Hand of Fire

Fierce Magic Beyond Withstanding

"It's past time for pretending to sell spices," Malivur said softly, his green eyes gleaming back the blazing fire of the scene in the depths of his scrying-whorl.

The ginger-bearded seller of clockworks nodded. "In this, we're agreed. He's weak and not looking to see who strikes at him while those flames rage. There'll be no better time. 'Tis best for the Cult, and us two-and all civilized Faerun-if Aumlar Chaunthoun goes down into dust and darkness right now."

"Then stand back, Krostal! Thereafter, move not and say nothing," the dark-robed wizard snapped. "For the greater glory of the Dead Dragons, let him die now!"

The Cult thief nodded and retreated a few swift, smooth steps down the wagon before crouching to watch.

"Mystra guide me," Malivur breathed, and carefully began to cast one of his best spells.

Krostal's hands drifted to the hilts of both his throwing-knives, loosened them, and settled into comfortable grips-just in case.

He smarted from minor burns in a dozen places, and the roofless ruin of his wagon was afire, plumes of smoke rising all around him. "Aumlar Chaunthoun, mighty mage," he mocked himself in a whisper as he crawled to the small, nondescript coffer that held a precious healing potion-and his last and most precious items of magic.

He'd been saving them for a dark and dire time… like right now. This caravan was a-crawl with mages, sorcerers, fell priests, and the gods alone knew what else, and the demise of one Aumlar of the Zhentarim would give great satisfaction to many of them. His fellows in the Brotherhood would probably be the most delighted of all.

So it would not do to be noticed in his weakness just now. Not until The air behind him surged into a sudden, rising roar, and Aumlar flung himself forward in frantic haste, snatching up the coffer and diving out of the wagon without even looking to see what hostile magic had erupted. Pheldred, no doubt, returning to He hit the ground hard on an already bruised shoulder and rolled, kicking out to keep himself moving and letting his tumble carry him around to the left. If that spell flared out in a straight path…

He managed to cradle the coffer from damage and come to a twisted halt facing his wrecked wagon. Breathing hard against the coffer-clutched to his chest like a breastplate- Aumlar stared at a cloud of emerald radiance that was whipping through where he'd been in a rising, howling spiral. A whirlwind of bones-no, teeth, the fangs of myriad beasts-slashed and shredded cloaks, weather-covers, and chests alike inside that eerie glow.

The Cult of the Dragon! Well, it could be a Malarite spell, too, but what interest would the howling beast-lovers have in-never mind. The rotting Gamepiece Carvers Guild of Tharsult might put in an appearance working war against this caravan! Everyone was after spellfire, and The emerald whirlwind abruptly lifted from its slow, methodical destructive drift across the wagon floor and tumbled out its riven front, heading straight for him!

Whoever was behind that spell must be able to see him! With trembling fingers Aumlar tore open the coffer, hastily thrust the two wands it held through his belt, snatched out the stopper of the potion flask and drained it in choking haste, then plucked up the ring that should spin him a shielding to withstand all but… spellfire.

That thought was still bright and bitter in his brain as the keening of the whirlwind rose before him. the ring settled home onto his shaking middle finger. It crumbled away to nothing, its enchantment somehow fled.

For a moment Aumlar just stared at it, numbly unable to believe that his long-cherished magic was gone, now when he most needed it. The green glow fell upon him, dust stung his hands and cheeks, making his eyes water.

He was going to die! Here and now, not in his own richly appointed crypt in his own kingdom somewhere centuries hence when his last age-defying potion failed, but right now, unless The dream whisper! Yes!

He could use it as an anchor! Stumbling backward to buy himself the handful of seconds he needed, Aumlar closed his eyes and firmly forced his will down, down to the right reverie. Seize on the thoughts of those two, and snatch himself to them. 'Twould cost him the link itself and the most powerful of his long-prized stored magics and would take him not all that far from these whirling bones, but to remain here was certain death, and if he could run nimbly enough once he was face to face with young Lady Spellfire, perhaps he could…

Ah! He found and seized on the increasingly familiar "voice" of Narm Tamaraith's mind and rode a rueful thought about being grateful for Arauntar's arrival and at the same time wishing the Harper-Harper? Bane ride Mystra, but the watching gods above must be laughing themselves sick at all this entertainment! — had chosen some other time to wade in, just when Shan's lips were closing hungrily on his, and she was so soft and warm against him…

Well, it was nice to know someone besides the gods was enjoying themselves in this, Aumlar thought savagely as there was a flash of green radiance and the world around him changed.

