I’m born of fire, hardened by time, yet crushed for homes in every clime. No soil I need, no roots to grow, but builders prize me high and low. What am I?

Let us ride closer! I want to hit it with my sword! Summarizing a man who went a little overboard, thinking that I was a giant manipulated by sorcery. But Quixote was wrong; your answer is what I truly be.

A treacherous trench, named for its users; a vertical entry for some lesser gentry- best pay attention if the cover’s askew, for else it might mean the last of you

Depending on my size and my makeup, I might hold curtains or power nuclear reactors.

I’m public transportation for witches, and the reason dust never truly settles on the floor.