He was Zod, a Wizard of the 5th Caliber, a dabbling alchemist, an amateur astronomer, and the occasional adventurer. After spending six years abroad studying the giant sandcrabs of the Barborian Wastes and another two in recuperation near the coast of Ghol, he had returned to his humble tower in the Barrens to find that a small town had sprung up, like dandelion weeds, around its perimeter.
The invisible, protective charms he had cast over his tower before he had left still persisted—he could pick up their pleasant whine, inaudible to the untrained ear. He passed, somewhat shyly and shamefacedly, through the dirt paved alleys, conscious of the state of his clothes, his beard and his overall poor hygiene and of the way the slack-jawed villagers stared at him (and some even pointed, the yokels!). He drifted between the recently erected cabins toward the center of town where his tower overshadowed all those lesser constructions.
His tower sat atop a small hill, specially chosen for its vantage over the nearby forest (whose borders had retreated considerably since he last saw them). A set of stone steps cut perfectly into its body led up to the main gate. A path he had shaped himself when he had first settled here. He had not however, carved the gnommish burrows that now peeked out on either side of it. Nor the little round windows and the round sliding gates near which some bearded gnomes sat, taking snuff and smoke. Nor the encircling paths connecting those burrows. Nor did he expect the retinue of armed men standing in front of his tower, barring his passage and inquiring as to whether he was “a bit turned around there, old timer?”The tower at least seemed untouched. The spells he had wrought on its gates must still hold.
The oafish guard, looking to his equally dimwitted-looking partner, dared to touch the wizard, asking if “he couldn’t help him find his way home, old fellow?”
“UNHAND ME, YOU GORMLESS DOG!” said the wizard, calmly. He threw his hand back and unleashed John’s Greater Polymorph. Now, a Wizard of the 5th Caliber was thus pedigreed by the liberation of his fifth spellslot. Usually, it was the fourth that was cause for celebration,because it allowed access to the expert level spellforms, and after that the seventh, which likewise gave access to the master level ones, but the 5th Caliber let one keep an elementary spell in reserve so that when a higher tier spell, such as variants of the polymorphism, were cast, and should that demonstration prove inadequate, one had the security of a quick flamebolt to the head.
One never knew how the John’s Polymorph would resolve. John was something of a philistine and his spells—while efficient—lacked that aesthetic cohesion found in the works of his contemporaries. Case in point, the guard transformed bottom first, landing on two small, webbed feet, his upper half remaining intact just long enough to express surprise—”What the fu—” before he was cut off by the formation of his own bill and a frightened quack. The wizard smoothly stepped over him and toward the gate. The other guard remained. He looked at the wizard. He looked at the duck. He looked at the wizard again. He bowed low, and promptly stepped aside.
“Thank you,” the wizard said.
“Please don’t kill me,” the guard replied, still bowed.
“Fair enough,” the wizard said. He touched the tower wall and spoke the magic words: “Mortimer, you ass, open the goddamn door!”—and was instantly transported to his inner sanctum, a spacious chamber filled with various odds and ends.
He threw down his things and rushed to the ornate mirror atop the dressing table. Its reflection was dark and impenetrable.
“Mortimer!” he said. The darkness receded and a grinning skull appeared.
“My lord, you’re back! You know I think I’ve developed a form of Lockholme syndrome as a result of my long imprisonment. I looked it up, I have all the symptoms: escapism, dry skin, suicidal thoughts, sexual fantasies about being overpowered by my captor while wearing—”
“Silence!” said the wizard, deeply regretting the purchase of this impertinent waste of silvered glass from that devious—but admittedly, comely—witch. He snapped his fingers twice at his old leather chair. It sprung to life and merrily shuffled over to him to sit. Then he began to unlace his boots. “Tell me, slave, why are there squatters in my land?” he said. The skull opened and closed his jaw but no sound came out. To think he had even begun to miss this imbecile. “Speak!”
“Ah, thank you, my lord. Squatters you say? I hadn’t noticed.”
“You hadn’t noticed the town and it’s two hundred or so residents that have settled around my tower, possibly over the course of several years?”
The skull disappeared into the reflection for a moment, then returned, still cheerful.
“Oh, those squatters. Yes, well, I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“You didn’t think I’d—” he bit his lips and counted to ten. “One of these days Mortimer, one of these days—”
Before he could finish, the mirror shimmered and presented a panorama of the land which quickly narrowed to the entrance of his tower. A short, portly gentleman and a burly, eye-patched one were trying to help the remaining guard shepherd a rather panicked duck.
“It appears we have visitors my lord,” said Mortimer.
“Yes, yes, might as well get this over with.” The wizard cleared his throat. “Ready?”
Mortimer nodded (as much as a disembodied skull could nod). “Insolent squatters! Attention! I am the great and powerful Zod—Wizard of the 5th Caliber, master of the Prancing curse, keeper of the Sacred Mango, et cetera. et cetera. You are trespassers. Get off my land post-haste, or be annihilated. Erm,” (was there anything else?—these laces were so tricky, and he was altogether too tired from the journey, he really shouldn’t have released the expert spell, it always made him sleepy) “That is all,” he concluded.
The menfolk, and now, it seemed, a few gnomes as well, fell into a vigorous debate. The duck, having calmed down, was now staring sadly at a reflection of himself in a small puddle. The wizard went back to taking off his boots.
