Crown of Fire

Thirteen Darker Dreams Than This

You will be subject to my will, Iliph Thraun. You will follow and feed only as I direct, and you will challenge no one. You will take care not to be seen or felt by the one you drain. You will …

The voice that Iliph Thraun had come to hate so much in these last few days, the voice that had echoed through its being, leashing it with irresistible authority, faded at last—forever stilled. The speaker was dead, and the lich lord was free.

“And,” the hollow voice hissed, rising in triumph, “so passes Manshoon of the Zhentarim—and I am free again.”

The skull rose so suddenly out of a tangled ravine deep in the Stonelands that a dunwing flying past squawked and shed feathers as it darted away in fear. The skull laughed. The chilling sound trailed behind it as it flew, breaking free of the last, fading traces of Manshoon’s control, and racing west—heading for Shandril, filled with hunger.

Thrulgar, the older of the two doorguards, stiffened and brought his spear down, and its tip caught the lamplight in a gleaming arc as it moved.

Azatlim, the guard who stood at the other end of the porch, turned when he saw the flash.

Out of the night, three folk were approaching Eveningstar. A fat, aging rogue with a disquieting look about him; a young man in the robes of a mage; and a bedraggled wisp of a girl in torn clothing. Travelers, aye—but were they fallen afoul of brigands? Were they beggars? Pilgrims—or thieves themselves?

Thrulgar made sure his back was against the double doors that led into the main hall of Tessaril’s Tower, braced his spear against the bronze door plates behind him, and cast a quick look down the porch to make sure Azatlim had seen them, too.

Azatlim was hastening toward the tower doors, spear at the ready. Good. This could mean trouble. Thrulgar cast a glance in the other direction, judging just where the alarm gong was in case he had to strike it in a hurry.

Then the three stepped up onto the porch.

“Who are you three, and why come you here by night?” Thrulgar kept his voice calm and his eyes on the empty hands of the intruders.

The fat man rumbled, “We’ve come to see Tessaril Winter, Lord of Eveningstar, on a most urgent matter. We cannot wait until morning, and must see her now.” When these words were out, the man shut his mouth as if it were a steel trap.

A little silence followed; Thrulgar let it stretch as he peered long and consideringly at the three of them, then said, “You cannot pass. Go up the road, and take rooms at the inn. The lord will see you in the morning.”

“We will see her now,” the fat man repeated patiently.

Thrulgar locked gazes with him and was surprised at the wisdom—and the steel—in the eyes that met and held his. He had to muster all his will to pull his gaze free, and shake his head.

“No one disturbs the lord at this hour,” he said flatly.

“I do,” the big man levelly replied, “just as Azoun does.” The Purple Dragons stiffened at that, but their spear points did not come down.

“Go away until morning,” Azatlim said. “And take care to speak with respect when you name the king.”

“I did,” growled the man, “considering—ah, ne’er mind. We must speak with Tessaril, man, and speedily! We’ll not go away, I warn ye.”

“You warn me?” Thrulgar repeated, voice rising. “Who are you, stout one, to stand on the soil of Cormyr and ‘warn’ a Purple Dragon of anything?”

“Guards,” the slight lass said quietly, “if you can spare a moment from blustering, look at me.”

Two startled sets of eyes did so, but Azatlim was moved to ask, “Why?” in tones that were just on the proper side of a sneer.

“Because of this,” she told them evenly, then raised one arm slowly to point at the sky behind her.

Without taking her eyes off the guards, she let flames crawl slowly from her shoulder to her fingertips, and then explode with a sudden roar into a bright pillar of fire, raging skyward. In the next moment, it was gone. She closed her hand and said in the same calm voice, “I’d hate to have to use it on you to get in that door—but I’ve just used it on Manshoon of the Zhentarim, and he died very easily.”

The guards in chain mail stared at her, and their faces grew pale. They hastily yanked down their visors and raised their shields.

“Come ahead, then,” Thrulgar’s voice came hollowly from within the all-concealing war-helm. It trembled only slightly. “For Azoun we stand, and for Azoun we’ll fall.”

The woman hesitated. These men clearly meant her no harm, and she had no love for slaughter. Both their spear points were leveled at her breast now—and as she waited, one of them reached out and slapped at a gong behind him.

