By: Joseph Weinberg

The mountain loomed above him. Drist knew what this place was, he had seen it before. Seventy years ago, when he had first begun the road to magical power greater than that which had earned him fame and fortune as an entertainer: he had come here to meet his teacher. His teacher had lived at the base of the towering peak, rather than inside. Drist had always wondered why his teacher had never tried to live in the giant cave at the top.

He had learned the reason quickly, however. Though his instructor's power seemed infinite at first glance, Drist soon discovered that not only was it quite limited, it was also inferior to his own. Jonas had not been powerful enough to enter the cave. Drist had not remained the pupil for very long.

In the sixty-five years since leaving the tutelage of the now dead Jonas, Drist had seen that his own power was far superior. A wizard's life span, for one thing, was determined by his power. Those of only limited power could live only as long as a normal human. Those of great power had been known to live for hundreds of years, each day looking no older than twenty or thirty. Jonas had died at one hundred and six.

Drist had been one hundred and ten when they had met.

After searching the world for what power he could, learning from anyone he could, Drist was ready to claim a home. He had predicted, long ago, that he would one day live in Extira, the cave at the top of Jaxrala De'Torre, the great mountain. Today was that one day, he assured himself.

The defense of the mountain was strong. Drist had felt its power even when only an apprentice. He felt it all the more acutely now.

The mountain was powerful, its magic ancient. The sense of age was so strong here, in fact, that Drist had often wondered which was older: The mountain, or the world. Certainly they were close.

There was one entrance to the mountain at its base. Drist knew it well. He had spent countless hours seated within, studying his magic and studying the leviathan around him. The power of the mountain resided in defense. It would repel his magic as simply as it would repel the mosquito that tried to suck its blood. Or so Jonus had foretold.

But Jonus had died at one hundred and six.

Drist came into the cave and concentrated. Jonus had once told him how to see the lines of magic. It was similar to seeing the lines of power, only these lines made up the fabric of the spell itself. "Even the most powerful spell can be simply defeated if you rip apart its seems," Jonus had told him. That had been the secret of his seeming so powerful.

The lines appeared to him. They were different than those of any other spell he had encountered. Rather than the vibrant strands racing around and blanketing everything, this spell consisted of thick, powerful cords entwined through the very living rock of the mountain. Drist knew that to break the spell would take time. But he had taken Jonus's advice a step further. As Drist had told Jonus before leaving, "As easy as it is to rip out the seems, it is always easier to move them temporarily out of the way."

Reaching out with his own powers, Drist gripped one of the cords. He could feel it repelling him, feel it strengthening itself. Drist moved it aside and looked behind it. Not seeing what he was looking for, Drist turned to another cord, and repeated the process. Again, it grew stronger. Again, Drist only moved it. But this time, he found what he was looking for.

A simple spell hidden behind the more powerful spell, an illusion hid from him the location of the entrance to the mountain. Once that spell was removed, he would be able to find his way deep into the heart of the mountain, and claim it as his own.

The illusion spell was a spool, the threads all intertwining with each other. It could not be moved. He would have to destroy it. Drist reached out with his skill and plucked at one of the strings. The magical thread snapped, only to repair itself elsewhere, creating a new variation to the original spell.

Drist was at the same time excited and upset. He had never seen a spell like this one. It actually repaired itself when tampered with. Though seemingly simple, the spell was actually even more complex than the one defending the mountain from attack.

Unable to break through the spell in the most simple way, Drist was forced to resort to the difficult way. Gripping two ends of the chords controlling the spell, Drist began flowing his magic into them. He watched the magic begin to unravel. It fought him at every corner, trying to reform itself. But Drist increased the flow of his magic, defeating the defenses, knowing his entire plan depended on finding the entrance.

Soon enough, the spell was dissipated. He could see the cave deepen behind him. Moving quickly because he could feel the spell rebraiding itself, he found his way into the labyrinth of caves within the great mountain.

