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Above-World.
    Neth, they call themselves. Wizards, toying with magic, squandering it. We starve for magic they waste.
    We must tell them, warn them not to trifle. We learned long ago.
    We cannot tell them. One of us just exploded trying to do so.
    Adding its dweomer to the magic storms raging everywhere, and aggravating the problem.
    The beings resembled animate tornados, upright cones with stinger tails formed of polished diamond. They were the phaerimm, the oldest race on Abeir-Toril. And as might be expected, there were few of them. A handful.
    Men did not know the phaerimm existed, though some had been seen now and then, observers mistaking them for dust devils. Or upon discovering their true identity, being eaten. The phaerimm had slits all the way around their middles, slits lined with ridges harder than diamond, which could gape to suck in nourishment of a wide variety: tree roots, certain rocks, reptiles, insects, groundhogs, humans—all as easy to ingest as a bowl of mush. Phaerimm chose not to reveal themselves, for they feared slavery, though all were more powerful wizards than any humans that dwelt above ground.
    Phaerimm could move through their own ancient passageways and chambers, or even through soil and rock almost as easily, for then they slipped into another dimension, leaving only a fragment of themselves behind for a toehold. Yet if one of the phaerimm blundered into a magic storm near the surface, it was immediately—and violently—shunted wholly into this dimension. Where soil and rock already existed, the phaerimm ceased to exist, and left only a cone-shaped crater.
    Nothing works. We tried astral visitation and only drove wizards mad. They clawed out their eyes, tore out their hearts, killed their fellows until at last they killed themselves. We tried visions, we tried lifedrain. Now we’ve tried direct visitation.
    And failed.
    Maybe more than failed. Perhaps our efforts fuel the magic storms.
    Impossible. We know magic. We invented it.
    Untrue.
    Cease to argue. Back to the reason for this conference. How next shall we experiment to stop the Neth from spinning magic into storms?
    We cannot.
    Then we will die.
    And they.
    And the whole world.
    I have a suggestion.
    Yes?
    Let them squander more. Encourage them to squander.
    Why?
    Humans expending magic have generated magic storms, and the more humans working magic, the more storms, true? Were they to accelerate the pace of magic use, the humans might destroy themselves all the more rapidly.
    And us, mushmouth.
    Perhaps not. We can move humans hither and thither, we know. Already our lifedrain spells have caused their wheat to rot on the stalk. Starving them sets them moving, searching for food.
    Too slow. The high wizards who fritter the magic are the last to suffer hunger.
    Still, the spells work lifedrain. And the drain grows, feeding itself to spread and drain yet more life.
    But not down here, one hopes.
    As I was saying… If we can make the Neth squander magic faster, grow ever more reckless in pursuit of who-knows-what, perhaps only their immediate area will collapse. Perhaps they will destroy themselves in one final cataclysm, a hellfire to scour the earth and leave us masters again! Well?
    It… is a thought.
    No, it’s foolishness.
    It is fighting fire with fire, as humans say.
    Human wisdom cannot save us.
    What can, then?
    Well…
    Good. Think on my scheme. We have time. A little, anyway…

    Candlemas’s nose was red from breathing wheat rust. It clung to his skin and covered his robe with a fine coating. The stubby mage had supervised his underwizards all night long and most of the day, but they were still no closer to stopping the blight or finding its cause.
    The door blew open and Sysquemalyn flounced in. Today she wore a red sheath from high collar to ankle that split all the way down the front. Much of her was revealed, but not all, for a purple mass, like a jellyfish, pulsed and writhed across her stomach and loins. Another of the