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A rain of branches, broken free by a sudden gust of wind, clattered on the roof. Belidor looked up from his work just as a second gust swept through the open window and skittered across his desk, tossing a stack of parchments to the floor. He bent to pick them up, and muttered a curse when half of the fragile sheets flew further away, swirling in the breeze. He pushed his chair back and stepped over what was left of his writings. The sky was growing dark as thunderheads rolled in from the north, their peaks glowing eerily in the final rays of the setting sun. He slammed the window shut.

A few minutes later, the room basked in candlelight, and Belidor’s stack of parchments were safely tucked in a drawer. He stood in the middle of his chamber, glumly surveying the clumps of dust-laden hair that had drifted from their hiding places and now decorated the floor. The source of the hair lay in the corner, pretending to be asleep. Only the tiniest twitches of the end of her tail gave away the fact that the fox was awake and keeping close watch on her master’s mood.

“Are you worth the mess?” Belidor muttered at her.

She raised her head, eyed him cautiously, and yawned. She cocked her head to the side, lifting her ears. A moment later, she sprang to her feet, tail bristling

Belidor heard the squeak of a hinge and spun around. The door to his chamber swung open, and a short, stocky man stood at the threshold. A thick tangle of rusty beard enshrouded his face. Little sign of mouth or nose appeared through the growth, but a pair of fiery red eyes burned their way to the surface. The odor of a smoldering campfire hung over him like a pall.

Belidor studied the little man gravely. He didn’t look treacherous, waiting in the doorway with his arms hanging loose at his sides, swaying left and right as if blown by an inner wind. But few in the world could enter his private chamber uninvited, let alone unnoticed. He took a step back, closer to where his staff leaned against the wall.

At the move, the little man squeaked, and stepped back himself. “Friend Belidor, I mean no harm.” He tugged at the front of his coat, vainly trying to pull it tighter.

Without taking his eyes off the visitor, Belidor strode to the wall and picked up his staff. He planted it between himself and the door. “You know my name, and you call me friend. Yet I know you only as a sneak who enters my home unbidden. What shall I call you?”

The creature quit tugging at his coat, and wrung his hands. “I knocked. You didn’t hear? I am Shareem. You are a mighty wizard. I need help.” He looked down at the floor, scratching his beard, still rocking nervously.

“Look at me!”

At the command, Shareem met Belidor’s gaze. Light from the candles reflected in the little man’s scarlet eyes, making it seem as if a fire danced in their depths.

“What do you want of me?”

Shareem gulped nervously, and once again tried to pull his coat tighter. “There is an evil one in the world. He would . . . harm me. You must help me kill him.”

The wizard rubbed the knobby root at the top of his staff. Outside, the wind howled in the row of poplars that guarded the west flank of his home, and pellets of hail began to pound on the window. He glanced behind; Silver Lady was cowering in a corner, curled in a tight ball with her head between her front feet. He looked back at Shareem. At length, he planted one hand on top of the other and leaned forward. “There are few so evil as to deserve death. Tell me why you wish him to die.”

The piteous creature only shook his head. “I cannot. You would not understand.” He went silent for a few seconds before raising his head to meet Belidor’s eyes. “Speak to him. You will see the evil for yourself. Please. I can run no more. You are my only hope.”

“I will not kill. If that is what you wish of me, you must go.”