"Why would you think it's nonmagical?" she asked, politely, as she pulled out a bottle of red win, and retrieved a pair of elaborate, crystal wineglasses. She popped the cork, and took a delicate sniff. "Ahh, seven hundred and forty-six years, the perfect time for this vintage to ripen," she says, pouring each of them a full glass, and taking a seat across from him. "It pleases me to see you made it back in one piece. Your battle must have been beautiful, no?"