Struck glancingly in frantic haste, the gong made only a sort of clank, but the doors behind the men opened almost immediately. An unshaven man clad only in boots and a night robe looked out, a drawn sword in his hand. “What befalls here?” he asked, peering over the shoulders of the guards.

“These three demand immediate audience with Lord Tessaril,” said Thrulgar without turning around. “The maid threatened us with conjured fire if we didn’t let her pass.”

“I saw and heard the flames out the windows of my room,” the man with the sword said dryly. He straightened. “Outlanders, I am Tzin Tzummer, Herald to the Lord Tessaril and king’s man. More guards await within, and I can call on many others if need be. Even using magic, you cannot prevail here by force of arms. Tell me your names, and why you are so set on seeing the lord now.”

“I am Mirt,” the fat old man said, waving at his companions to keep silent, “and as a Lord of Waterdeep, I demand audience with Lord Tessaril Winter.”

The herald frowned. “None know the identities of those who wear the masks of the Lords of Waterdeep, save for the Lord Piergeiron of that city. Anyone could come to this door claiming to be a Lord of Waterdeep. Besides, it’s highly unlikely a Lord of Waterdeep would ever come to Cormyr without a large escort, an invitation from the king, and—ah, rather more splendid clothing.”

“You don’t know Waterdeep very well,” Mirt murmured.

“Whether I do or not,” Tzin Tzummer replied coolly, “your claim is not going to move me to let you in, especially given the magic the maid among you wields—all here will resist to the death, if need be. If you’d prefer, one of the guards can escort you to the inn—The Lonesome Tankard, just up the road, there—and see that you get comfortable rooms. Come back in the morning.”

Mirt inclined his head. “Reasonable words, herald—yet we can no longer afford to be reasonable. D’ye know what this is?” Slowly his hands went to his belt, opened a pouch there, and drew forth a Harper pendant, on its broken chain.

The herald’s eyes widened, but he said slowly, “That device is welcome here, as are those who bear it. Yet we serve Azoun here, not the silver harp. Could you not come back in the morning—and unarmed?”

Mirt sighed. “Azoun, is it? Well, then. Hold yer blades back a moment.” He turned and waved his companions back off the porch, followed them, and turned as his boots touched the dirt of the road. There, in the full light of the porch lamps, he slowly drew a dagger that glowed—the guards traded glances—and he dropped it point-down in the earth at his feet. Upending the empty sheath, the old man twisted it in a certain deft, delicate way. Its steel tip slid sideways and open, revealing a tiny cavity; out of this Mirt plucked something and held it up. It was a ring.

“In Azoun’s name,” he rumbled formally, holding the ring up between finger and thumb so they could all see it in the flickering light of the lamps, “I ask immediate audience with Tessaril Winter, Lord of Eveningstar.”

“A Purple Dragon ring,” the herald said wonderingly. “I’ve never seen one in the hands of an outlander before.”

“Well, now you have,” Mirt said testily, “and no, I didn’t steal it. Azoun gave it to me when I guarded his two infant daughters, years ago, when—but that’s not for me to tell without his word. Well? What’s it to be? Defy Azoun or let us in to talk to Tessar? By the burning lashes of Bane, I’ve kissed her often enough!”

As the full darkness of night descended softly on Eveningstar, Lord Tessaril Winter lay abed, lounging in the warmth of the dying fire. King Azoun ruled this pretty village through her, and matters both great and small sometimes weighed heavily on her mind. Today, it had been Lord’s Court, and she’d had to disentangle several nasty trade disputes and sit through much blustering. She cared nothing for the threats, but the shouting had given her a headache that had taken three hot mugs of soup and much quiet to quell.

She yawned and shook her head ruefully, set aside the spellbook she read every night after she’d used a spell, blew out the lamp, and waited for slumber to take her.

The four chains her bed hung from creaked once as she settled down, and then all was dark and silent. For a time ….

The roar of spellfire awakened Tessaril. She sat up in the hanging bed and looked out her west window in time to see flames licking at the night sky. Snatching up a wand in one hand and her sword in the other, she strode to the north window, using the tip of her scabbarded blade to hook down a robe from a peg along the way.

It was a long way down from her chambers at the top of the tower, and a wizard going into battle should never get out of breath. Tessaril tossed the wand and blade ahead of her as she vaulted the windowsill, whispering the word that evoked a spell that let her fall the three floors to the ground slowly and gently. By the time her feet touched the grass just outside the tower, she was dressed.