He was standing in a ruined wagon that was nowhere more than waist-high-larger than the one he'd left, which should be right over there-yes, with an emerald whirlwind now tossing up ragged bodies of dead guards and merchants as it quested this way and that for him, in vain.

Here, smashed casks and coffers were everywhere, tumbled and fallen amid swirled cloaks and draperies. The magic of his own arrival and the dying dreamwhisper were snarling and crackling around him as short-lived, stabbing fingers of lightning.

The head of the guards, that great foul-mouthed swaggering brute called Rauntar or some such name, was standing amid the wreckage not three paces away-frozen in silence with eyes staring and mouth open wide, Aumlar's lightnings playing around his battered armor.

Aumlar snatched at his belt, trying to get out a wand. He wasn't going to be in time.

The man took one stride toward him, reaching out for Aumlar with a large, hairy hand. His eyes flickered and went dark, he let out a long, whistling groan, and toppled over into the wreckage with a crash.

The Zhentarim gasped with relief. The guard was lying quite still, sprawled on tumbled rope and hand-kegs. So where were the two lovebirds and the Harper?

Was Tymora going to be whimsical enough to let him get clear away?

No. Of course not. Something was stirring in the clutter beyond the fallen guard. Oh, gods-spellfire!

Aumlar spun around to flee and found his way blocked by a heap of casks that would undoubtedly crash down atop him and roll if he blundered into them. He turned back again in time to see a debris rise up like a wave, scattering pans and ladles in all directions. The whirlwind of fangs was moving nearer, and there was no escape from it except right through whoever was now clawing their way free of A man's hand! This must be Narm! Aumlar set his teeth and charged. If he could just bowl the lad over and keep going, to get clear before Shandril-wherever she was- scorched him, he could A last fold of cloak was wrenched aside when Aumlar was a bare running stride away, and he stared right into the wild eyes of a tousle-haired, alarmed-looking Narm Tamaraith. With a snarl, he kept right on going.

Narm flung himself aside, knowing that a tangle of lanterns and iron-shod lantern tripods lay behind him amid the tangled weathercovers. He wasn't quite sure why the usually smiling carver of pipes was charging at him, but it seemed likely that Norlaund the Finecarver was just one more wizard after spellfire.

The robed man smashed into the iron lanterns and tripod poles with a solid crash, winding himself and recoiling into a gasping stagger. Narm kicked the man's legs out from under him, and Norlaund slammed facedown onto the floorboards, bouncing dazedly nose-to-nose with Shandril, who was crouching under several cloaks close enough for him to touch.

Narm didn't give the man a chance to lay a finger on Shandril. He put his boot as hard as he could into the man's face, snapping the carver's head back and spattering blood in all directions from a shattered nose, and grabbed hold of the man's belt and tried to heave him away.

Aumlar was too heavy, and Narm overbalanced and crashed down on top of him, rolling over in time to see what was making Shandril gasp, "Oh, gods, I don't like the look of that!"

An advancing whirlwind of teeth and talons was spinning around and around in a towering, emerald-green cloud, shredding the bodies of dead men as it came. It was heading right toward their wagon!

The wizard thrust himself upward, spitting curses and tumbling Narm into some coffers. "Little bastard mageling!" he hissed, eyes blazing. "You're going to die!" His hands stabbed down at his belt.

Where Narm could see at least two wands. He snatched up a shattered lantern and hurled it into the wizard's face.

The mage stumbled back, slipping on the clutter underfoot, and Narm launched himself forward.

Shandril came boiling up out from under her cloaks, forcing Aumlar to turn to face her, his hand rising with a wand in it. Narm smashed into him, driving him back into the tripod poles with a clattering crash.

