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Prolog

My death approaches.  I hear it in the wind and feel its measured step in the earth beneath my feet.  The icy water flowing swiftly down the rocky channel tastes of death--my death.  I am at once diminished and enlarged.  Soon I will be lost to the physical world that has been home to me since my birth, but I will gain the whole of the larger cosmos of which the physical world is but a fragment.

I am the last practitioner of those arts,
Which bend unguessed forces to my will
To change the world for good or ill.
I am old according to that count of years,
Which frames the reckonings of men.
Only Merlin will yet live on,
Because I am no demonís spawn
Nor lie I spellbound in a crystal cave,
Eternal prisoner of Vivianeís twisted love.
Iíve lived out my life; Iíve aged.

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