Snatching up wand and blade, Tessaril let herself into the ground floor of the tower through a secret door that would open only for her and trotted to the main hall, shaking the sword free of her scabbard as she went. She burst out the front door with wand and blade both held high, expecting trouble.

Mirt’s words still hung in the air as Lord Tessaril herself strode out into the light. All around her, her men stiffened, and the herald said, “Lord, you should not—”

The rest of his words were lost as Tessaril tossed sword and wand aside with a clatter and ran across the porch to kiss the fat man who held the ring. Even in her bare feet, the slim, ash-blond Lord of Eveningstar stood taller than everyone else present, and she moved with fluid grace and a warrior’s speed.

Tessaril flung her arms around the old merchant. “Mirt! Old Wolf, I’d never thought to see you here in Eveningstar! Come in, come in! Who are your friends?”

Mirt managed to keep a grin off his face as she dragged him into her tower, through a throng of astonished Cormyrean faces. Narm didn’t.

Goblets of wine were in their hands a moment later as Tessaril waved them toward her audience chamber.

“Come in here and tell me what business presses you so urgently,” she said, making signs to the guards—who scattered in all directions, one darting up the stairs with her sword and wand.

“Teleport me to Zhentil Keep,” Shandril burst out. “I … I have to destroy the Zhentarim, now!”

Tessaril smiled. “Some of us have been trying to do that for years,” she said, “and they still sit in Zhentil Keep tonight.”

Shandril looked at her with eyes that blazed, just for an instant, and fought to control her voice. When the words came out, they were low and angry. “Lady, those snakes killed our friend and have hunted me like game across the Dales. Today, I burned Manshoon to bones and ashes—and I want to go after the rest of the Zhentarim before … before my nerve fails me.” Her words ended with a sob.

Tessaril stared at her. “You’re serious,” she said quietly. Then, slowly, she shook her head. “I’d be sending you to your deaths.”

Narm looked quickly at Shandril. On the verge of tears, Shandril pleaded, “Please, Lady? Please? I must go now!” Her voice rose. “I can’t go on like this, every day, wondering how soon we’ll be killed!”

Tessaril looked at her and asked softly, “Are you in the right state of mind, now, to go up against any Zhentarim—and live?”

Shandril glared at her. “By the gods, get me to Zhentil Keep!” she cried, then held up a hand that blazed with spellfire. Around her, men cried out, weapons rang as they were drawn, and she heard running feet approaching.

Tessaril was on her feet facing Shandril, flinging up her hand in a restraining signal. Silence fell.

Shandril looked around at all the scared faces and raised blades and saw the herald holding a sword warningly at Narm’s throat. She shook her head wearily and dissolved into tears, turning to Mirt’s arms. “I’m sick of all this killing and fighting and running,” she sobbed. “When will it all end?”

“It never does, lass,” Mirt said softly, holding her. The words summoned to his mind memories of burning cities, spilled blood slowly running out and down stone steps underfoot, and corpses—fields of sprawled, contorted corpses—all around. “It never does.”

Mirt and Tessaril exchanged glances, and the Lord of Eveningstar said quietly, “You’d best bring her in and tell me what this is all about. I can see this is going to be one of those evenings when the gods turn us on our heads a time or two ….”

Storm looked up at the stars sailing endlessly overhead. They glittered softly through a thin veil of scudding clouds. She said, “I can’t sleep, Old Mage.”

“What’s amiss?” A wrinkled hand came out of the darkness to pat her own comfortingly.

“Manshoon. What’s he up to, now?” After a moment, she added, “I hate leaving things unfinished.”

“Lass,” Elminster told her gently, “nothing is ever finished. Do what ye can, when ye can, and go on to the next thing. Some folk never learn that, all their lives long—and never do anything, spending their time worrying away at something they should have set by long ago.”

Storm sighed. “You’re right.” She watched the stars for a while, then whispered, “Old Mage, remember when I was young? You used to hold me until I fell asleep, and tell me wondrous tales of when Faerûn was new … ?”

The old, familiar arms went around her, bringing with them the faint reek of old pipesmoke. “Would ye like a story now?”

“Please,” she whispered, and covered his hands with her own.

“Well, now,” Elminster said slowly. “Ye see those stars, up there? I recall a time when …”

Firespark rode on her shoulders as Tessaril walked silently down the street toward the Tankard. Her tressym was restless and ill at ease; it answered her only with a wary little mew when she stroked it. The winged cat could smell trouble before she could, so Tessaril went well armed now.

