From where I sat I looked and saw . . . I saw a world where magicians hungry for independence and rulership use their to magic to create a sunny spot in the far north tundra, or an island in the sea, or a rainy several square miles in the desert.  There a magician will lead a little band of land-hungry settlers to preside over for the rest of his natural life.

But these oases were always underpopulated because their magic would die with the magician.  Few would come, and as the magician grew old many settlers would start to leave.  The magic to create an area of permanent change was much more difficult.  Only the greatest of magicians could make an area big enough to support a thriving community (for them, who knows, perhaps there are caverns full of light and crops deep underground).

There was one young magician would not be satisfied with the meager settlement he could attract with the land he could magic for his lifetime only.  But he was not powerful enough for permanent magic on the scale required.  He cast about for some other way. 

At last he thought to ask a spirit for help.  Spirits were known to be mischievous and sometimes to exact a strange price for their aid.  But the young magician thought the possible consequences would be better than giving up his dream.  With care, he made himself known to a spirit believed to be relatively well disposed.

He explained his desire to create a permanent source of water in the desert sufficient for a goodly community.

The Spirit agreed, saying that it would enchant a number of objects to continually drip water enough for many,  many acres of even the most sun-scorched land.  The Spirit really was well-disposed, so it also warned the young magician that the gift would come with a twist.

The young magician did not directly ask what the twist was, of course.  Instead, he asked if the objects would be too heavy or large to move out to the desert.  The Spirit said no and rippled with merriment.  Would the objects be cursed?  Were they very fragile?  Would be the water be salty or otherwise unsuitable?  Were the objects clouds that would blow away?  No, no, no, and no, the Spirit replied, and wriggled more and more with delight.

At last the young magician thought he saw the trick–the objects would start producing their gallons right away, right where he was, making them a nasty chore to move.  There could be worse twists, the magician thought, so he said nothing other than to repeat his request for aid, twist and all.

So the young magician and the Spirit pooled their power and the Spirit guided the power to do a great work.    With one great shout of command,  a great heap of objects many yards high, as high as a small hill, appeared, each one dripping water.  And the young magician beheld them and cried for grief.

From where I sit I looked and I saw . . . I saw the pile of water objects was really a high heap of gleaming gold.  Each object was gold of the deepest, richest hue.  But that is not all.  They were not lumps.  Each one was beaten gold made into a beautiful piece of art much like Scythian work.  Each one, for gold, was immensely valuable.  Each one, for art, was priceless.  The young magician cried because he knew he would never be able to keep it.  HIs dream of making a new land that would last forever was dead.

But that is not the end.  There is more to the story.