“What do you know of nightmares?” he asked.

“You talk in your sleep, my lord, and lash out, and I guessed.”
He looked at her, long and hard. These were words his many enemies would pay much to hear.
“There were no nightmares,” he said, reaching out for the power. Unlike in the dream, it flowed strongly into him. “There were no dreams. You should forget these things.”
A slight blankness came over her beautiful face as the spell took her. She looked at him and smiled quizzically. “Sleep,” he told her, “and when you wake remember nothing.”
Instantly she slumped next to the form of her twin. He shrugged, wishing that he could sleep so soundly, knowing that he never would again without the aid of magic, and that was something he could no longer afford. Momentary guilt afflicted him that he should treat a fellow elf so, but these were strange and evil times, and the need for security was paramount. Ancient enemies stirred. Old gods were awakening. Every oracle and soothsayer between here and far Cathay predicted doom. His own star charts spoke of as much. He took a sip of the bitter wine. It flowed down easily.
He gestured and his robe fluttered across the room, wrapping itself around his naked form. He pulled on a pair of slippers made from the finest Cathayan silk. He reached out and his staff leapt to his hand. He limped from the chamber, and down the cold echoing hallways of his ancestral home. He made his way to the workroom, knowing that he would do as he always did, and seek comfort in knowledge. The few aged servants still awake scurried away, knowing from his frown that it would be best not to interrupt his reverie.
Dark times were coming, he knew. The dreams were impossible to ignore now, and he had long ago learned the unwisdom of doing that anyway.
In the deepest cellars beneath the mansion, his workroom provided him with a haven. As he entered, he spoke the words of command. Immediately wards sprang into place. The air shimmered with their bridled power. Not even the mightiest daemon could penetrate them.
A trapped homunculus stirred slowly in a jar of preservative fluid. It gestured at him obscenely as he limped past. The creature was not best pleased with its home. Tiny gills pulsed in its neck. Its thin leathery wings stirred the liquid, turning it cloudy. He gave it a cold smile, and it froze in mid-gesticulation.