He’d just gotten the first one unlaced when his servant informed him: “My lord, it seems they’ve prepared a response.”
The portly gentleman, looking up at the tower’s cupola and violently dabbing his forehead with a folded handkerchief, spoke in a loud clear voice.
“Now, look here, my good man. You can’t just come around and start turning people into aquatic birds. It’s isn’t polite.” He paused, taking heart in his continued existence as something other than a scorch mark. “Now, we didn’t know this was your land. We thought that the tower had been abandoned. The monsters which plagued us in other places seemed to avoid its vicinity. There was plenty of pasture for our animals. Wood nearby for our houses. Even a river. In short, we thought this was free real estate.”
“FREE REAL ESTATE?” the wizard’s voice boomed across the entire town, throwing at least one cat from a fence and inspiring the aforementioned duck to attempt his inaugural flight (he instantly plummeted, the poor bastard).
“We know better now, sir,” said the eye-patched man. “But we’re here now, sir, and we ain’t able to move out so quick, being our lives and our homes and our work and suchlike done here. We could pay, sir, rent-like—”
“Fool! What need have I, the great and mighty Zod, for your pitiful mortal currencies?”
“Surely,” chimed the portly one, “surely there is something we can offer?”
“You could use a feather duster my lord,” said Mortimer. “Just look at my surface—absolutely filthy.”
“Silence, slave.” The one thing he could use was some living test subjects. Pigs, goats, maybe something from the forest. They were always such a bother to catch himself, and then he had to keep them around until he could use them, and they smelled terrible and the manure got everywhere. “Very well, I have decided to spare you all. In exchange, you will provide me with a living tribute before this day’s end.”
The portly one and the eye-patch exchanged worried glances. “Very well, Wizard Zod, we have a deal.” Excellent. He wouldn’t have had the energy to destroy them anyway, had they refused. What he needed right now was a warm bath, a nice long nap, and—
“Er, one more thing, my good wizard—”
Would these tiresome interruptions never end?
“Yes, what is it?”
“About Mr. Porter here,” said the portly one, flourishing his hand toward the duck. “Will you turn him back? Whatever he did, I, Rotomund Phlab, as governor of Towerton, do beg his pardon.”
“Please sir,” added the eye-patch, “he’s a father of six.”
“Oh, very well.”
Unfortunately, John’s Greater Polymorph did not have the customary reversal clause, so he would have to prepare the full counter-spell. That would take time. “Er, let him remain at the gate. I shall deal with him soon.” The duck began to waddle excitedly (no further attempt flight, however).
“Oh, thank you, your wizardliness,” said Rotomund.
The crowd dispersed and at last the wizard had some peace and quiet. He unlaced his other boot, threw them both aside, put on his slippers, and shuffled to his desk. After rifling through the drawers he found his prize: a crystal globe about the size of his fist, containing within it a small reproduction of the hot springs in the mountains of Ghol. He stripped down to his underclothes and, once ready, closed his eyes and rubbed the surface of the orb with his thumb. When he opened his eyes again, the room had switched places with the globe.
Steam hissed from thermal vents. An errant breeze blew hot vapors in his direction, joining his skin to its warmth. Without further ado, he slipped into the spring, releasing all his tensions, letting his mind drift inexorably toward that one burning, still unachieved desire.
The three unsolved problems of modern Wizardry, aka the Trinity, the Big Three, the Threesome, Those Problems, et cetera, had plagued The Gathering of Magic since its founding, nearly two millennia ago. The problems had claimed the lives of dozens of Wizards, of every Caliber, of every species and specialization. Even the ascended gods did not dare to trifle with them anymore—that, they supposed was “wisdom”—he called it cowardice. For the last forty years he had labored tirelessly to solve just one of the problems—just one, the Don’t Care Conjecture—and for the last forty years the problem had held. Never mind the nearly unlimited power he would wield should he prove it (disproving it earned more limited rewards), but the pure, almost orgasmic pleasure of discovery was prize enough.

He recalled the modern form of the Conjecture: every combination of N-forms was homeomagic to a 2-spell, or equivalently, for every N-spell there existed a bounded equivoque, dubbed the “indifference transform”, to a 2-spell. The Conjecture had been proven for the trivial 1- and 2-spell cases (which could both be done without using an indifference transform, obviously) and had even been proven for 3-spells—which revealed the existence of the aforementioned transform and the related Apathy-Potency-Enigma (APE) theorem, as a side-effect, it also rendered all 3-spells obsolete. That proof was illustrated by one of the Blacks (the family, not the race) and had propelled its author to his current position of Archmage. Zod was working on the 4-spell version of the problem. A few Wizards of higher Caliber were working on the 7-spell case, which many of the Gathering Council, including the Archmage himself, now claimed was impossible (no doubt, out of a fear of losing their positions). The generalized N-spell case was, of course, the grand prize. Its proof would render all higher level spells obsolete. Preparing a Time Stop with only two spellslots? A Wizard could dream.

After his bath, and now back in his chambers, the wizard happened catch a glimpse of himself in the standing mirror. Harsh conditions in the Barbor and his subsequent clean diet and exercise with the Ghols (which they accepted in lieu room and board fare—strange people, the Ghols) had put considerable muscle onto his old bones. He could not help but flex a little, as he dressed.
“Looking diesel, my lord,” said Mortimer, appearing in the mirror.
“Silence, slave.”