Disclaimer: The characters belong to Tamora Pierce and the other people I borrowed them from. The plot is mine!

Don't panic, Numair told himself, trying to stay calm. Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic…

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Numair pulled himself to his feet, gingerly touching his aching shoulder and forehead. He steadied himself with a groan, then took several deep breaths. Glancing around him, he saw that the room was a disaster area. The children had knocked over bookshelves, dropped things on the floor, and glopped paint everywhere. "I'd rather eat a dozen of Onua's cookies than be in here when the mage who owns this place comes back and sees it like this," he muttered.

The minute he said it, he knew that he shouldn't have. The creak of another door opening behind him filled the room like a noisy suit of armor crashing down a well.

"WHAT IN THE MOTHER-LOVING NAME OF MITHROS HAPPENED TO MY WORKROOM?!" roared a voice like a warlord charging into battle. Numair, though over six feet tall and strong, winced in fear. "YOU! WHAT DID YOU DO?!" screamed the voice in outrage. Numair, clenching his eyes shut tightly, turned around slowly, dreading to face the terrible mage.

"I'm sorry, it wasn't me, but— "

"WHAT HAPPENED?!" the mage screeched in anger. Taking a deep breath, Numair opened his eyes.

And didn't see the mage.

Mithros, Minos, and Shakith, what now? He questioned the gods. Should I just throw myself out the window and be done with it?

"I'm talking to you, you big, bumbling idiot!" snapped the angry voice. "PAY ATTENTION!" The voice was coming from below, Numair decided. Like the voices of the— shudder— demon children. So Numair looked down.

And came eye-to-eye with an extremely ticked-off midget.

"What did you do?!" demanded the shorter-than-average man, trying to pull out his thinning, straw-colored hair. "You have DESTROYED my workroom!"

"It wasn't me!" insisted Numair. "It was the children!"

"Children?" the man asked skeptically. "So your kids did this?!"

"No!" shouted Numair. "I heard a crash, so I followed it to this room, and there were these young children in here who attacked me and then they got out and— "

"I don't want to hear it!" snapped the short mage. "My experiments had NOTHING to do with children!"

Numair sighed in exasperation and ran his fingers through his hair. The mage eyed him with an amused expression.

"You know, something happened to your hair. A big chunk's been cut out," he said reasonably, trying not to snort.

"Watch it, pal," Numair said in a low, dangerous tone.

This time the man did snort. "Looks like you need a new barber. Did ya try that one yourself?" he joked.

"I said you'd better watch it if you know what's good for you!" said Numair angrily. He had always been slightly vain and was still incredibly upset about his hair. He patted it unhappily, sending the midget mage into waves of snorting laughter.

"Didja lose a bet?" guffawed the short mage, starting to laugh harder and harder. He clutched the table for support.

Numair clenched his fist tightly. "SHUT UP!" he shouted, his face turning bright read. The mini mage stopped laughing and looked up in surprise to see a large fist coming his way. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, still looking surprised as he lay prone, and passed out.

Numair took several more deep breaths and forced himself to stay calm. That certainly didn't accomplish anything, he scolded himself. After checking the mage's vital signs, he rolled him over on his back and patted his balding head awkwardly.

Looking up, Numair saw the open door and remembered that the demons had escaped. A sense of fear burned in his heart: what havoc were the wreaking? In the deep part of his mind, he knew what he should do.

He should go after them.

The very idea made his blood run cold with an icy shudder. He didn't want any part of those monsters. But…they, when they were adults, had been his friends. And his love.

But you didn't turn them little, another mind-voice chided sensibly. Wait for this mage to wake up and leave him to deal with them!

But maybe it wasn't him either. He had had no idea about what Numair was talking about when he mentioned the little kids. Maybe this was some terrible accent that Alanna had crafted. Alanna or one of the now-little demons.

"I can do it," he whispered, trying to convince himself. But his words were weak and he trembled as he approached the door to go after them. He slowly made his way across the room and carefully stepped over the threshold…and everything was quiet. Too quiet. Way too quiet if you're on the trail of a bunch of manically insane little kids.

With a deep breath and a prayer, Numair set off into the hallway, heading back towards his own workroom out of habit. He didn't pass any mages or students in the halls, which surprised him. The University was usually crowded at this time of day. Frowning, Numair rounded a corner and nearly bumped into one of his best friends, Lindhall Reed.

"Numair!" said Lindhall, nearly dropping the stack of papers he had been carrying. "Just the man I was looking for!"

"What can I do for you?" asked Numair, distracted. He wanted to hurry up and continue with the demon hunt, hopefully before dark.

"I need you to have a look at these papers…they should contain the right formula for the spell we were talking about with the pickled hecklewort and the vampire essence and the fhlunaberry and…"

Lindhall droned on and Numair couldn't concentrate, so he stared past his friend into the large atrium where the corner they had met at was near. A tapestry of a prancing unicorn hung on the wall, flapping slightly…but there was no wind.

Something was wrong.

Straining his eyes, Numair looked down and saw legs sticking out from beneath the tapestry and it clicked. A devil child!

His mouth dropped in horror as the little "Dainey" emerged from the tapestry and approached a nearby pedestal sporting a vase. A very expensive vase, from what it looked like. She tried to climb it and the pedestal began to tip up. He caught his breath.

Lindhall noticed Numair's strange behavior. "Numair? Are you listening? Are you— all right?" he asked concernedly as he watched his friend whine nervously.

Numair's attention snapped back. "I'm— I'm all right," he said breathlessly, trying to use the force to keep the pedestal upright.

Lindhall wasn't shaken so easily. "Numair— I don't know if you know this, but something's wrong with your hair…as though some was cut off." He ended the sentence on a laugh that he had tried to conceal. The mage quickly disguised it as a cough.

This really was too much for the poor Numair. "I'm fine! Don't you think I would notice if my hair was cut off in a big chunk?! Or do you think someone might have already told me?!" he practically screamed, spitting all over Lindhall.

Lindhall opened his eyes wide and stepped back. "Um…are you sure you're all right?" he asked, obviously unsure of Numair's intent. "I'll just be going now." And he scurried off with one quick, backward look at his friend.

Numair, once Lindhall was out of sight, lunged forward and caught the vase that Dainey had just sent flying. He rolled, cradling the artifact carefully. The pedestal crashed to the ground. Lying prone, he gazed up at Dainey, who was eyeing him with limited interest. Suddenly, she ran up and kicked him hard in the ribs, then took off, giggling.

Numair groaned.