The impact sent fire through Aumlar's elbow, and he almost dropped the wand. Snarling, he snatched it with his other hand and whirled to fire it right into Narm's face Just as Narm's boot, driven with all the force the young mage could put behind it, slammed into Aumlar's crotch. The two men fell heavily onto shifting coffers and the last of the tripod poles, the Zhentarim emitting a scream that was really more of a strangled chirp of pain. Narm snatched a wand from the wizard's belt, tossed it to Shandril, and grabbed with both hands at the one the finecarver was holding.

Aumlar held on grimly, so Narm punched him in the throat. As the wizard convulsed, he ended up with the second wand. The keening of the whirlwind was very close now, and Narm took it to Shandril rather than daring to throw it.

His lady thanked him with a look, her hair whipping around her and her face as white as bone. The first wand he'd given her was already glowing in her grasp, tiny flames racing around it and up her arm to her shoulder, and she faced the spell of spiraling fangs and started to drain the second wand, snapping, "Narm! Get back! Behind me!"

"No!" he shouted back in sudden anger, as the gale rose around them. "You can't always be doing this alone! I'm your man-I stand with you!"

Why by all the gods were people always attacking them? Why couldn't folk just leave them alone?

"Narm, no!" Shandril cried. "I need you out of the way!"

Narm obeyed with a growl, wading and clambering through heaped coffers until he stood just behind her. The whirlwind was already shredding the front boards of the wagon with a shriek and moving hungrily nearer.

The finecarver lay still in the wreckage in front of Shandril, as she stood facing the whirlwind. From somewhere a crossbow bolt came racing at her-only to be caught in the spell-winds and whirled up into the sky.

Narm wondered desperately what magic he could use to help her, knowing the answer was "none at all." For lack of anything better to do, he drew his dagger, watching Shandril anxiously.

First one wand, and then the other crumbled into dust that fell away between her fingers into the air. Shandril opened a mouth that had spellfire raging in it and shrieked, "No! Once and forever, nooooo!"

Spellfire roared forth like raging waters bursting a dam. The bright flood of flame thundered into the whirlwind and overwhelmed it, streamers of spellflame spinning off in all directions for a few deadly moments ere the emerald radiance was quenched and scoured out of the air, spellfire racing away from it to curve into a nearby wagon, which exploded with a roar.

Malivur and Krostal of the Cult of the Dragon were hurled high into the air with spellfire raging through them. They screamed as they died, but Malivur's face wore an expression of excited awe before it burst apart… awe at the feel of more raw, raging power than he'd thought possible.

Shandril was screaming now, too. She stood with arms stretched wide and mouth agape, spellfire still roaring forth from her, and her entire body shook and wavered as if clawed by a mighty gale.

As Narm watched, her feet rose off the smoldering floorboards as the torrent of spellflame roared on. She hung in the air, body arched like a star, spellfire streaming from her in a great swath of devouring flames.

That fire raced across Haelhollow, devouring everything in its path, tumbling wagons for an instant before they disintegrated and swallowing all else whole.

Shandril turned her head toward him, and streams of spellfire raced out from her eyes. Narm sprang back, and she looked away hastily, tears of fire streaming down her cheeks. "Narm!" she screamed. "Help me! Help meee!"

"How, Shan?" he cried, running up as close to her as he dared. She hung in the air above him, and it seemed to him as if she was struggling to bring her arms toward each other, to point ahead of her. The rocks across the hollow were melting away into nothingness, trees collapsing into the conflagration without a sound.

"I-" Shandril was crying openly now, shaking her head. Streams of flame leaked from her eyes as cried, "I–I can't control it! The spellfire is-eating me! Taking me awayyyy!"

She hung in the air, weeping bitterly… and suddenly she was flying, as Narm gaped up at her and wondered what by all Mystra's grace he was going to do.

His lady soared across Haelhollow on a jet of spellfire, her arms shaping and directing her streams of flame once more, lofting them at last up and out of the hollow, to the line of rocks where she'd struck down the crossbowmen. Those rocks vanished into smoke and dust, followed by more trees behind them.