Stopping to rest, Drist felt momentarily overwhelmed. He had thought the task to be a relatively simple one. He had known it would be somewhat difficult, but he had been confidant as to his own success. But here he was, only barely begun, and he had already used a great deal of power. Exhaustion plagued his bones, demanding rest.

But Drist would not let himself rest. These caves were the last defense of the mountain. He was now the conqueror. The peak would send everything it could against him to destroy him. No one had inhabited it for thousands of years. It needed to be certain its new master was a fitting one.

Drist had examined any text he could find about the towering monstrosity. He knew that the predominant spell from the outside was defensive. But he also knew the spells took a far more deadly turn within the stone heart. Danger was everywhere. Drist had to succeed, had to remain at his peak, or he would die, and he knew it.

Summoning a small light to illuminate his path, Drist discovered something shocking: the path behind him was gone already. The spell hiding it had already reformed. There was no way out visible. Drist figured he could leave, and find that leaving easy if he looked for it, but he was determined to win out. He would not retreat.

Taking a few seconds only to regain his wits, Drist began to move through the corridors. Many were the times that people had made it this far, so the books told. But none ever returned. Drist maintained the reason for this being that other had not been careful enough. Such a simple mistake would not defeat Drist. He had planned for anything.

The first defense of the mountain came shortly after he began walking. With a rumble, a stalactite dropped from the ceiling, moving to crush him where he stood. The rock was wider at its base than Drist was tall, and came to a sharp point at the end.

Drist's spell had been up the instant he had stepped over some rubble at the beginning of the corridor. As the rocky spear plunged down to crush him beneath its bulk, a soft white light surrounded Drist. As the stone touched the light, it was pushed off to the side. It crashed to the ground near the entrance of the cave, blocking it forever.

"Only one way to go now," Drist mumbled to himself, moving on and waiting for the next challenge.

"Hello there," said a soft, high pitched voice down the cavern.

"Who are you?" Drist demanded, extending his light outward towards the source of the voice.

"My name is unimportant. I am a representative, here to give you your challenges."

"A representative?" Drist asked in annoyance. He didn't have time to waist on little sprites. "For what?"

"Why, for the mountain, of course, sorcerer. You want to enter it, and it is more than willing to let you take up residence. But first you have to pass three tests."

"Haven't I already passed a few tests?"

"Those are only preliminary. These are the semi finals!"

"Okay, fine. What are the trials I must conquer?"

"Well, like so many other trials, they each have a specific name. First will be the trial of Brain, then the trial of Body, and finally, the trial of Blood."

"Three trials making up a person. Fine. How do I begin?"

"You have already, my friend. The trial of Brain commences."

"What is the goal?"

"Tell me my name."

Drist started. The creature had never told him its name. It had told him it didn't matter. And if there was one thing Drist was sure of, it was the fact that he would not survive failing any of the tests.

"I already know my name," Drist stumbled, trying to delay the end of the test.

"I'm not interested in your name. I want to know my name!"

"My name is Drist. I'm not interested in your name either."

The creature was beginning to get frustrated. "Do not try to confuse me, Drist. I will rephrase the question. One of us is named Drist. What is the name of the other one?"

"You never told me your name," Drist said, feeling cheated by the whole test.

"Yes I did."

"I asked you who you were. You said it didn't matter."

"No, I didn't. I gave you an answer."

Drist thought back. He was certain the creature had said his name was unimportant. He had not given Drist one of the simple, one or two syllable names so common in society. He hadn't answered the question. Had he?

"Take your time Drist. The answer is there, right under your nose. You need only to look for it."

Drist wracked his brain for exactly what had been said. He had said "Who are you?" to which the creature had replied, "My name is unimportant." He had NOT given a name. He had only said his name was unimportant.

Drist started for a second. His last thought had been the answer. It was all a matter of perception. He said his name was unimportant. No. He said his name was: unimportant.

"Your name is unimportant." Drist finally answered proudly.

The creature only smiled and disappeared.

