgling victim.
Larissa imitated her. “His old heart can’t take any more,” she breathed, downhearted.
“One moment, I’ve got the solution!” Roderick cried.
Par-Salian had time enough only to be blinded by the brightness that seared his eyes.

“I don’t think you should have used that scroll of call lightning, Roderick,” said Thandintalianara once they put out the fires. She regarded the scorched corpse twisted among the ruins of the burned bed sadly.
“But in the handbook was a section about how electricity could help the heart to resume its beating. I even remember it was titled ‘Electroconvulsive therapy’.”
“But you should’ve read a little more than the title,” reproached Larissa. “And, for your information, electroconvulsive therapy is used to help people not right in the head! Oh, well, there goes our chance.”
The elf shrugged. “Well, we could always try to join the Dirty Brethren of Morgion, they are not as picky as the Mishakites. Surely they’ll appreciate your skills.”
Her two companions nodded, and the three of them left, throwing their temporary holy symbols to the charred remains of the former Head of the Conclave of High Sorcery.
*********************************
Not bothering to choke back his shriek of horror, Par-Salian returned to the land of the ‘not-electrified-to-death’, sitting in his bed.
He looked around expecting the sadistic Mishakites to pounce. None of them were in sight though; it seemed that he was alone in his undamaged bedroom. His heart beating in his chest ─a reminder of the painful, cruel therapy─, the wizard stood and put his dressing gown and his slippers on. Full of trepidation, he went to the door which led to his study, paused in front of it with his hand on the doorknob. After five full minutes, the old man sighed resignedly and opened it.
No Raistlin laughing himself silly either. Perhaps it all had been a weird nightmare?
Suddenly, the light went out and the door closed over his head… Wait a minute, hadn’t it been behind him?
“Ah-ha! You have fallen into my… Oh, it’s you,” said a dry, downhearted, cracked voice. Then, there was light, and Par-Salian was able to make out a being even more ruinous than himself. The red lights that shone in the depths of his dark and empty eyesockets glowered at the old man. “Welcome to my more than humble abode, Parsley. How nice of you to visit an old forgotten friend.”
Par-Salian was wondering how in the abyss he had managed to end up in the dingy chamber of Fistandantilus. For decades, he had taken great care to avoid the lower levels ─and this chamber particularly─ of the Tower, just in case any of their inhabitants called him to account. Ah, but the sacrifices of his honour and pride he had been forced to make in the past for the sake of Krynn!
“You are disgusting; your den is a pigsty. It stinks,” the living wizard said, wrinkling his nose.
“Really? Well, since I have no nose,” he pointed the hole that opened above his mouth with a semi-skeletal finger, “I cannot know. However, I commend your politeness,” the lich added, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “Haven’t we a matter pending, my friend?”
“Uh. No? How dare you insinuate that I have anything to do with such an evil creature as you?” Par-Salian huffed, offended.
The undead mage regarded him, possibly a little amazed at his companion’s selective memory. It was difficult to judge by his inexpressive features though.
“Well, I’ll refresh your memory a bit, Parsley. Do you remember that meeting we had in, let’s see…” He took a dirty agenda from under the table and consulted it. “On H’hramont the second, 346? Oh, you do now, eh? Yes, it was when you brought me here in return for a little favour I was to do for you. ‘Break that puny Majere and feed from most of his lifeforce, but not enough to kill him’, you said. ‘In exchange, you’ll prey on those who fall into your trap.’ And I did, but the runt’s lifeforce was soured and gave me a stomach ache for at least seven years. That’s why I couldn’t stop him from taking over my dear Tower,” he wailed.
“In addition, you never sent any other apprentice this way! I’m starved and falling to pieces! Don’t act innocent now, I’ve it all noted down here,” Fistandantilus warned, shaking the agenda threateningly. “And now here I am, an inmate of this gloomy prison, without a hope of going to my date, and cursed!”
“I’m certainly cursed!” replied Par-Salian savagely.
“Are you?” the lich asked, pacified and intrigued by the despair in the living wizard’s voice.
“Yes, I am. That bastard Raistlin cast a spell on me and I’ve already suffered two horrible deaths. ‘Memento mori’ he called it.”
“‘Remember you are going to die’? That’s what it means. It sounds like lots of fun,” his undead companion commented approvingly. Then, seeing Par-Salian’s angry countenance amended: “Perhaps not so for the target.”
“You must help me to undo it!”
“My, do you think me so obtuse? I’m not doing it in exchange for nothing, like the last time, you swindler.”
“But that way you will get your revenge on Raistlin…” pleaded the White Robe.