Narm shook his head in despair and did the only thing he could. He started running after Shandril, so at least he might be there when her spellfire burned out and she needed comfort and protection. He hoped he'd not be trying to catch a smoldering corpse when that moment came.

Behind him, Aumlar of the Zhentarim staggered to his feet in the waist-deep wagon clutter, wincing in pain. There! The lad who'd dealt him such agony! With a wordless snarl he raised his hands to work a slaying spell.

Something else stirred in the wrecked and tumbled gear behind the wizard. Aumlar ignored it, intent on pronouncing the first words of the incantation. That was all the time Arauntar needed to rise up, shedding coffers and scraps of cloak and broken keg-staves, and reach out. His hands went around the Zhentarim throat in front of him and tightened.

Choking, the throttled wizard started to kick and struggle, so the Harper set his teeth, brought his strength to bear, and broke Aumlar Chaunthoun's neck.

"Aumlar's down!" Mhegras Master-of-Furs hissed, clutching the wagon-flap so tightly that his knuckles went white.

" 'Down' as in dead?" Sabran the Weaver asked calmly.

"Yes!" Mhegras snarled, shaking his head and then dropping the flap and turning to face the priest of Bane. "Gods, what a slaughter! That's three Dragon Cultists at least, and five of the Brotherhood gone! They're dropping like buzzflies at first frost out there!"

Sabran shrugged. "If spellfire was easy to take, Lord Manshoon would have had it long since and none of us would be out here in these wolf-prowled wilderlands, clawing at each other. I won't be surprised if the Red Wizards, the Arcane Brotherhood, and half a dozen lesser cabals have their agents in the wagons-or running around out there right now."

Mhegras shook his head again and burrowed among their things for his fourth travel-flask of ieirith-wine. Sabran watched him drink deeply of the black, salty stuff-and how does a mage of the Brotherhood come to prefer a vintage of hot, savage Mhair, anyway? — and waited for his partner's next outburst.

Mhegras wiped his mouth, restoppered the flask with a sigh, and said quietly, "Well, if they are, they're likely dead. A lot of them, anyway. That little minx is flying around on her spellfire right now, melting down every wagon and rock she looks at! There aren't going to be many guards or merchants left for them to guard, if this goes on."

"So?" the priest asked calmly.

Mhegras gave Sabran a dark look. "You were right. We take no part in this battle and go right on playing happy heads-down merchants until we've a better chance to take this Shandril." His eyes strayed to a particular coffer.

Sabran smiled. "The drugs to make her sleep are fine. The full array's unscathed; I've just checked. I doubt nightfall will bring us a good chance. Even if all this burning people wearies the maid, there'll likely be Voldovan and his two head dogs everywhere, growling and prowling. Perhaps in Triel."

Mhegras nodded, then gave Sabran a sudden grin. "After she's cooked another dozen of our rivals, hey?"

The priest shrugged. "As tempting as I find that idea, we should do a little prowling of our own tonight. Voldovan's sure to hire guards in Triel, and Thay and the Cult both have their own eyes and ears there, awaiting our arrival."

"I've full spells ready right now," Mhegras muttered. "Tonight it is, then." He reached for the wine flask again.

"Hand of Talos!" Thoadrin swore, as another rock was suddenly smoke and dust, spellflames raging through where it had been to sear away stunted felsul trees and thornbushes alike. If there'd been any better forest here, the wench would've had it all afire already, blazing away to the horizon and choking everyone with its smoke. Instead of just strangling his warriors.

Shaking his head in grim disbelief, Thoadrin of the Cult scrambled a little way farther down from the spellfire-scorched height of rocks. He'd watched spellfire melt away most of that rampart of stone as easily as it turned Cult warriors to ashes. Even a glancing lick of spellflames had been enough to turn armor to bubbling ruin and leave the leg beneath it scorched.

