The Arch-Mage’s Firebird
By K.L. Noone
The wizard’s apprentice came sprinting into Tom’s Seaside Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor on a Wednesday morning, dove over the counter, and pleaded from behind double-cherry chip and butter-rum refrigerated tubs, “Hide me.”
“From what,” Tom demanded, looking down, “why are you on the floor, and that was my favorite scoop you made me drop—” and then looked up automatically as the bell rang again.
Two men ambled into the shop. They did not look like men hunting strawberry-cheesecake swirl, unless they planned to trap it with binding-spells and compulsion collars. Knotwork and herb-pouches dangled at hips; their expressions might’ve come out of a badly-scripted low-budget Western film. Sunshine and ocean breeze peeked in behind leather jackets, curio
