Your Magic or Mine? by Ann Macela Page A

names of Bryan Pritchart, Michael Brubaker, and others. The text reads, ‘As practitioners vitally interested in developing new spells and new methods of casting, we are banding together to alert our fellow warlocks and witches of a dire situation. The danger posed by those whose mind-sets are locked in the past is great and immediate. These people will destroy the ability of all practitioners to thrive in the twenty-first century. Join
The Future of Magic
and help us fight the reactionary, regressive doomsayers who would leave us and our children unable to practice magic in the world of today and tomorrow. Help us go where no practitioner has gone before.’“
    He tossed it onto the table and leaned back in his chair. “Is yours similar?” he asked.
    “The letterhead calls the group the
Traditional Heritage Association,”
she answered. “Down the left side is a list of names with Calvin and Loretta Horner’s at the top. The body of the letter says, ‘Join us in our efforts to stop those who would ruin our precious practitioner way of life and destroy our traditions. These ‘futurists,’ as they call themselves, want nothing more than to leave us with no art, no warmth, no emotion in our practice of magic. They would reduce casting to meaningless numbers and lifeless symbols. They see no value in historical or individual casting methods. They would cram down our throats a regimented, complicated, difficult regime that will destroy our life, liberty, and pursuit of magic.’“
    “That’s what’s going on while we’re sitting here,” Ed said, waving his hand at the letters. “Both sides are gathering their troops to do battle over an issue that should be thoroughly and calmly investigated and discussed. Marcus, nobody’s really studying your equation or trying out its capabilities. Pritchart’s trying to act like Captain Kirk on
Star Trek
, make off with your ideas, and put himself forward as the savior of the planet.”
    He turned toward her. “Gloriana, Horner and his cohorts are distorting your message. Neither of these groups is interested in a middle road, a large picture, or, to use the political term, a big tent that covers all. And if Pritchart is Kirk, Horner wants to sound like Thomas Jefferson.”
    Ed looked back and forth between the two of them and spread out his hands. “I ask you, do you want these people to hijack your ideas and theories? Do you want these people to speak for you, to split the practitioner community into fragments? When you can do something about it, make sure both sides are heard, give voice to a rational, deliberate way of looking at magic and its practice? Because I can tell you, that’s what will happen unless we step in and bring some rational discussion to these charges.”
    Gloriana shut her eyes and took a long, slow breath in and out. When she opened them, she was staring directly at Forscher, who returned her gaze with a stone-cold expression. She was somehow surprised that a man so gorgeous could look so forbidding and severe. Even his blazer—a light blue one that matched his eyes—looked grim. At least today he wore a button-down, dark blue shirt with no tie. But still, next to his perfection, she felt like a field hand in her smudged khakis and a moss green polo shirt.
    “Ed’s right,” he said to her. “It looks like we have no choice. Or I don’t. I won’t have Prick Pritchart stealing my equation or corrupting the studies for its use.” His implacable tone could have chipped ice.
    “I don’t, either,” Gloriana agreed. “Horner and his bunch will throw us back to the Middle Ages and will certainly alienate everyone who uses numbers and calculations in their spells—including my own father and brother.”
    “We need some ground rules,” Forscher stated. “Ed, you must keep order.”
    “No problem there,” the editor said with a big grin on his face. “Our sergeants-at-arms will be Swords.”
    “Swords?” Gloriana asked. “The Swords