[ PI ] The longer a spell takes to invoke , the more potent its effects . A single wizard has been casting a spell for hundreds of years . Today , he is finally done .

He ’ d become a national attraction, of sorts. Kind of morbid if you think about it: here ’ s a wizard, locked in a meditative trance, invoking a spell of perhaps untold power. He could be potentially working on magic so destructive it would rent reality asunder. It could spell the end of our civilization, of our race, of every living thing on this world, and what do we do? We fence it up and charge people three copper to see it. 
 
 Progress. 
 
 “ Does anyone know what he ’ s casting? ” a small boy asked, eyes wide with amazement. 
 
 I fought the urge to come back with something smartassed. It was hard, though, because the answer to that question was on the freaking sign board. “ No, ” I replied. “ Now do you have three copper on you? ” 
 
 The boy fished around in his pockets and handed me his admission fee. I stashed it in the till and began searching for new faces to charge. I was the attendant here, see, and despite my cynicism this job got me paid and, occasionally, laid. So I really shouldn ’ t be complaining. But I will anyway, because that ’ s just me. 
 
 “ What ’ s the story behind this wizard, anyway? Does anyone know who he is? ” Another customer, an older lady with three young kids in tow, asked. Again, it was all on the board. Again, I got asked that question a dozen times a day. 
 
 “ No one knows, ” I replied through gritted teeth. “ Three copper apiece, please. ” 
 
 The lady huffed at the no-doubt in her mind exorbitant admission, even though her husband probably made more than double all their admissions in a single hour as a solicitor, but she dutifully handed them over and I followed the motions of depositing it in the till. I ’ ll admit, the temptation to pocket some of the money for myself was there. But ultimately, it paid well, was really easy, and I was left to my own devices for most of the time. The freedom of not having a supervisor breathe down your neck was appreciated. 
 
 “ Hey, the sound he ’ s making has changed! ” 
 
 I frowned. That was new. But the voice was right - the wizard ’ s tone had raised to a higher pitch, like he was ready to build into a crescendo and unleash all manner of devastation upon this world. Or something like that, anyway. The ground began to rumble. People started to step back, and a few had already broken into a run. This was n't good. The wizard was almost at the end of his invocation. But what could I do? I was n't a spellcaster; the only casters were in the service of the king at the castle grounds on the other side of the city. They were too far away to help. “ Call a watchman! ” I shouted, but apart from skewering the wizard with their wicked halberds, there was n't a whole lot they could do, either. 
 
 The ground shook harder. Tiles rained from the roofs and windows shattered. This must have been the spell he was preparing, an earthquake spell that would shake this world to pieces. 
 
 Then, as soon as the rumbling had begun, it stopped, and the wizard opened his eyes. 
 
 “... mmmmmmmake me the perfect cup of tea! ” He finished humming, and in his left hand appeared a porcelain teapot and his right a cup and saucer. Whistling a tune, he poured himself a cup of tea and breathed deeply. 
 
 “ Aah! Finally! Perfect! ” He exclaimed, and took a grateful sip. Then he looked around, as if for the first time, and frowned. 
 
 “ What happened to my house? ” 