Wherefore Thoadrin was limping now, and his every breath was burning pain. He dared not try to cross the road to the rocks on the other side of Haelhollow again, but there'd been no one left alive there the last time he'd checked, not unless they'd fled a good way into the wilderlands… where the leucrotta and wolves and ore raiding bands were no doubt lurking and watching the fun.

Another few ridges along this side, and he'd be sure of the fates of the rest of his men. Ashes, most of them; he knew that already.

Was he the last? Of all the hardened Dragon warriors he'd led out here?

Gods above, that one girl could deal all this death…

Someone blackened rose up from a tangle of fire-scorched branches in front of him, sword in hand, and Thoadrin felt for his own blade.

"Easy," the man gasped." Tis me, lord Laranthan."

Thoadrin stumbled forward, managing a grin. "You'll forgive me if I don't embrace you," he gasped, almost falling over.

Laranthan shot out a hand to steady him, and gasped, "We're the last. Spellfire comes expensive, it seems." He coughed, then, a raw, rasping anguish that would not stop as he doubled over, shaking.

Thoadrin threw his arm around his best warrior-by the Dead Dragons, his only warrior, now! — and held the man, helpless to do more, until at last the coughing ended. Laranthan went to his knees, spat out a lot of blood onto the fire-scorched rocks, drew in a few long, gasping breaths, and asked, "Could we… get away from this place?"

"Come," Thoadrin said quietly, lifting him to his feet. "'Tis the Blackrocks for us, north and west as fast as we can go." Laranthan looked at his lord. "North and-Waterdeep?" Thoadrin nodded. "Seeking spellfire is a fools' game, but those well above us in the Followers may not believe that, from where they sit safe and distant. So to Waterdeep to hide until the time's right to seek our masters and admit our failure."

Laranthan nodded, looked back at the drifting smoke where a long ridge of ancient and weather-scoured rocks had been, shivered, and started walking northwest.

The flying lass and her storm of all-consuming flames dwindled down behind the smoking, melted rocks along one side of the hollow. Orthil Voldovan shook his head in awe and then bellowed, "Arauntar! Beldimarr! All swords-to me!"

Was anyone left to answer his rallying?

Ah, Arauntar, lumbering forward, and someone else, past yonder wagons… Voldovan stared around in mounting horror at the smoldering ruins of his caravan, muttering all the curses he could remember. A dozen wagons, at least, and probably more than twice that many clients…

All the work of some brigands and one girl.

Distant trees crackled as spellfire roared on. Voldovan looked in that direction and growled, "Gods above, how am I going to slay her? And if I don't, how soon before that devours all the Realms?"

In the gathering dusk, Sharantyr of Shadowdale saw the flash and glow of mighty flame in the distance ahead a moment or two before the ground shook beneath her boots.

"Shan, Shan," she muttered, climbing onto Flamewind's saddle and urging the weary horse into a trot, "couldn't you have waited until I got there?"

Somewhere nearby in the Blackrocks, a wolf howled.

Her mount faltered under her, saddle leather creaking with the break in stride. Sharantyr kicked her feet out of the stirrups and murmured, "Slow, then, Flamewind. Go as slow as you want to."

The horse faltered again under her and fell.

Sharantyr sprang free, cursing softly, and watched the ground rush up to meet her like a hard-driven fist.

Her bright spellflames first began to falter just as Narm was starting to stagger from weariness, every breath burning his lungs. He'd run a long way up and down loose rocks and over tangled thorn-vines and half-fallen, leaning trees. He had lost count of the number of small, snarling things that had scurried away from beneath his pounding boots.

He felt as if he'd run halfway to Waterdeep, but when he'd slipped, caught hold of a tree to keep from falling down a dark cleft between rocks, and ended up wrenching himself back the way he'd come from ere he could halt, he could still see the fitful glows and rising sparks of the burning wagons in Haelhollow, not all that far off.

Shandril was flying lower now, struggling in the air as if wrestling with some invisible wraith, and the jets and bursts of flame were becoming fitful as her spellfire ran out or she won her battle for mastery over it. It had been some time since she'd burned a clear trail through the Blackrocks brush. Only the occasional gout of flame set anything below her to smoldering now.

