Creation Mage 4 (War Mage Academy) by Dante King

Author:Dante King [King, Dante]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-12-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

“Oi oi, Petram, you hunk of spunk,” I said. “We’re off to the Luminous Bazaar. Pop us through, will you?”

Petram waved us up the path to the portal station without a word this time, though he did snap off a little salute. Clearly, the lure of more time with the nuns that he so adored was enough for the old dwarf to disregard even the wrath of the Arcane Council.

Cecilia, Odette, Mortimer, and I stepped into the circle of portal stones. I gave the bearded dwarf porter the nod to get things started and send us spinning through the void.

This time, it was heat that hit me after I regained my equilibrium. Raw, dry heat that could only come with an exceptionally dry climate. It must have been all of ninety-five degrees.

My brain was inundated with mental images of camels and coconuts, date trees and oases, roasting meats smeared with honey and cobras, which was surprising because I had never been in a country that included any of those things.

“Holy shiitake mushrooms, Batman!” I said, squinting in the glare of a sun that seemed intent on roasting my brain with waves of straight heat.

Odette fiddled with the gypsy bandana that she had wrapped around her head, and a moment later it had folded out into a loose shawl. “Yes,” she said, “it’s quite warm here. Loose, billowy layers are the key to dealing with the heat.”

I glanced over at Cecilia. She was still, obviously, dressed in the exact same get-up that she had been wearing at the pub. In spite of the vest, which was fairly thick, the aristocratic elf looked singularly unmoved by the heat.

She caught me looking at her, then raised her head to stare up, unblinking, with her bright blue eyes at the barbaric sun.

“I’m a Frost Mage, darling,” she said, lowering her head to gaze at me, with more than a little smugness, I thought. “I can cool myself as needed. One of the perks, you might say.”

Mortimer had drawn the hood of his billowing cloak over his pale head and was staring at me from out of the heavy shadows the cowl provided.

I wasn’t surprised that he had ducked into cover as soon as our feet had touched sand. If there was anyone who’d catch a serious case of sunburn, it was the man with the mutton chop sideburns. He was so pale that, in this weather, he’d be a Zoidberg lookalike in about four minutes flat.

Speaking of which, I needed to change my wardrobe.

Thankfully, the cloak Igor had given me could change into any outfit you cared to imagine.

Not totally sure what you’d wear in a desert climate, I did what any guy who’d grown up in the 90s would do. I envisioned that Medjay warrior dude from The Mummy.

In an instant, I was wrapped from the tops of my boots to my neck in looseish black robes, although they weren’t so loose that they would get in the way during a skirmish.

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