The Temple's darkness is lit to day-like brilliance with the power of my magic. Caramon, sword in hand, can only stand beside me and watch in awe as foe after foe falls to my spells. Lightning crackles from my fingertips, flame flares from my hands, phantasms appear-so terrifyingly real that they can kill by fear alone.
Goblins die screaming, pierced by the lances of legions of knights who fill the cavern with their war chants at my bidding, then disappear at my command. The baby dragons flee in terror back to the dark and secret places of their hatching, draconians wither in the flames. Dark clerics, who swarmed down the stairs at their Queen's last bidding, are impaled upon a flight of shimmering spears, their last prayers changing to wailing curses of agony.
Finally comes the Black Robes, the eldest of the Order, to destroy me-the young upstart. But they find to their dismay that-old as they are-I am in some mysterious way older still. My power is phenomenal. They know within an instant that I cannot be defeated. The air is filled with the sounds of chanting, and one by one, they disappear as swiftly as they came, many bowing to me in profound respect as they depart upon the wings of wish spells…
They bow to me.
Raistlin Majere. Master of Past and Present.
I, Magus.