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Imagine life in an ironically magical world where 144,000 doors separate fiction from reality. A place that can hypnotize even the most grounded philosophy major and deliver a fantastical rhyme to his reason. A place where a best buddy resembles a shaggy carpet, and adventures surpass a boy's dreams?welcome to Castle Perilous.
they came to a landing flanked by descending stairwells. “We should have a coin to flip for these occasions,” Gene said. “You mean cast bones, something like that?” “You don’t have coins where you hail from? Money?” “Some. Pretty scarce.” “Oh. Left?” “Right.” For some reason the stairwell, which descended in ninety-degree turns, was unlighted. They groped, tripped, and cursed in the darkness; came to landings, went up, came back down; traversed corridors that dead-ended, swore mightily;
hard to get used to. Are you okay?” “Yeah,” she said, sniffing. “I’m okay.” Gene went to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “Sure you’ll be okay?” “Sure I’m sure. I’m a goddamn magician, aren’t I? I’m a witch.” She gave a short, semihysterical giggle. “Just call me Samantha.” “Yeah, and I’m Darin. And this is all a TV sitcom.” She laughed, tilting her head to his shoulder. “Now, if I could only wiggle my nose.” “Try it.” She did it, and they laughed. Snowclaw had already wolfed
moved with her at first, then resisted, rotating in her loose grip back to their former positions. She turned the other way, and again the rods swung to the front. “The force that attracts them grows stronger,” she said. “Aye, but is the source accessible? Mayn’t it be underground?” “I doubt it. The Spell Stone is part of the castle.” “A foundation block, perhaps?” “Perhaps. But we will be able to see it.” “Her ladyship is so sure.” “Yes. I have labored years, and have rung the changes on
aligned intently between them. She reached the circular floor and walked past Snowclaw, oblivious to him and the mangled bodies. Arms folded, Snowclaw regarded her in puzzlement. She walked on, moving in the direction of the dark boulder. The rods began to vibrate violently. She took a few more steps, and then the rods flew from her hands. Gene ducked as they streaked by. He heard a clinking sound and looked toward the base of the rock. The two silver rods clung to the stone as if to a great
No, not completely. I do not entirely know my nature. Much has been lost. He halted. The voice was a whisper now. “Why do you speak now? You have not done so in a hundred years.” That long? I did not know. Was it you to whom I spoke? “Does it matter?” No. It is sometimes difficult for me to ascertain individuality . . . and I do not care in any event. “You spoke to me. I ask again — why have you broken your silence?” I speak now because I sense an impending liberation. A spark of light