Time was when the great mage Adriande began to feel his age, and though he knew there were still many years allotted to him, he knew he must begin looking for a successor. And he also had a daughter to find a husband for, the beauteous Enique, and thought that perhaps he might catch two unicorns with the same maiden.
And so he gave out a challenge to all the mages in all the known lands that the one who impressed him most with their skill in magic would be named his protégé and successor, and that if they were male, they would also be eligible to take his daughters hand in marriage.
Many were the hopeful aspirants, but in the end it came down to a contest between three young mages from diverse lands - three friends as it happened. There was Trebor of Stein, a bear of a man but with a gentle soul. Ffoeg of the Ekots moorlands was a highly skilled artificer and the wily Cire of Atria was widely regarded as having fox ancestry for the mischievous ingenuity of his magic.
Adriande took counsel with the three aspirants and it was decided that the final test should be one of transformation for this was regarded as the most difficult of magics. Anyone could take a creature and make another creature from its substance, but this was no more magic than making glass by grinding a rock into sand. True transformation lay in preserving the creature's essence or soul.
Adriande told each of them that they were allotted just so many ingredients to prepare a transformative potion. The test would be decided by whichever mage could transform the most subjects. Adriande was carefully ambiguous about who should be turned into what.
The ingredients were not many. The three mages, being friends, conferred and planned and theorised, and then one of them - bearded Ffoeg - had a flash of insight and began to feverishly brew herbs together and to mix this chemical with that whilst muttering arcane words under his breath. He worked non-stop for a day and a night and finally came up with a pail-full of greenish syrup that smelt pleasantly of peppermint.
He had thought long and hard about just who it was he would try it on, for he was at heart an ethical man, and his brew was a lasting one. He had at length decided upon the owners and supervisors of a local labour mill that was known to ill-treat those poor souls who slaved away there at all hours. The business was owned by a ruthless woman who ruled her little empire with little concern for safety or well-being.
It was easy to ensure that only the overseers and managers and owners received the potion, for their own provisions were kept quite separate from the meagre gruel the workers were served, and Ffoeg saw to it that said provisions were well indoctrinated, then sat back to await results.
In a gratifyingly short time, his work reached fruition. Workers were amazed when growling supervisors began to growl in earnest, then to yelp and whine in consternation as their bodies grew fur and their hands became paws. Then there came an anguished howl from the owner's private office, and the door burst forth to reveal a creature half woman and half dog, with her clothing falling from her as she stumbled onto all fours.
"Twenty," said Ffoeg with satisfaction, as minutes later, a pack of nineteen howling dogs fled the building in hot pursuit of a lone bitch. "She's hardly changed a bit," Ffoeg was heard to say.
Trebor of Stein made his bid next. He had watched Ffoeg's efforts, and it did occur ot him that if the same solution could somehow be diluted without losing its potency, he might better Ffoeg's count.
Three days and three nights he laboured over equations and formulae, and finally rose holding a small vial of ruby liquid that smelt of fireworks.
This Trebor took to a village not far from his home. The people there were mean of spirit, even the children. They delighted in acts of spite and were known (though it could not be proved to the satisfaction of the law courts - bribery was suspected) to harbour a local bandit horde. Trebor stole in one night and dropped the vial into the village well.
The following day the villagers rose as normal, snarled at each other, and went about their usual morning business. Trebor had cunningly wrought a delay into the spell to allow all the villagers to drink before anyone grew suspicious.
Shortly after midday, however, the first signs that something was wrong began to appear. The early birds succumbed first - those that had risen at dawn (or had been out all night). They began to that their clothing didn't fit correctly anymore. Sleeves and legs were too long, but waists and collars grew tight. Then ears began to grow, and noses began to turn up and flatten, and to protrude into snouts.
This caused great hilarity at first as victims were derided by their neighbours, but then the strange malaise began to spread, and people began to worry as one by one, everybody began to suffer the same thing. Some tried to escape on horseback, and many of these were never seen again.
Those first afflicted were now having difficulties with their hands as fingers stiffened and fused into hard, bifurcated hooves. Arms and legs changed to short, stocky things, inadequate to maintain an upright position. They fell to all fours and could not rise again. Their complaints rapidly reduced to panicked grunts and squeals. Seams burst and cloth ripped, and the now horrified villagers saw clearly their shared fate. Panic spread, but to no avail. By dusk, every man, woman and child was a pig.
