Ladies, gentlemen, I've been thinking a lot about the cost of casting magic spells. I've been thinking about how crazily one single mage could change the course of a battle by collapsing a mountain or torching a line of cavalry with a fireball. I've been thinking, nonstop, about what kind of cost magic would have to have on the bearer to make it not so darn overpowered in a wartime scenario. I present for your consideration, as a half-joke half serious idea, the idea that the energy for spellcasting comes directly from fat-storage and calorie consumption. It is wartime: you are one of the kingdom's three arch-mages. You weigh one thousand, two hundred and twelve pounds (totally). War is coming, and you, knowing your duty, have been preparing. You consume six thousand calories per day. The lower echelons of society must donate extra resources in the form of taxes so that you alone can eat, can gorge yourself in preparation for the onslaught you know to be coming. Day after day you drink gallons of milk and butter, feast on whole turkeys and sheep. Then, the day comes. Six stone golems carry you out to the battlefield, heaving under your mass, their granite bodies cracking. They set you to the rear of the battlefield, prop you up on pillows and rugs so that you might crane your neck to see the enemy. The battle begins. A rain of arrows shoots out from the opposing army. You know your time has come. You thrust out a hand, commanding from your mind the air itself to freeze, to harden above your allies. It condenses, solidifies, as the arrows impact a hovering shield of ice. You throw your arm to the side, and the ice and arrows fall harmlessly to the earth. You look down. Your arm is rugged, full of tight, flawless muscle--no longer the saggy, swaying mass of flesh it had been in your tower. That spell had cost 350,000 calories. You feel literally a hundred pounds lighter. You have only 11 spells left before your body is as tight, and hard, and muscular as the strongest warrior in your front line. After that, it will take years to re-accumulate your strength--literal years. Is this battle truly worth it? How many spells can you afford to use? What, truly, is the cost of such conflict? Your body feels instantly fatigued. Quickly you reach to a basket at your side and consume eight avocados and a tub of peanut butter. It's not much, but it will do. You do the math in your head--your swollen, babylike head: your army has provisions for only two years worth of campaign. If you use too much power now, half the army will starve while you eat to regain your strength. No, you decide. The only way is to end this war quickly. You stand. Three hundred pounds vanish from your lower half, channeled above you, into a raging inferno. Your legs are now the legs of Rich Gaspari, as you hold the molten fireball above your head. This will be their end, you think. You order a nearby servant to fetch you sixteen roasted hens. Guys, I think I'm onto something big.