A torch on the wall burst into flames. Torches past it lit as well, forming a lightened path for Drist to follow. Drist walked carefully down the hallway, noticing that the walls, which had been caves up to that point, had converted to smooth, well kept walls, as of that of a castle. It looked as though it had been built only yesterday, considering the condition it was in. Not even any charred marks behind the torches on the wall. Drist would swear he had been elsewhere, save for the fact that Drist could still feel, even though he could not see, the immense age of the cave in which he stood.

Before him was a collection of runes inscribed in a large stone block standing against the far wall, surrounded by torches. The runes were written in the language spoken commonly the last time the mountain had been inhabited.

His months of study paid off as Drist translated the runes, which turned out to be directions of some kind. Even with all the time he had spent learning, Drist could only pick up vague ideas and impressions.

Apparently, the first portion was a congratulations for solving the test of Brain. It told that the path of torches would bring him ever on to the next test. Then there was something about many dead, followed by a bit of praise for some sort of speed of mind.

Finally, Drist reached the portion that seemed to have been carved relatively recently. These runes were unworn by time, and very specific. Drist managed to translate them word for word.

"The trial of Body involves only a single corridor. As the prospective master walks the corridor, traps will attempt to do him or her in. All traps are lethal, but all are avoidable. If the body remains intact throughout, without even a single speck of blood escaping, the trial is passed. Death is the penalty for failure."

Even as he finished reading, a new corridor lit up before him. Drist looked down the passageway, and saw that it stretched on and on. But only one part was lit.

That part had very smooth walls, with small holed peppered in a simple pattern up and down the wall. In the center of the passage, a small lump was raised, little more than a foot and a half wide. The lump went all the way down the path.

It was a simple trap. Drist knew that once he stepped on the trigger, what was in the walls, be it spears or arrows, would turn him into a human pincushion. It was a simple question. Fifty-fifty. Either he would set off the trap, or he wouldn't. It was a question of where he walked.

That is, if he walked at all. Drist decided to float across. He was still tired from breaking into the mountain, but it would be worth the extra use of his power to float through. He concentrated his mind and reached out for the powers.

And found the powers blocked off to him. Apparently, this was a trap he had to deal with physically. Back to the simple decision. On the path or off it.

Drist looked at the walls carefully. The holes were directly parallel with each other. That meant either spears or the arrows flew directly from one hole into the next. Unhelpful.

The path was straight, simple, obvious. That would mean it was either something to fool you into not stepping on it, or to fool you into thinking you shouldn't step on it. Drist could double think himself on or off the damned thing.

Summoning up his courage, Drist stepped onto the path. He cringed as he heard a snap, and yelped as he watched the spears come flying at him from both directions. His eyes were clenched shut for a number of seconds before he finally realized he was not dead.

Opening his eyes, Drist saw that the spears pushed out all around him. Where he stood, the spears stopped at the borders of the path. As he took a step forward, the spears behind him closed in, and those ahead opened up to let him through. It was a nerve-wracking walk down the short path, but Drist was soon past the first of the traps.

The path ended in a chamber. At the heart of the chamber was a shining object, easily giving the chamber the illumination of the noonday sun.

Drist began walking slowly towards the corridor on the other end of the chamber. When the first step left him unharmed, Drist began walking faster. His senses found no danger.

His second and third steps moved progressively slower. In the time it took him to make his third step, Drist counted more than five breaths. The fourth step was ten. He was getting slower, and was still more than ten steps from the center. At this rate, he would die of old age before he got through the chamber.

Drist's mind moved fast, though his body was slower all the time. The artifact in the center must slow him down. There had to be a way out of it. A simple, obvious way.

Figuring out the answer, Drist moved as quickly as he could to the wall. Each step was faster, and soon he was moving at normal speed. Drist moved along the wall, slipping in a large arc around the artifact.

The next corridor looked simple. It was thin, but empty. The walls were like glass, as was the floor. It may once have been sand, but now it was simple glass.

Drist thought back. He had made glass once while training with Jonus. All it had required was the swift and intense heating of the sand.

Suddenly realizing his danger, Drist rushed down the corridor, slipping and then sliding on his belly all the way down the passageway even as a ball of fire rolled behind him.