"Three hundred or more," Trebor said with great satisfaction.
Ffoeg, who had watched with him, clapped him on the back and congratulated him. "Well done! That was much better than mine! Surely you will succeed Adriande."
Trebor smiled. "Ah, but unless I miss my guess, our brother Cire has met with inspiration."
Cire of Atria wriggled his eyebrows, and admitted, "Well, your solution did give me an idea, but I am not sure I can pull it off alone."
But great was the friendship between the three, and when they heard his idea, the other two were sufficiently intrigued to offer their help,
Adriande was greatly puzzled when the three mages hired a local farm labourer who was suffering mightily from a bad cold. He was puzzled still more when, having required the snuffling man to sneeze over a bowl, they cured his cold and sent him on his way.
Ten days and nights did they toil this time, and at the end of it, Cire stood, regarded by the other two, reverently holding a large glass globe in which roiled thick blue smoke. "This could get out of control," he warned. "It's never been done before."
"Curing a cold is a common thing," his friends assured him. "We can control it."
"Even so," he said, "I sought to find a form which, if things really came down to it, we wouldn't mind being. Just in case."
"This is the course of wisdom," Trebor told Ffoeg.
"Truly," Ffoeg agreed.
Somewhat nervously, but with encouraging nods from his companions, Cire raised the globe dramatically above his head, then hurled it down upon the floor, where it shattered. The blue gas within swiftly dissipated, and the three mages stood for a minute, waiting.
Then Trebor said, "Well if you think about it, it's bound to take a while. Possibly days."
Cire, though he looked faintly disappointed, agreed, and the three mages retired to their rooms to await developments.
Nothing happened the next day, though the three of them went into the nearest market. Towards the latter part of the day, Cire's nose began to itch, and Trebor's throat felt rather dry, and Ffoeg allowed that he felt rather congested.
The next day, when the three were breaking their fast, Cire suddenly gave a tremendous sneeze, and as if propelled by that explosive convulsion, his ears seemed to leap up from his head, eight inches long or more, and covered in brown fur.
Then Trebor also sneezed mightily, and his face exploded in a broad, dark-skinned muzzle.
And Ffoeg then sneezed too, and his shoes flew off and his trouser legs burst as his legs suddenly grew and lengthened and hooves blossomed where lately there had been toes.
Then it was that Adriande and his daughter Enique burst into the room. Enique was sporting an attractive tail of long, flowing hair, white-gold as the tresses that adorned her head, whilst the noble Adriande showed two hooves of cloven gold from the ends of his sleeves, and had four inches of spiral horn protruding from his brow.
"Gentlemen," he thundered. "Can I presume there is a logical explanation for this? One expects to feel a little hoarse when one has a cold, but this is ridiculous!"
"Well, sir," Cire began, and then another sneeze rocked him on his feet. A ass's tail exploded from the seat of his pants. Distracted, he regarded it with a bemused smile until Adriande snapped, "Get on with it!"
"Ah, it occurred to me that if Trebor could propagate a potion by creating one that maintained its potency even when diluted greatly, then perhaps one could be tied to a harmless germ, that spreads as a disease spreads. Anyone infected by the carrier germ will be transformed. Conceivably, it could transform the entire human race."
"And you set it off in my home?" demanded Adriande, who then sneezed himself a pair of pointed grey ears. Trebor had spluttered his way to all fours where he now stood supported by stocky bay legs, heavily feathered like a farm animal, with a white sock on his near-fore.
"And in the town," admitted Cire, as Ffoeg acquired the delicate dished face of a desert steed. "Um, I chose a horse for the base form, modified by everyone's perception of their favourite breed. You appear to be turning into a unicorn, sir."
"Really?" asked Adriande sarcastically. "You think? And are we supposed to live in stables for the rest of our lives or do you have a convenient counteragent?" His hands, as he spoke, transformed into cloven hooves of purest gold. Enique sneezed and spontaneously changed completely into an elegant but surprised-looking palomino mare.
"Um, no," Cire said, slightly distracted by the shaggy brown hair sprouting all over his body. "Uh, a simple healing spell will abate the disease, and without the binding presence of the bacterium..."
Seeing that by now he was the last of the five-some to retain fingers, he quickly performed the intricate gestures of the healing cantrip and was relieved to feel his stuffy nose clear almost instantly. It did not, however, dispel anyone's equine aspects, or for that matter, arrest further changes. "...Or maybe not," he conceded.
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