“Nope. Wrong answer. What do I win if I help you?”
The old wizard seemed dismayed and torn; after some inner deliberation though, he nodded, defeated but determined.
“You say you need a new body. Young Majere is of no use anymore; what’s more, he poses a serious danger to Krynn. I’ll help you to take and possess his.”
“Why in the abyss do we keep calling him ‘young’ when he’s at least in his sixties?” wondered the lich aloud. Both mages shrugged; Raistlin was younger than any of them after all. “Alright, but please sign the contract I’m going to draw up this very moment. I don’t trust your word.”
Par-Salian sighed and acquiesced. He neared the cluttered table while Fistandantilus wrote the contract on a crumpled and dirty parchment. As he was to sign it, however, he jumped back in fright.
“What are those?” the wizard said pointing a trembling finger at a pair of shining red eyes surrounded by darkness under the table.
“Oh, don’t make any sudden moves. They are my curse,” warned the rotting mage.
“I don’t like the way they are looking at me,” whined Par-Salian.
“Just sign the damned contract! And… No! Don’t blast them…!”

A weary sigh threatened to burst the small chamber that served as Fistandantilus’ prison.
“So, the bunnies are deadly to mortals,” murmured the latter, glancing the terribly mutilated corpse that once had been Par-Salian. “Serves him right, the lying bastard.”
He was sitting at the table and clicking like mad his ‘lapdog’, the four bunnies attached to his ruinous frame shaking as he moved. His grimace was even more hideous than usual. “And now I’m forced to write this rubbish about Astinus and Toede. Ugh! It’s disgusting even for me.”
“Raistlin, you are to blame for my misfortune! I’ll have my vengeance on you!”
With a supreme effort of will, Fistandantilus moved away from the table and, ignoring the frantic bunnies driving him to write pure drivel, he raised his bony arms to the ceiling in a invocation.
“O Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, heed my plea and come to my aid!”
After repeating this one thousand times, the goddess got bored with his incessant and annoying pleading, and made an image of herself appear in the chamber.
“You are giving me a headache, Fistandantilus. What do you want now? I’m a busy deity, you know.”
“I want to help you in an endeavour.”
Takhisis stared at him nonplussed for a brief second. “So you want to help me to do something? And that would be…? I don’t remember anything in my agenda including you.”
“I have a foolproof plan to revenge ourselves on that runt Raistlin Majere.”
The goddess’ grin was so frightening even the brainless bunnies cowered.
“I’m all ears, my dear lich.”
*********************************
An acute pain in the head awoke Par-Salian.
Opening his eyes and fearing what he would find, he discovered he was again in his room. The floor of his room to be exact. Apparently, he had fallen head first from the bed, and was now lying amid a heap of white sheets.
They reminded him of shrouds.
Shivering, the old man put on his dressing gown and slippers. Again. How many times had he done so lately? However, once thus clothed, he sat again on the bed, fearful of his next actions. What should he do? Wait for the upcoming terrible death? He choked back a sob. What had he done to deserve such punishment? He had been a faithful and righteous champion of Good, doing as requested, without questions or complaints… He had helped the world to be saved from darkness, and then to rid it of the flawed tools that might have infected it with their corrupted blades. He was a good man! He had made great sacrifices for the sake of magic, the gods, and Krynn!
Par-Salian burst into tears.
After a while, tears exhausted. The wizard resigned himself and went to face the fate that awaited him in his study.
Nevertheless, he found no Mishakites, no Raistlin, and no Fistandantilus. His study was as he had left it in the evening, a mess. The only difference was a scruffy hat on his table, near the elixir of soothing peace. Once upon a time it had been white, he supposed, and it was crumpled and pointless. In spite of its unassuming appearance, a nearly imperceptible aura of magic and divinity surrounded the piece of clothing.
Par-Salian recognised it, awed.
It was Fizban’s hat.
Crying and laughing at the same time, the archmage took it from his table with utmost reverence. His old legs began the steps of a long forgotten happy dance. “At last, my faithfulness is rewarded as deserved! The avatar of the Great Paladine himself comes to my rescue! Surely he is now smiting that lowly worm, making him feel the wrath of Good for daring to torture one of its stout followers!” he cackled madly.
He continued dancing and jumping and generally acting like a silly coot until his energy ran out and he was forced to take a seat. Even though only five minutes had elapsed since he entered the study, Par-Salian began to wonder why his avenging was taking the god so long. In his wrinkled mind, he imagined the deity in his Platinum Dragon form ─never mind that the only place big enough to accommodate such huge beast was the Hall of Mages and it was very probable that Raistlin hadn’t even approached it─ squashing the snivelling, howling bug with his mighty paw. He snickered to himself.
