Their footsteps echoed on the sand castle staircase in a way that seemed odd. Where were the bustling troops? Where was the energy for battle? With the lack of enemies, Terry could take a moment to admire the effect of being in a giant sand castle, made solid only by magic, like a child’s fantasy. There were no furnishings and torches lit their way from recesses in the sandy walls. When they reached the bottom of the turret, the stairs ran straight into a wide room, the size of a ballroom. On the opposite end, on a throne made of sand, sat the wizard.

The throne was 10 feet tall, but it did not dwarf the wizard, who seemed to be as tall as Gregor had become after his transformation. A black robe covered the details of his body, but he was an imposing figure, with a long black beard and piercing gray eyes. Terry realized uncomfortably that there was something compelling and masculine about him. A high black cone hat studded with diamonds gave him a bizarre appearance. The arms of his throne were carved as hooded serpents, and it seemed as though they writhed slightly under his outspread hands. A sickly glow emanated from him that made Terry think of guttering candles, about to surrender their last flame.

“But where is your fourth?” he said, in a voice that seemed to suggest he’d been with them all along, in on the game.

Terry stood shocked as she thought of what she’d done—again. She had separated them. She did it with Maurice in the high plains and now she’d done it again. It had seemed so much like the right decision, in spite of Old Tom’s words—there must be four.

“Never mind,” he said, and smiled with surprised delight. “This is going to be easier than I imagined!”

And he uttered a few words in the ancient language. Terry noted that his voice had the same bell-like quality, on his was so much more menacing. The sound of his voice put her mind in an uneasy, horrible thrall, and she struggled with it.

Then, it was over. And a monster rose out of the floor, made of sand. It gathered into the roughest shape of a humanoid creature—it’s face was three gaping and animated holes but the hands were merely sandy fists that could strike or suffocate at will. It moved far faster than one would think it could. Terry realized that without Gregor to physically defend them, they would never have enough time for Arabelle to figure out what was going on and provide a useful magical counterattack.

“The orb’s not much good against this thing,” Maurice said. “It’s not a magic creature, like an ogre or a wraith. It's conjured sand."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Then use your wand,” Terry said. “You and Arabelle. Together. Can you conjure a sand beast to fight the wizard’s?”

They glanced at each other. “Yes,” they chorused.

They both began to utter and point, and to Terry’s amazement a sand giant of similar size and girth rose to match the wizard’s beast.

“A conjuring cleric,” Zyzzyva mused. “Now I’ve seen everything. Destroy them,” he added.

The sand beasts charged at each other like sumo wrestlers, melding into each other as they grappled, then separating and pounding into each other again. Stinging sand flew around the room, and their odd bellowing cries boomed around them. Maurice and Arabelle were focused on controlling their sand beast, and Zyzzyva, too, was intent on the sand battle. Terry melted away from the battle until her back was to one of the walls of the great room. Slowly, she started inching her way towards the great throne. Besides Zyzzyva and his great sand beast, no one else was in the room. The sand whipped up by the battle kept her movements hidden, and she drew closer to the back of his terrible throne. She could see the hooded cobra armrest undulate as he stood in front of his throne, his hands outstretched towards his horrible conjured beast.

They bellowed and burrowed into each other, and it became clear that they were only destroying each other, as they both grew smaller with each confrontation. Finally, they collapsed into a sandy heap, with no clear victor.

Arabelle and Maurice collapsed from the strain, and even the great wizard fell back onto his throne. Terry took that moment to draw her saber and pull his forehead back, knocking his conical headpiece off and revealing a head of thick, flowing black hair with streaks of gray. She grabbed a hunk of it in her hand and drew the saber across his neck.

“This is the end for you, Zyzzyva,” she said. “You will menace my father’s kingdom no more.”

Zyzzyva responded in surprising way. He laughed—gently, so as not to disturb the saber at his neck, but still a genuine soft chuckle, as if he were laughing in a room with a sleeping baby.

“Menace your father’s kingdom?” he said. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

In spite of her powerful stance—holding a sword to her enemy’s neck, Terry felt a strange weakness of her will. “Yes,” she said, uncertainly. “You’re here to destroy my father’s kingdom and rule in his stead.”

“I may one day rule in your father’s place,” Zyzzyva said, “but I assure you that it will all be perfectly legal. In fact, I would say that you’re the one menacing your father’s kingdom.”

“What do you mean?” Terry said.

“What are you doing?” Talia screeched.

Terry twitched at the sound of her sister’s voice, and the saber made the smallest scratch on Zyzzyva’s gullet. A thin trickle of blood began to run down his throat.

“Oh. My. God!” said Talia. “Mom! Dad! Look what he is doing to my fiancée! I told you she was a traitor.”

There, at the far end of the great hall, near the stairs of the turret, stood the King, the Queen, and her older sister Talia, dressed all in white.

“Wait,” Terry said. “You’re marrying Zyzzyva?!”

“I love him!” Talia said, and the King muttered, “It seemed to be … the best move, politically.”