The waxing moon hung low like a great gleaming, lidless eye the night the Well of Singing Water dried up. Chataras had cast the oracle bones and read the auspices of the temple sacrifices, and determined this night was the most favorable to imbibe the life-giving waters of the well. It had been too long since he had tasted it, and his body groaned like a rusted hinge because of it. Every incantation he had made left a line upon his face, every curse withered his skin, and every enchantment lengthened and whitened his beard. He bore four centuries of hexes and imprecations upon his flesh, but his mastery of the magical arts had left him nothing but a brittle husk.
Chataras descended the curved staircase into the well, his bent figure leaning precipitously upon his staff of carved oak. He pressed his right palm to the stone walls to steady himself, and felt the moist softness of the greenish-yellow lichen which sprawled upwards. The stairs ran down counter-clockwise in a spiral fashion, like an inverted tower plunging into the primordial deep from which all things came. He counted each step as he descended. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two.
He felt his knees wobble and surge with pain as he reached the two hundredth step. Grasping his legs, he whispered a weak healing charm to himself, and felt the limbs fill with renewed vigor. But as he glanced forward, his vision dimmed. The glimmering reflection of the moon upon the water below seemed miles away, and shrouded behind a veil. His temples pounded like drums as he winced. But no matter. He knew the way down. The familiar sensation of the lichen on the wall and the firm steps beneath his feet would guide him. Two hundred and one, two hundred and two, two hundred and three.
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At last, he felt the waters lap at his bare toes as he passed the four hundred-and-twentieth step. That was all there was before the dark oblivion of the well. Chataras dipped his skeletal hand into the pool and drew a handful of water to his tongue. He quaffed the fluid vigorously as he knelt to palm more of it. The water was fresh and invigorating, but no more so than any natural water.
Chataras froze in shock as he viewed the image in the water. The man looking back at him was just as wizened as before; the renewing pool had done nothing. Panicking, the enchanter scooped his hands into the well again and again, furiously splashing the liquid over his arms. He ripped his silken robes and drenched his torso, then fell to his knees and lapped at the water like a dog.
He slid down the final step and immersed himself in the chilling waters of the mere. He felt his beard become weighted down by the water, but his dried and cracked flesh became no younger. How could this be? The augurs were favorable, the stars had aligned, and the gods had smiled upon this night. How could such an auspicious night be so disastrous? His muscles weakened as he began to sink into the murky depths.
At last his mortal body had begun to fail him. How much life force had he remaining in his hollow husk? Was it enough for another spell? Another spell to save his life? He coughed and hoarsely roared out the words of power, which gurgled out in bubbles as he sank. It was an elementary spell, one that even novices could master, but it sapped the last of his vital energy. His vision went entirely white as his body floated back to the water's surface, his body at last as hollow as his soul.