Two day's ride out of D'eshkar, in the midst of the harsh desert plateau, sits an oasis. It is a bit larger than most such places of rest from the harsh sun, and yet, most caravan masters spend as little time there as possible. You, weary traveler, may find this strange, for there is a fine stand of shady trees, surrounding a spring of sweet water that flows into a pool of carved stone. Why would the caravan make haste to leave instead of resting in this beauty?

It is a fair question, and if asked, it will be answered, albeit with reluctance and a quick glance at an object that sits in the sands some yards beyond the sanctuary of the grove. The teller of the tale will sink slowly to sit on the ground cross-legged, extend one hand out as if offering something, and then begin the tale:

In the days before, all this land was not as you see it now. It was green and fertile, with a river that ran not far from where we now sit. The king who reigned overall the plateau was named Pherat, fifth of that name, and was a proud and strict man. The Stone King, the people called him, for the stones he had brought from the far mountains, and for the harsh way he ruled. He cared little for the common folk, instead spending his days within his new palace, his main company those who shared his love of luxury and wilder pursuits.

On the tenth anniversary of his ascending the throne, King Pherat declared a great festival. All his subjects, from peasant to noble, were told they must give an extra "gift tax" as a show of respect and obedience to the king, and the "gift-gatherers" collected from travelers through the land as well. Those who refused to give were beaten until they decided that it was better to be a little poorer but alive than richer and dead. The gift tax would be used to build a monument that would immortalize the glories of Pherat's reign for ages yet to come.

At last the anniversary day arrived, and the nobles gathered at the royal palace for the feast. At the height of the festivities, a group of guards entered, a dark-robed stranger walking in their midst. Pherat peered down from the dais where he sat. "What is the meaning of this?"

A guard stepped forwards. "Highness, this man says he has no coin to give, but that he is a mage, and will pay with a show of his skill."

"Is this true, mage? Speak! What is your name?"

"Yes, Highness." The stranger bowed. "As for my name, I have renounced it. A matter of the craft, you see."

A wiser king might have been more prudent. But Pherat was not prudent, and by this point in his feast, was barely sober. He laughed, then beckoned the mage to come sit beside him, and the feast went on. The mage neither ate or drank, but sat and watched, until at last Pherat turned once more to look at him.

"Look around you, mage! Am I not a great king?" He waved a hand at the nobles who sat around him. "Do you have friends such as these?"

The mage gazed out over the hall. At the rear, there was a stream of servants and minor nobility moving quietly out the doors and then out of the palace. "I had but one friend, a student, actually."

Pherat made a totally insincere sympathetic face, then reached for his winecup. "My condolences." He took a swallow, then once more gestured to the hall. "Have you ever seen so many people? My people are like grains of sand, and none will ever forget this…where are they going? Guards!" Nowaware of the migration from the hall, Pherat looked about.Even most of the guards had gone. Of the subjects who had feasted in his honor, only those closest to the dais, those who had enforced Pherat's taxes most enthusiastically still sat all in their places. All the rest, warned in their thoughts by the mage's voice, had fled. The mage rose.

"I had, I said, one friend. He was stopped at your borders and when he refused to pay the coin in your honor, he was beaten, thrown back on his horse and sent back the way he came. He died, and I came here to repay you in kind." The mage watched as the king looked frantically about. "There is none to aid you. Your friends cannot move."

Indeed, Pherat saw, his most loyal courtiers were no longer flesh and blood but sat like statues, a tableau frozen in stone. And as he began to feel a peculiar stiffness take hold of his limbs, the mage leaned closer so his face filled Pherat's vision.

"I wanted to kill you. But having met you, o foolish man, I think this is more rewarding. The Stone King they call you, a stone king you shall be, a stone king of countless grains of sand. "And as the spell he cast was completed, the mage known only as the One turned and walked down the hall, the echoes of his steps fading away.

Time passed. The desert grew slowly, and there was ample time for many to leave, and for a few to adapt to a new way of life. The stones of the great palace were scavenged for new buildings a few days ride away, and eventually what was once the hall lay open to the elements, and as the sand filled even that, all that remained of what Pherat built was a small part of his garden, and the spring that nourished it.

With this, whoever is telling the tale will close his hand to show the tale is ended, and then rise, point to the object in the sand outside the line of trees, and then walk away. And if you, o traveler, should rise afterwards, and venture out to see what sits there, you may find something. It depends on the vagaries of wind and sand. Sometimes all one can see is a bit of something hard sticking up out of the ground.

Othertimes, you may see a stone statue, sitting in a great chair, and on its face are small drips of moisture.

Put out a finger to scoop up a drop. Bring it to your lips, and taste it if you dare.

You will taste a tear.