She’d turned the tower over to her three guests for the night, telling them to get some sleep while she went out to ‘confer with someone.’ All nine of her Purple Dragons were already gathered to guard them, and she’d used a sending to call in war wizards from High Horn. That aid would not be here until midmorning at the earliest. She herself would sit guard over them until the wizards arrived—once she’d told Dunman at the Tankard to alert the local Harpers. If she knew Zhentarim, this night would bring an attack from some fell wizard or other.

Behind her there came a peculiar hissing sound, a groan, and the thud of someone falling.

Turning, she calmly drew a wand. In the end, until she died or Azoun gave her other orders, Eveningstar was hers to defend. Trying to see the cause of the commotion, Tessaril peered back into the nightgloom in front of the tower, a bare thirty paces behind her. With one bound, Firespark was gone from her shoulders.

Something small and white floated in the air beside the tower porch. One of her guards lay sprawled in the dirt beneath it. As Tessaril stepped forward, raising the wand, the eyes of the floating thing—a human skull, by the gods!—flashed, and part of the front wall of her tower simply vanished with a little sighing sound. Lamplight spilled out through the breach, accompanied by frightened curses. The Purple Dragons within hauled out blades and peered out into the night.

A sudden bright bolt of lightning spat from the skull. Trailing sparks, the bolt danced from man to man, making each in turn convulse, stagger, and fall. Smoke rose from their armor.

Tessaril mouthed a curse and triggered her wand. Fire shot through the night, shrouding the skull in bright flames. It turned slowly to face her, quivering in the air as flames raced over it. Then its eyes flickered, and it spat another bolt of lightning from its bony jaws.

Tessaril dived to one side, but no one in the Realms could have dodged that leaping lightning. With an angry snapping sound, the bolt struck her, and she reeled, gasping, and fell. Her veins crawled. She could not breathe. White needles pierced her eyes, and the smell of burnt cloth and hair was strong in her nostrils. Only the hard dirt against her cheek told her she was still alive.

The bolt that had almost slain Tessaril awoke the slumbering Mirt. He sleepily shuffled out of the audience chamber, blade in hand, then skidded to a halt when he saw that the entire front wall of the entry hall was gone—and that a skull floated in the night outside. Purple Dragons lay sprawled about the room amid fallen blades and splintered furniture.

Mirt snatched up a discarded sword and hefted it to throw. As he moved, the skull turned to confront him, fire flashing where its eyes should have been. With a chill, Mirt recognized the same leaping flames in its empty sockets that he saw in Shandril’s eyes when she was angry. Spellfire lived in this undead thing.

The skull laughed hollowly as it drifted slowly into the room, the twin, coiling flames of its gaze bent on him.

“I’m getting much too old for all this,” Mirt grunted sourly, squinting up at the glowing skull.

On the road below, a weak and dazed Tessaril fought her way slowly to hands and knees. Pain raged inside her, and from somewhere nearby, she heard a frightened, querying mew. With weary detachment, she looked down at herself and saw the cause of her tressym’s alarm: smoke was rising in lazy curls from her body. Biting her lip, the Lord of Eveningstar caught her breath, struggled to a sitting position, and frowned in concentration to gather her wits for another spell. As she fought to make the intricate gestures, she heard and saw the battle above.

“All right!” Mirt growled, waving both blades. “Come on, then! Let’s be at it!” A voice from his memory—female, and mocking, but he was damned if he could recall just who, at this tense moment—echoed in his head:

The light within the skull flickered. The air was suddenly full of the bright, deadly pulses of flame the Old Wolf had seen many mages hurl down the years—the bolts that cannot miss.

So this damned dead thing could work spells. Thanks be to the gods! Mirt held that sour thought as he steeled himself against the pain he knew would come, and threw his borrowed sword at the skull as hard as he could.

The bolts struck him, lancing into his body with shuddering pain. As always, their energy made his limbs tremble violently. The Old Wolf set his teeth, staggering back under the force of the attack, and blinked back tears to see what happened to his hurled blade. It missed, whirling away harmlessly into the night as the skull rose smoothly up out of its path.