After a while, however, even his limited imagination ─he had invested nearly all of it on his ‘good’ deeds in the past─ ran out. He regarded the hat still in his hands with a bored air. A god of Paladine’s calibre didn’t deserve such dirty clothing. It even seemed to regard him with a deep frown. Of course it was not possible, it had no eyes or brows or front to manage. For gods’ sake, it was a hat.
Determined to be as helpful as he could be to his saviour, Par-Salian tried to dust it, and nearly choked to death.
When the cloud of dust settled, the old crook thought he could make out… a scowl formed by the hat’s creases? Were it a living being, Par-Salian would’ve been very, very afraid, but since it was a mere piece of clothing… Or perhaps not, the dullard was not exactly known for his common sense.
“I wonder what it feels like to wear the property of a god,” Pas-Salian mused. With a quick glance around to confirm that Fizban was not there, he put the hat on his head with utmost solemnity.
At least he was solemn, until he heard a growl and it all became dark.

The indignant Hat spat Par-Salian’s dressing gown from within its mysterious depths. As if being abandoned anywhere again and again by your owner was not enough! Not only the imbecile had not respected its lovely layer of crusty dust ─after so many millennia together, it felt like a part of itself─, but had dared to put it on! How revolting! It had tried to warn the pesky human, but no, he had ignored the evident signs. Come on, it reeked of mighty magic! You don’t put on an item seeping power; you keep it as far away from you as you can! At least sensible mages usually do.
The Hat growled again. That geezer was hard to digest; all bones and skin.
It wondered when its idiotic owner would come to fetch it.
*********************************
Raistlin was on the floor, in stitches. Fat tears of mirth ran down his cheeks as he saw how Par-Salian found his gruesome end ─again─ at the ‘hands’ of a grumpy sentient hat.
“How foolish can the old fogey be?” the mage laughed between gasps. His sides hurt from so much effort. “How dare the idiot imagine that a god is going to rescue him, when Paladine has ignored others much more deserving than him? He is so convinced of his own virtue!”
Wiping the tears away with a hand, Raistlin stood up and took a list he had written on a parchment. He crossed out one sentence. “Death by stroke, check; death by inept medical care, check; death by zombie bunnies, check; death by pissed off Hat, check. Let’s see, what’s the next one…?”
“NO MORE!”
The fake White Robe turned around to confront the madman that had dared to bellow at him in such manner.
The newcomer was a tall, strapping black-skinned man in black robes. His figure was a bit strange, shoulders narrower than hips and legs too log for such a short trunk. He had two ridiculous pompoms of curly dark hair decorating the sides of his almost bald head and his eyes were completely black. Raistlin had never seen or heard about this bloke, but stilled his hand ─in the process of casting a nice abyssal fireball─ when he began to speak hurriedly.
“Please, no more, Raistlin. I agree with you that the old bastard deserves to die again and again, but, please, please, I can’t take any more!” he moaned, distressed.
“And who are you, who knows my name?” hissed the archmage threateningly, eyes narrowed.
“Oh, how ill-mannered on my part. However, try to understand, Par-Salian’s demises are giving me a huge headache,” the black man pleaded. “I’m…” He struck a theatrical pose. “The Master of the Tower.”
Raistlin regarded him with an utterly non-convinced expression. “Yeah, of course. Nevertheless, the last time I saw Justarius, he was not black and misshapen; lame, yes; deformed, no,” he replied sarcastically, his upper lip twisted in his infamous grimace.
“Are you sure?” smirked the self-called Master of the Tower. And, suddenly, there was no black man in black, but Justarius in his usual red.
The archmage let out a gasp before he could help himself. “Are you Justarius?”
The Red Robe smiled and then became Dalamar. “Of course not,” he said in his customary smug tone. But after a mere blinking, it was Ladonna who regarded him, amused. “I’m anyone I want to be.” And he became Raistlin himself.
“That’s cool! But you got the colour wrong,” he said pointing the red robe the fake Raistlin wore.
The Master reverted to his initial shape and shrugged. “It has its limits. I can only take the form of any mage who passed his or her Test here.”
“I don’t understand why that absurd restriction, but I would like you to teach me that spell.” Raistlin’s tone was not too pleading; more like demanding.
“I cannot, since it is not a spell.” The black man frowned. “I don’t think you understand. When I said I was the Master of the Tower I did mean it… well, in a sense.”
“In which one?” asked the archmage, a bit despondent at the loss of such wonderful power.
The Master seemed unsure about explaining himself. “Er… Let’s say I’m… the one who masters the power here…”
“Could you be a lot less vague, please?”