Narm caught hold of another tree, clung to it while he threw back his head and drank in deep, shuddering breaths of cool twilit air, then ran on again. She wasn't far ahead now. One last sprint just might…

Shan suddenly put her hands down at her sides-balled and shaking fists, at once achingly beautiful and pitiful- and soared straight up into the sky. Windmilling his arms wildly to slow down, Narm ran right underneath her, managed to get himself stopped with the aid of a particularly thorny wintanberry bush, and wrenched himself around to face her.

"Shan!" he shouted. "Shan, I'm down here!"

The bright thing of fire wriggled in the swiftly darkening sky above him, writhing strangely against the brightening stars like a sandsnake he'd once seen burrowing into river mud, and made a horrible sound. A soft and yet harsh sound that went on and on.

Narm gaped up at his lady for a long, fearful time, wondering if the spellfire was turning Shan into some sort of monster, before he realized he was hearing bitter, mirthless laughter. She was choking out the last of her spellfire. He saw it billow from her nose and mouth like horse-breath on a cold day. Slowly she sank back to earth again, shuddering amid the last crackling, spitting eruptions of flame.

"Believe it or not," she gasped, turning to face him with eyes that blazed with spellfire, "I'd noticed you crashing along, down below. Oh, gods, Narm, I love you!"

Narm reached up his hands for her. "And I love you, Shan!"

"Do you?" She shuddered, hunching over in midair and spitting forth flames as if vomiting up a sickening meal. "Still?"

"Yes, my lady," Narm cried, catching hold of one of her feet despite a surge of power that burned, then numbed him. "Oh, yes!"

"Then end this," she whispered. "Please."

Narm dragged her down to the ground and embraced her, bending forward to kiss her, then recoiling helplessly before her skin-searing breath.

"W-what d'you mean?" he cried, as he staggered back, wreathed in flame, and saw his lady fall to her hands and knees, arching and convulsing. "Shan, I'll not harm you!"

The look she gave him up through her tangled hair was hat of an angry, hungry beast, but her voice was all weariness when she said, "Then knock me cold. Give me sleep-swiftly, with your fist-before I lose this battle raging inside me."

He ran to her. "Shan? What… what's happening to you?"

"I'm dying," she whispered. "Or will"-her voice rose into an angry snarl-"if I give in to this fire. It feels so warm, so soothing… and gives me such power. I want it. I want it so much!"

She quivered, head down, and he flinched back from her, inches away from putting soothing fingers to her shoulders.

"If I give in," she growled, "if I stop fighting, I'll become a flying flame, scouring everything I see like some sort of mad, leaping star come down to the ground… until I'm burnt out and gone." She sobbed harshly, then added in a hoarse, hissing whisper, "Gone to ashes, like all the folk I've slain!"

Her head jerked up, then, and her face was aflame and twisted. She looked like a fiend out of the Nine Hells as she stared at him and growled, "Do it, Narm! Do it, my love!"

Narm stared at her, clenched his hand slowly into a fist, and held it out to her questioningly. She nodded, lowering her face again, and snarled, "Damn you, do it!"

A roar built in her throat, and her body shook again. In sudden fear Narm drew back his arm and drove it forward, punching his lady's jaw as hard as he'd ever struck anyone in his life.

The force of his blow brought sharp pain to his fingers, then numbness. He shook them, absently, as he watched his lady's head snap back, the fires go out in her eyes, and her body start to crumple.

He grabbed for her too late, as her senseless body fell forward into a boneless roll that brought her to a stop against him, limp and heavy.

"Gods above," he cursed-or prayed-and started to cry. "Oh, Shan, Shan… what am I going to do?"

Only the first few peeping insects of nightfall gave him answer, and Narm cradled his wife's body in his arms, stroking her matted and sweat-soaked hair, wondering what was going to become of them both.

If only he had the spells of an archmage or spellfire to match her own-or neither of them had ever heard of Mystra's terrible gift, and no one was chasing them across half Faerun seeking to enslave Shan or somehow wrest her power out of her. No doubt the Zhentarim and a score of other fell, cruel wizards had spells that would slay her in slow torment as crawling magic tore spellfire out of her and into their hands. Even if they didn't, they'd lock her up until they could find or craft such spells-or slay her, just to keep spellfire from falling into the hands of their foes.