Mirt snarled, plucked up a stool from the wreckage nearby, and hurled it at the skull, lurching into an ungainly charge in its wake. His eerie foe bobbed again, and the stool hurtled harmlessly past it and shattered against a wall. The skull’s hollow laughter rang out around the old, wheezing merchant.

Then the skull spat something at him that glowed with tiny, sparkling motes of light. Panting in his haste, Mirt dived aside and rolled on the floor—but not fast enough: some of the spittle struck his arm and shoulder.

Aaargh—acid! Gods, but it burned! Roaring in pain, the Old Wolf twisted on the floor and clutched his shoulder. It felt like slow-moving fire was crawling along his flesh; Mirt whimpered at the pain and writhed helplessly.

Unseen, the skull soared past him, heading for the stairs. The grand stair climbed from the entry hall to a gallery on the floor above, where many statues stood. Among them were warriors of Cormyr, a mermaid rampant upon a wave, and a sleeping dragon. As the skull floated amid these, a dagger suddenly spun at it, striking chips from the curved bone of its jaw before glancing off.

The lich lord turned menacingly and saw a servant-woman on the landing, her face white with fear. She was frantically trying to raise a sword that was far too heavy for her.

A tongue of flame slid out of one of the skull’s eye sockets, and the woman moaned in fear. She swung the sword weakly at the flames, shrank back, and cried, “Tempus aid me!”

Iliph Thraun laughed aloud and struck at the woman with its whip of flames. She screamed, waving the sword ineffectually as the fire raged around her. The lich lord lashed the woman with flames until she crumpled and fell, hair smoldering. Then it flew on into the upper levels of Tessaril’s Tower.

At the top of the next flight of stairs, Narm and Shandril sat together on a bench, weapons in hand, uncertain of what to do as crashes and cries came up to them from below. At first, they didn’t see the silently floating skull drifting up the darkened stairs. Then Narm scrambled up with a startled curse and hurled a hasty swarm of bright bolts at it.

Shandril stared at the skull. “What is it?” she asked of the world at large as Narm’s missiles hit home. Bright pulses struck bone and burst and flared around the skull, but it seemed to ignore them. It opened its mouth and spat spellfire at Shandril.

Narm leapt between Shandril and the reaching spellflames, shuddering as spellfire struck him and swirled around his shoulder. The young mage staggered, but the skull rose quickly to direct its stream of flames over him—and into Shandril’s breast.

Shandril gasped in surprise. It was spellfire! Then her face hardened, and her eyes and hands began to flame.

“Yes! Yesss!” the skull hissed, as she hurled the conflagration back at it. Narm lifted a face tight with pain to peer at the skull, and he gasped—it was feeding on the spellfire Shan was using on it.

Shandril hurled streams of spellfire at the thing. It chuckled, teeth clattering hollowly. She set her jaw and wove the blaze into a bright net of flames, cutting the air with so many arcs of fire that the skull could not avoid them.

The skull plunged into the fiery net and spun there among the strongest flames. Where spellfire touched it, the burning fury darkened and died. The residue slid weirdly into the fissures and gaps in the bones—all except the eye sockets and gaping mouth, which poured an ever-increasing stream of spellfire back at her.

Spellflames engulfed the girl, raging and roaring. Shandril shuddered under the attack—every inch of her seemed to be trembling uncontrollably—and then struggled to advance against the skull’s stream of spellfire. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, her face contorted with pain.

“Shan! Nooo!” Narm screamed, but she seemed not to hear. He gulped, took two running steps, and leapt, reaching for the skull. His hands slid over smooth hardness and into the eye sockets. There they found burning, excruciating pain. Narm threw back his head and howled, as roaring blackness rushed up to claim him. Despairing, wreathed in the skull’s fire—Shandril’s stolen spellfire—Narm fell screaming into that onrushing darkness.

Shandril stared as Narm toppled heavily to the floor, body blazing. His screams ceased abruptly as his limbs flopped loosely on the stone. Then he lay very still.

Silence fell. The skull’s attack had ceased even as Shandril’s did. In horror, she stared down at her husband. The skull glided slowly forward to hang over her. It leered down, glowing, opened its mouth in echoing mirth—and then fell suddenly quiet, hanging motionless, its flames flickering and fading.

In a dark room deep in the High Hall of Zhentil Keep, Sarhthor, mage of the Zhentarim, sat at a black table and stared at a tiny skull that hovered above it. The skull was carved from human bone—from a bone of one Iliph Thraun, lord among liches. Small radiances swirled around it, chasing each other in little currents and eddies as Sarhthor bent his will against the far-off lich lord.