“You know, the powers that be an all that…”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I’m the damned tower, you slow-wit! I’m a fucking magical, sentient building! Happy now?” he shouted. “And the angst released by that dullard’s painful deaths is driving me mad. Those bad vibes seep into my stones and stay there screwing with the Tests. And messed Tests means less mages for me to transform into. And my headache could kill a paragon dragon!”
“You are the Tower of Wayreth?”
“Yes!”
“Could you please show me to the nearest lavatory?”
*********************************
In a place we already made clear was not truly the Abyss.
At the end of an endless queue, Par-Salian waited patiently for his turn to enter the Wonderful Realm of the Great Beyond for the Goodies. It was full of grave Knights of Solamnia, pious clerics followers of the Gods of Good, courageous freedom fighters, honest innkeepers, hard-working farmers, and ─the horror! ─ too many kenders.
After a reasonable no-time (that place lacks the dimension of time), a little brown-robed man coming from the mists of the afterworld plane, approached the old archmage. The latter considered the newcomer: He was ─as already stated─ a short man clothed in a simple brown sackcloth robe, cowl partially hiding his friendly, scaly features and yellowed eyes. His few wisps of hair were unworthy of mention, as were the absence of ears or the forked tongue that slithered between his nearly non-existent lips.
“Hello there, old pal!” he little man hissed amicably, even though the sentence lacked the necessary sounds to do so. He flashed a bright grin that exposed a row of tiny sharp teeth. “Are you Par-Sssalian, former Head of the White Robesss and the Conclave of High Sssorcery?”
“The very same,” replied Par-Salian bursting with pride. “What do you want of me, good man? Um… Master Dracos.”
The scaly man’s smile widened even more than previously. He fingered the shiny nametag pinned to his robe.
“That’sss right. I’m Galan Dracossss, your sssoul worker for your ssstay in the Otherworld until you get oblivion or reincarnation,” he said brightly. He glanced down briefly to a small board he had in his hand, then looked up to Par-Salian. “However, according to your file you got the queue mixed up.”
The old mage frowned.
“Is this not the one for Paladine’s domain?”
“Yesss, of courssse it isss. Therefore, the wrong one.”
“Am I to go to Solinari’s perhaps? I know it’s not as magnificent as Paladine’s abode, but I understand the god’s need of keeping me close.”
Galan couldn’t help but chuckle softly.
“What a leg puller. No, no, asss it sssaysss in your dossssier, you are a manipulator, a cheater, a liar, a false, and a child abussser. Thusss, your rotten sssoul belongsss to Hiddukel the Trickssster. Sssee? It’sss here in the ‘offensssesss’ sssection.
“But-but… that cannot be true! I have never approached children, I am allergic to them!”
mso-ansi-language:Galan’s smile froze at the unreasonable attitude of his client. Those lines passing as eyebrows in his face frowned.
“The data herein contained isss completely trussstworthy. Godly-certified,” he said coldly.
“But…”
Quick as a striking snake, the scaly little man grabbed Par-Salian by the front of his robe and pulled him outside the queue.
Par-Salian whined in fright.
“Hear me, old codger, reaching thisss nice posssition hasss taken me thousssandsss of yearsss of very hard work. I refussse to let an archmageling mar my perfect record now.” His yellowed eyes shone dangerously under the no-light. Then, after a brief moment of tense fury, he seemed to calm himself and let go of the frightened wizard. His amiable smile returned in force, and he even helped Par-Salian to adjust his rumpled robes. “Don’t worry, it’sss not asss bad asss it ssseemsss. Take good Beldyn for inssstance; in lesss than four hundred yearsss he hasss managed to enter the repair brigade, and now he’sss in Takhisssisss’ realm, replacing the sssignpossstsss sssome hooligan or another dessstroyed sssome time ago.”
Softening a bit before the pathetic scene of an former powerful archmage crying his eyes out in anguish, Galan patted him on the shoulder and tried to cheer him up a bit.
“C’mon, old man, that’sss a very undignified attitude. Brighten up and come with me to Hiddukel’sss queue.”
“Ah, it’sss alwaysss the sssame with the high and mighty,” he sighed, half pulling half dragging the mewling Par-Salian.
*********************************
In Krynn, since he had never been innocent, Raistlin slept the sleep of the unabashed with a pleased smirk on his face.

Note 2: Galan Dracos, for the few of you who don’t know who he is, was a very powerful renegade, contemporary of Huma.
Note 3: Beldyn (or Beldinas) was the last Kingpriest of Istar.
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Flaming Summer!