And there was nothing-nothing-he could do about it. Perhaps, given years of unbroken study under a kind and capable master, he could become a mage of serviceable power-no meteor of mighty magic, but a careful caster of spells in some upcountry village where no one had ever heard of spellfire or the Zhentarim, either… but he wasn't going to have those years.

The jaws and claws of those who did not wish them well were closing around them now, despite all their capers and the many friends who'd aided them.

Harpers were just folks with a few secrets and a little boldness and a blade or two, not god-guarded workers of miracles. Even old Elminster couldn't be everywhere. Besides, he was more one who placed a careful word here, a crafty manipulation there, and the occasional stinging slap of a strong magic into the faces of foes when he had to. Narm could see that now.

In the end, out here in the wilderlands, they stood alone. Pray though they might, no one was going to save them. He and Shan were going to die soon at the hands of some greedy spellfire-seeker or other, and there was nothing he could do to protect his lady, or hide her, or snatch her away from all of this. He didn't even know if he'd dare to die for her or be given the chance to. If she was an angry flying ball of flame and archwizards were hurling spells at her like clouds of arrows, what by Tempus, Tymora, Azuth, and Mystra was he going to do? Stand and yell at them to stop?

He was supposed to defend his lady, to be strong enough to protect her, and all he had was a laughable handful of spells and soft hands that could give good foot-rubs!

There might even be wolves or beasts creeping closer right now, as he sat cradling Shan, and he didn't even know if he could safely carry her back to the hollow or if one of the guards would just put a blade through them both if he did.

All he could do was be with her, holding her and murmuring empty comfort.

It was different in minstrels' tales. Therein someone who had power could with a single blow or blast and a few heroic words set all the Realms to rights, cow villains into obedience, and as often as not step straight onto a throne. No ballads told of heroes, or anyone, crying tears of fire alone after cooking friends and foes and handy trees alike to ashes-yet not running out of enemies seeking spellfire from behind every second or third rock or tree or wagon. Shandril's body was growing warmer! Now what?

Narm stroked her face, her chin and throat, her hands. Yes, warm, as if she had a fever. What if it was a fever? What happens to spellfire-folk when they get ill? He stole a gentle hand into the top of her bodice and felt down her front. Warm all over, but no warmer there than where she was bared to the night air, on face and hands. She was breathing slowly and shallowly, her face slack and empty. Hmmm.

He had no cloak to warm her with, and if he laid down to keep her warm with himself, he'd fall asleep and they'd be food for wolves or worse. He had a sudden vision of an ore spear striking down out of darkness to impale them both, pinned together to twist and scream and die, and shook his head.

Something howled, faint and very far off to the east and was answered by something else nearer. It was already cold. If he went for help, Shan would have no one, and he'd probably not be able to find her again, no matter how many folk with torches came back with him. If they came with swords, hunting her to slay, though, they'd find her soon enough. Tymora and Beshaba between them always saw to that.

"I'm not going to leave her," he whispered to himself, as he looked around at labyrinthine tangles of dark branches and moonlit rocks-then up at a sudden, throat-freezing movement, to see bats swooping across the clear night sky. Anything could be lurking out there. "Whatever happens, my death if need be, I stay."

Shan made a small sound, like a tiny, quizzical protest, and Narm crouched over her, putting his arms around her and his cheek to hers. Her skin was uncomfortably hot, now. Touching her was like putting his bare foot down on a hearthstone too close to a crackling fire.

He didn't want to make noise and attract beasts or brigands or awaken her if she was going to flare up into spellfire, perhaps die screaming in flames that ate her before she could gather strength to quell them… but he wanted to comfort her, to let her feel his hands holding her, to…

Gods, but she was hot! Moist, now, too. Sweat suddenly all over her like dew, though she lay still and silent under him. Narm bit his lip, looking around into the close and tangled darkness. It was filled now with tiny scuttlings and whirrs of night creatures emboldened by the silence of the two humans who'd blundered so spectacularly to this spot. He wondered again what he was going to do. Or what the night was going to do to them both.

