On the night the sorcerer would die, he held the Mouse close to him. The little orange-furred creature blinked with her bright eyes, for though she could understand his words, she could not speak.

The sorcerer told her that, now knowing all he knew, she would be able to finish what he had begun.

Placing her by his bedside, he waved his hand over her, and chanted a few words under his shallow breath. Then, the Mouse sat before him, no longer a mouse, but a young woman, with a shining red jewel upon her forehead, the same as the sorceror’s.

Now, having a woman’s body, she was freed from the restrictions of a mouse’s form, and tears flowed from her eyes, for the Mouse had come to love the sorcerer.

“Dear Mouse,” said the sorcerer, “Is there anything I can give you before I pass?”

“A name,” she whispered, “I would like a name.”

“I have the perfect one,” he said. But as his lips brushed her ear, he used his last breath, and the Mouse, now with all the sorcerer’s power, was never to know her name.