Swords Against Wizardry by Fritz Leiber ...

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So sonorously invoked the Mouser, as with eyes closed and arms outstretched
he cast the rune given him by Sheelba of the Eyeless Face which would destroy all
sorcerers of less than First Rank of an undetermined distance around the casting
point -- surely for a few miles, one might hope, so smiting Hasjarl's warlocks to
dust.
Whether his Great Spell worked or not -- and in his inmost heart he strongly
mistrusted that it would -- the Mouser was very pleased with the performance he
was giving. He doubted Sheelba himself could have done better. What
magnificent deep chest tones -- even Fafhrd had never heard him declaim so.
He wished he could open his eyes for just a moment to note the effect his
performance was having on Gwaay's magicians -- they'd be staring openmouthed
for all their supercilious boasting, he was sure -- but on this point
Sheelba's instructions had been adamant: eyes tightly shut while the last
sentences of the rune were being recited and the great forbidden words spoken;
even the tiniest blink would nullify the Great Spell. Evidently magicians were
supposed to be without vanity or curiosity -- what a bore!
Of a sudden in the dark of his head, he felt contact with another and a larger
darkness, a malefic and puissant darkness, of which light itself is only the
absence. He shivered. His hair stirred. Cold sweat prickled his face. He almost
stuttered midway through the word "slewerisophnak." But concentrating his will,
he finished without flaw.
When the last echoing notes of his voice had ceased to rebound between the
domed ceiling and floor, the Mouser slit open one eye and glanced surreptitiously
around him.
One glance and the other eye flew open to fullness. He was too surprised to
speak.
And whom he would have spoken to, had he not been too surprised, was also
a question.
The long table at the foot of which he stood was empty of occupants. Where
but moments before had sat eleven of the very greatest magicians of Quarmall -sorcerers
of the First Rank, each had sworn on his black Grammarie -- was only
space.
The Mouser called softly. It was possible that these provincial fellows had
been frightened at the majesty of his dark Lankhmarian delivery and had crawled
under the table.
But there was no answer.
He spoke louder. Only the ceaseless groan of the fans could be sensed, though
hardly more noticeable after four days hearing them than the coursing of his
blood. With a shrug the Mouser relaxed into his chair. He murmured to himself,
"If those slick-faced old fools run off, what next? Suppose all Gwaay's henchmen
flee?"
As he began to plan out in his mind what strategy of airy nothing to adopt if
that should come to pass, he glanced somberly at the wide high-backed chair
nearest his place, where had sat the boldest-seeming of Gwaay's arch-magi. There
was only a loosely crumpled white loincloth -- but in it was what gave the Mouser
pause. A small pile of flocculent gray dust was all.
The Mouser whistled softly between his teeth and raised himself the better to
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