Drist's slide continued passed the glass room. It grated on his chest, but managed to get underneath the sliding blades that would have chopped him to pieces at his knees, waist, chest, and neck.

Drist finally managed to stop the slide just after the blades. The next room was a series of doors. Each door awaited him, and Drist knew he would have to open each of them in turn.

Drist paused for a moment. Where was it written that he had to open each door? The old axiom about curiosity and the cat convinced Drist to walk past them all and not open a single one.

The corridor ended there, at another wall with more runes. Once again, they were easy to read.

"And now begins the trial of blood. The final passageway is a simple one to walk through. All you need to do is walk through it. Whether you pass or fail depends on how well you follow instructions."

The wall slid away, and Drist stepped into the dim passageway. He felt beneath his feet a liquid he knew to be blood. He stepped carefully, scrunching his nose up against the horrible stench, and began walking down the long corridor.

As soon as he began to walk, the voices invaded his mind. He heard voices screaming in anguish, begging him for mercy. The screams were blood curdling. They begged for death, some of them. Others asked him for help. Each request tore at his heart, but he was determined to ignore them and follow the instructions he had been given by the mountain.

Then, the voices were accompanied with visions. He saw an old woman clutching at her own spilled intestines and screaming in pain. Then a man on a rack being torn in half. A child hung by its ankles, being slowly devoured by rats. Drist knew he was glimpsing hell. He wanted desperately to stop and help them. He wanted to stop their torment, stop their screams. But he had been instructed not to.

The screaming grew dimmer as new visions replaced the old. Now he saw a man about to be dipped in an acid tank. The man whimpered quietly, but was not yet in pain.

A little boy stood perfectly still as a giant beast sniffed at the air, ready to pounce on whatever moved.

Another child, a sweet, innocent looking girl with long blond hair and sparkling brown eyes lay on a table, a blade slicing back and forth, slowly coming down to cut her to shreds.

Drist could take no more. Not after seeing these people that he could save. He stepped off the path and took the girl off the table. He reached out with his powers and plucked the boy from the chamber with the beast, while at the same time pushing the man out of the way of the acid.

The trail darkened. The people disappeared, and the screams died out completely. Drist realized then what he had done. He had gone off the path. He had not followed directions. He had failed the path. Everything around him was dark. The mountain would kill him soon. Very soon.

A bright light flickered in the distance of the pitch blackness he stood within. It came closer and closer. Drist soon realized it to be a woman. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But there was something odd about her. She was unlike any woman he had ever seen.

Most women Drist had known were magic users as well, wearing elaborate outfits meant to allure men towards them in the ongoing game of politics. Those that were not of the magic using class were all too often dirty and even overweight.

But not this woman. She wore the simple leather clothing of a warrior, an outfit that did not reveal more skin than was absolutely necessary. No mage, this one. But neither was she dirty, nor at all overweight. She was perfect, plain and simple.

She smiled at him. Drist felt his blood boil. "I am Jaxrala," the woman said to him. Suddenly Drist understood. She was a remnant from a society long dead. People who had lived on this world many millennia ago, back when magic was rare but much stronger than in Drist's time. Jaxrala was a very famous woman. There had even been a prophesy about her. She had lived a long life and died. Legend had it that the mountain grew out of her grave. It was her mountain. She had come to kill him herself.

"I thought for a moment that you would follow directions," she said to him in a ghostly, musical voice.

"I am sorry," Drist said, accepting his failure.

Jaxrala, realizing what he was thinking, laughed quietly. "No, you did not fail. You passed. The test was of your compassion, not your blind devotion. Had you continued down the path, you would have joined each of them in their tortures. Instead, you chose to disobey, to save those people from such horrible fates. You overcame your desire for victory, and were even willing to die to save them, though they were not even real."

Drist was stunned. He did not know what to say.

"At the top of the mountain, a cave, Extira exists. Go to it, make your home there. You are now the master of my mountain."

Copyright (1998) by Joseph Weinberg