Spellstorm by Ed Greenwood

all of them,” Myrmeen murmured. “Eleven strong, I see.” Out of habit, she looked around for a weapon.
    Five women and six men milled warily by the walls of Oldspires, peering all around and glaring at each other. The fogs were unbroken again, walling them in and stretching up overhead in a dome that enclosed the mansion. The sun shone down through the dome as if through a light haze, but for the height of two tall men up from the ground, the spellstorm was like thick, dark roiling smoke.
    The Weave vision allowed the four inside Oldspires to see outside as if the walls were transparent, so they all noticed as Manshoon hastened around the mansion to where he was out of sight of the other ten who’d just passed through the spellstorm, espied a high balcony, and almost casually started to swarm up the stone wall.
    His descent was as violent as it was swift; a hand slipped and he scraped once against the stones on his way to a solid, thudding crash onto the ground.
    Elminster’s chuckle was the loudest.
    Manshoon winced, groaned, clambered to his feet feeling at one arm and then the opposing thigh, and tried again to climb but with far more caution. Only to come right back down with a jar, and stand shaking his head. Rage and terror were clear on his face. After a moment, he wandered back toward the other ten wizards.
    “He’s gotten used to his vampiric powers,” El muttered, “so now their sudden loss confounds him.”
    “They’re gone?” Myrmeen asked.
    “While he’s here, inside the spellstorm. Thanks to Mystra. So no spiderlike climbing for him—nor flying around as a bat, either. He’s never been vulnerable to sunlight, as most vampires are, but then again, he can’t charm as a true vampire does, either.”
    And with those words, Elminster got up from his seat and added briskly, “Cooks, to the kitchens—where you’d best secure all knives. Lord Halaunt, with me. Time to greet our guests, before they get so restless that mischief erupts.”
    “Me, I like mischief erupting,” Mirt replied, but headed for the door the Weave vision showed led to the kitchens, even as it started to fade.
    Myrmeen chuckled as she went with him, murmuring, “We’re going to get along just fine, I’m thinking.”
    “How much can you use magic in here, Old Mage?” Alusair asked softly, as they went to the front doors together.
    El shook his head. “Reliably, not at all. The Weave vision is just that: seeing things. If I tried to do anything through the Weave …” He shook his head again.
    The front door was fitted with large cradles to hold beams so it could be barred from within to withstand anything short of the mightiest giant, but it was also fitted with stout, well-oiled iron bolts. El and the Alusair-animated lord unlatched them and slid them back into the walls together.
    “Look haughty,” El muttered when they were done—and pushed the doors wide.
    Eleven wizards peered suspiciously at him from outside.
    He gave them a broad and affable smile, and spread his arms wide. “Welcome to Oldspires!”
    “Elminster!” Manshoon snarled. “What’re you doing here?”
    “I,” Elminster replied mildly, “have retired from wizardry, and accepted the post of steward to Lord Sardasper Halaunt. Who stands here within, to welcome you into his home.”
    He stepped back and with a broad flourish indicated the lone figure standing in the gloomy hall waiting for them.
    Who, if glowering could be described as “welcoming,” was silently welcoming them into Oldspires.
    Laragaunt and a young mage, who looked by his robes to be a Red Wizard, both snapped out, “It’s a trap !”
    And flung a spell and leveled a staff, respectively.
    Nothing happened.
    The Red Wizard grounded the staff with both hands, crying out an incantation—and it flickered briefly, pulses of light racing up and down it like ripples in a pond … and faded to nothing.
    Laragaunt turned in a whirl of robes, rushed back to the roiling fogs of