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One did not enter another Wizards tower lightly. There was a matter of respect Wizards granted to each other, even when crowded into tight quarters in cities and castles. Two Wizards may be living down the hall from each other, or mere feet away in the dorm rooms, but that space that was claimed in their name was sacrosanct.

Zeke's space also came with Decimate.

Familiars were not uncommon among Wizards, though they were nearly mandatory for a Witch. Any creature could be considered a Familiar so long as they were properly bound to their Wizard or Witch. The purpose of a Familiar was to handle simple small tasks, and act as a mystical conduit for more complex spell works.

For the first Decimate tried. He tried very hard to be useful to Zeke.

For the second, well, Zeke never tried. He was aware of the theory, but he'd never needed to perform such magic work. Zeke had enough natural strength to power through most anything he needed to, and was smart enough to break down major spells to their components and make them easier.






the protection charms warped and buckled, wavering out of existence as mirages in the desert. Andria's breathing went harsh, wet gasps of horror shuddering through her. Decimate was behind them, blocking the exit, trapping them in the dark with the Serpent whose angry wrath was shredding through the meager wards Zeke had placed.

Zeke didn't bother to consider what it was going to cost him, he swung his walking staff and knocked it hard against her skull. Like a corpse Andria collapsed. the Serpent, shocked, withdraws his power for just a moment, and that's all that Zeke needs to swing the walking staff again and send up a simple, single Ward of intense Life.

"You betray your kind!"

"She's fine, safer now that *you* can't sunder her mind, don't think I haven't read of you, Vernu."

Somewhere deep in the caverns scales scrape hard on stone and feathers, long cramped, rustle.

"Where did you learn that name little Mortal?"

"From a book. Your kind are not forgotten, no matter how far you withdraw from the sight of the Lords of the Land." Zeke growled, glaring up at the single burning eye in the dark. Behind him, Decimate snarled, warning clear.

For long moments the Serpent Vernu was silent, testing the Ward with his power. Magic could be formed into complex spells, but at its most pure form it is simply an extension of will. This magic, Zeke's magic, poured endless and strong from his core into the most simple form he needed. Forged by his will, the Ward of Light kept back both Vernu's magic, and his physical form. Life was the easiest energy to draw from, that the Serpent could not twist or entangle with his own.

"It hassssss been very long ssssssince a mortal hassssss dared tried to Masssssster me." Vernu hissed lowly. "Isssss





The difference between a Witch and a Wizard didn't lie in strength, or ability, but often education. There was little a Wizard could do that a Witch could not do better, faster, and with half as much training. Wizard's, whose magic came from within them, could easily travel wherever they wanted in order to learn, including to the Akademy which was the center of mystic learning. Witches on the other hand were born where magic *needed* them to be, and they never left. Where they were, they were meant to be, whether in a palace or a shepherds hovel. If they were born to a family of power and a place of ease they had the time and availability to learn whatever magic was known, including Wizard's spells. If they were born to a tiny village in the middle of no where, they might never pick up enough to read or write. They would still be the better midwives, healers, and soothsayers. The Land picked its Witch, and kept her. Wizards were lucky happenstance.

Many Wizards felt their ability to travel made them superior spell workers, but Zeke had met many a Witch, both older and younger, who could take anything he'd learned from a book over a month, and perfect it in a day after seeing it once. It made him happy and proud to share everything he could, provided said Witch had the time in her busy schedule to learn, and an attitude that wasn't as rough as her pet cat's tongue.

Naja was one that he didn't much care for, but at least her grand-daughter Noraja was easier going. Naja was in her late seventies, had birthed more babies than she had years and had buried as many of her fellow villagers. Naja didn't care about learning, not outright, but she had no issue watching everything Zeke did and then proclaiming loudly how she could do it herself, cheaper and safer.

Zeke's attitude seemed to annoy her, especially when he agreed, and smiled.

