t last we struggled to the summit of the last high dune, and we found ourselves looking out over the splendor of Tulla, the City Without Gates. From our vantage point I could not see much of the city itself; only the treetops and the summit of a great tower could be seen, just peeking over the high ramparts which surrounded Tulla like a dam, holding back the eternal sands of the Vendigroth and barring admission to those uninitiated in the ways of Magick.

This Wall was smooth and featureless, unbroken by any means of access for as far as the eye could see. Nevertheless Fazil led his caravan down the dune with a jingle of bells, making directly for the barrier. When he was close enough to kiss the blinding white stone he bent close and whispered to Tulla, speaking a secret Word which had been given to his father's father in times past. To my delight the stone parted like a curtain and made way for the People of the Desert, giving me entrance to the fabled city of Magick.

In the square we stopped and drank deep from the well, while the thirsty animals crowded about us to be first at the trough. When we had rested, Fazil showed me a winding staircase, and I climbed to the pinnacle of the Spire of Evening. The dusk was long in coming, but patiently I waited until the red sun cast its slanting light over the white rooftops and walls of the city, and out into the golden desert beyond. There I stood for nearly an hour, delighting my eyes with the play of light on distant fountains, and the grace of the slim towers, their heights capped with shining bulbs of copper. A light breeze had risen at the close of day, sending a ripple over the bright awnings of the market place; like a mischievous child it plaited the columns of colored smoke which rose from temple, shrine and grove, as the last of the day's offerings were made.

Idly I traced a few narrow and winding streets from above, trying to divine the path I would later follow to the public square, or a nearby inn; it was never more apparent to me that Tulla was a colossal maze, an eternal mystery which I would never fully unravel. Looking up to relieve my eyes of this perplexing labor, I saw a spellsinger step out onto the balcony of the nearest minaret, raising her arms as if to embrace the setting sun. Immediately I was struck by her beauty, which was like a knife at my throat: I froze, transfixed by the glitter of her dark, commanding eyes, the wild cascade of black hair which tumbled over her white shoulders, the thin white gown and flowing shawl which clung to her slim body and billowed behind her in the evening breeze.

A strangled cry caught in my throat as she put her white foot on the railing of the balcony, stepping up onto it. She stood with arms outstretched in the dying light; for a moment I thought that she would cast herself from the tower to the flagstones far below. Before I could call out, she opened her mouth and let spill a liquid torrent of song, the words in some old and mellifluous tongue which I could not understand; when she stepped from the balcony, the wind embraced her. She did not fall; instead she ran lightly out into the air, heading swiftly for the opposite side of the city. Every smooth stride she made covered many yards, and quickly her slender figure was lost from view in the cool twilight…