Sweat ran down his face, and his hands trembled as he stared fixedly at the carved skull. Wrestling with the cold will of Iliph Thraun across a great and echoing distance, Sarhthor reached deep and found strength he hadn’t known was there—and held the lich lord from attacking Shandril.

Weeping, Shandril hurled herself on Narm, as she had done long ago in Thunder Gap. Dragonfire had ravaged him then—but this was spellfire. Lips to lips, flesh to flesh, she embraced him frantically, pouring healing spellfire into him.

Above them, the skull quivered, and its eyes flashed flame. Then it shook again, more feebly, and hung motionless.

The door opened suddenly without a knock, and Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of the Black Altar of Bane, strode in. “What are you doing?” he asked coldly.

The miniature skull sank down to land softly on the table, and a weary Sarhthor looked up at him. “Lord Manshoon left this means to compel the lich lord with Art, and gave me orders to use it in his absence to prevent the lichnee from passing out of our control,” he explained. The wizard shook his head and wiped sweat out of his eyes. “I’m not the mage he is—and perhaps I lack some detail or secret to make this work, too; I can’t seem to contact Iliph Thraun properly. The lich is there, all right—but it seems almost as though something greater stands against us, fighting me.”

“Elminster?” Fzoul snapped, wondering who else could be interfering with the skull in Manshoon’s absence.

“Nay, nay; something greater. Bane, perhaps.” Sarhthor said that with a straight face but inner pleasure; the priests of the Black Altar never like to be reminded of their rebellion against church authority—and how the Dark One himself might feel about it.

“Our Lord?” Fzoul’s voice was harsh. He tried to scoff, but it didn’t sound convincing. The two men stared coldly at each other for a breath or two.

Then Sarhthor shrugged, and waved at the miniature skull lying motionless on the tabletop. “Try for yourself. My skill is not great enough to know clearly who it is.”

Sarhthor took care to hide all signs of his inward smile as Fzoul silently but savagely spun around and stalked out.

The lich lord hissed suddenly, and its eyes lit with flame. Freed of the restraint from afar, it sank down to bite into Shandril’s shoulder as she lay atop her husband. The spellfire that blazed from her pulsed and flickered as the skull began to drain her, hauling energy out of her reluctant body slowly at first, and then with greater speed.

A grim and blackened Thrulgar burst into the room then, at the head of a handful of white-faced but grimly loyal Evenor farmers. They clutched pikes and pitchforks, and sleepiness battled horror in their eyes as they stared at the skull.

By then, the lich lord was strong enough to rise from Shandril and lash out with rays of stolen spellfire. The sudden flames hurled the men to blazing and broken deaths against the walls of the room.

Weeping amid the dying shouts and screams, Shandril lay sprawled atop Narm, feeling spellfire flowing steadily out of her. Twisting feebly, she tried to gather her will but could not stop the flow. The skull was draining her with frightening speed. A bright path of radiance, spellfire being sucked out of her forever, now linked her with the grisly thing as it floated low overhead, chuckling. Shandril struggled to pull free by willing a sudden surge of spellfire into the bone thing. It hissed at her in anger—but the steady flow of its draining continued, and the fire within her was fading fast.

Narm lay lifeless beneath her. Shandril stared up at the grinning skull, and cold fear crawled along her spine. The only way to stop this skull slaughtering everyone in this town—in Cormyr, and even in Faerûn—was to cut off its supply of spellfire.

And the only way to do that was to end her own life.

Shuddering, Shandril crawled toward a dagger, fallen beside Thrulgar’s hand. The lich’s spellfire suddenly flailed her as the skull realized her intent. It wanted all she had; she must not die yet. Tears nearly blinding her, Shandril gripped the weapon and slowly, determinedly, brought it to herself. Would dying hurt much? She swallowed, shut her eyes against sudden tears, and pressed the keen, cold edge against her throat ….

The roar of spellfire that rose around her now was deafening, numbing; it shook her like a leaf …. Could she complete the task? Angry spellfire thundered around her. Tears sizzled on her cheeks as the white heat dried them. She felt a sudden, chilling jab at her shoulder: the skull had set its teeth in her again. In the storm of flames, Shandril struggled on, trying to die ….