Noraja thought it was a reasonable way of dealing with an overbearing grandmother who ran most of the village, but she also wanted to *learn*, she was young enough the thrill of discovery was still fresh and wondrous. Everything that Zeke showed her, no matter how simple or strange. She wasn't even afraid of Decimate.

Naja was, but she was fierce and old enough to master that fear and instill it in those around her.


He had to carry the sword on his back, which was hard as it was heavy, and magic for whatever reason, refused to work on it. He left Andria to Decimate's clumsy but well meaning care. The long trek down the mountain, back to SnakeTongue, took many hours. The suns were long set, the moons crossing the sky in their endless court dance. SnakeTongue wasn't big enough to have more than a basic smithy, who would take one look at the sword Zeke was carting and probably loose his tiny mind.

There was nothing Zeke could fathom doing with such a blade, even if he knew sword work. As they walked his brain fumbled over and around the old stories he'd absorbed in the Purple library. Vernu was the Fiery Serpent, he who had been formed from the molten rock of Hell and given wings by the rising fires. Vernu the betrayer, who gave his fangs to the mere Mortals, that they may break his shackles and kill Demon who bade Vernu call him Master.

Vernu was no more welcome in Hell than on the Mortal world, but legend had it he guarded the weak spots between the two worlds, and still chose men to gift his fangs unto. If that was the case, and he'd somehow decided Zeke was worthy of the honor, then the blade slung across his back was no less than a fang, forged and fashioned into something a Mortal could handle.

That Mortal wasn't Zeke though. Zeke could barely carry the damned thing. He was a Wizard! Without magic he was useless and magic apparently didn't work on hell snake teeth!

He would need to somehow reforge the thing into a weapon more useful.

He couldn't give it away. He was smart enough to know that when a traitor to the realms of fire, pain and agony gave you an ancient, very personal boon, you didn't go tossing it at the first idiot who voiced an opinion.

But he could refashion it, provided he found a smith capable of working the material. He wasn't even sure if it counted as metal.

In his mind, which could work quite independently of his feet, an image spun out of metal sheathing and guarding his staff, the strong wood bound to unbreakable steel, a tool that could defend.

It felt right.




"You want me to do *what*? Destroy this perfect blade? Why?"

Zeke sighed and rubbed at his temple. His back was an eternal aching cramp, his shoulders blue and green with perpetual bruising from bearing the weight of the thing. In the light of the forge the sword shimmered, etched with ancient lettering, as sharp as diamond dust in a winter gale.

"I can't use it, I can't give it away, and it's *heavy*. Can you change it or not?"

The smith shook his head slowly. "Not me. I've never seen such a metal. I could ruin it, or worse. There is one... a smith in BlackSnow. The head smith there has worked sky-metal for the Lords. If you go to him, maybe he can do something. Or the Wizards... they've been known to handle enchanted things..."

"It's not enchanted." At the man's blank look Zeke sighed. "*I* am a Wizard. the blade is not enchanted, it can't be. It repels magic."

"Ain't Wizards alive because of magic?"

"We have a lot of it, if one tries to steal it, we die, but I'm not sure we're 'made' of the stuff, it's just something we're born having more of than other people." Zeke's voice fell into a thoughtful lecture tone as he pondered his problem. "Magic is pretty much like blood, which is why blood is a component in many old spells, it resides in everyone, and without it everything dies, but some people bleed easier than others."

Zeke was deep enough into his musings to miss the Smith's puzzled and horrified look.

"This blade doesn't try to kill you then?!"

He blinked, certain for some reason he couldn't point to, that Decimate was resting outside the small town. "Why would it? It was a gift."

The smith shook his head slowly. "You got a mean friend to give a gift that could kill you."

Zeke huffed in amusement. "And here I was under the impression that made them the best friends you could hope for."



Decimate grumbled at him when they settled in to camp, snuffling Zeke's back pointedly.

"I'm fine." Zeke groaned, propping the wrapped sword against a tree and trying to convince his spine to straighten. Everything hurt. He wanted to curl up in a spring of hot water, or a bath, or a deep, insensate coma.

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