"I think she's asleep," Sabran murmured into the ear of his partner. "That leaves just this Narm dolt. Think we can take him down in silence, without waking her?"

"Easy," Mhegras muttered back, baring his teeth in an unlovely smile. "I've just the spell to-"

"No," Sabran said flatly, "no spells. I don't want magic touching her. How do we know it won't make her spellfire boil up and snatch her awake, furious and looking for whoever awakened her?"

The Zhentarim wizard scowled, flexed his fingers as if he wanted to hurl a dozen fireballs, and hissed, "So?"

"You brought your dagger, didn't you?"

"And cast the protections you ordered on us both. What're you going to-"

"Drug our little lady of flame so she doesn't waken and make fire-char of both of us. Now save your brawn and bluster. We'll be wanting to carry her far enough away from here that we can find a stream and go wading in it a good long way, to keep from being tracked come morning."

"Think of everything, don't you?"

"Just keep on learning, lad, and hold that temper down with both hands, and someday you'll think of things just as fast as I do. Possibly faster." The priest held up a hand for silence and crept forward on hands and knees. Another dozen feet or so would bring him around the last rocks, to a clear crawl downslope to where the spellfire-wench and her so-called wizard lay.

Mhegras watched Sabran go and marveled once more at the man's uncanny silence. He'd have to remember that when it came time to kill him.

Shandril suddenly moaned, twisted, gasped something unintelligible, and thrust herself violently upward under Narm. "No," she gasped, panting as if she'd sprinted a long way, "No!"

"What is it, Shan?" Narm cried, hastily sitting back to let her rise, as she clawed at him and her voice rose almost into a shriek of terror. "Don't-don't you-"

Drenched with sweat, she stared around wild-eyed, not seeing Narm, and flung out her hands. Spellfire spat from her fingers into the night, and a sudden wash of it rolled down her shoulders and arms and away across the ground, eerie flames racing away over moss and rotting leaves and crisscrossing roots, to fade into drifting wisps of smoke.

Her gaze found him then, and she murmured, "Oh, Narm" Shaking her head, she held up her hands. Spellfire burst from her fingertips, flaring up in tiny jets. She watched them blaze for a moment, frowned, and they all sank down in unison and died.

Nodding her head, she said grimly, "It obeys me again." She drew in a deep, ragged sigh and added despairingly,

"But look how swiftly it's come back! I was drained, and now-so strong, and still building!" Unshed tears were glimmering in her eyes.

"Oh, Narm," she asked, voice quavering, "what am I going to do?"

"Bane for fend, priest-what now?"

"We creep right back to our wagon again," Sabran replied coolly, "and wait for a better chance. Unless you want to find as swift and warm a grave as all the others along on this caravan who didn't wait."

Mhegras cast a quick look back at the awakened lass through black fingers of spellfire-scorched branches that were wreathed in little plumes of smoke, and hissed, "No. Creeping back home seems very wise about now."

Sabran nodded silently and led the way, as stealthy as ever. Still shaken, Mhegras did strictly as he'd been told earlier, keeping only a hand-length behind Sabran's boots and putting his own hands and feet just where the priest had, without complaint. On hands and knees like slinking dogs they went, down a little gully and back up its far side, over a wooded ridge where the path burned by spellfire was clearly visible amid a sharp stink of woodsmoke, and across bright, moonlit rocks to another dark gully.

The way was tricky, through many vines and branches, and not even Sabran saw two dark figures rise up behind them like shadows.

Fingers fell like steel claws on two Zhent necks, heralded by a little, terrified chirp from Mhegras.

"Oh, no, you don't-either of you. Zhent dogs."

"Who-?" Sabran choked, as fingers closed inexorably around his throat, and went on closing.

"Our names are unimportant," said a soft, rough-edged, and somehow familiar voice, from behind the gargling, squalling Mhegras.

"Aye," the man throttling Sabran agreed, and the frantically twisting priest saw the glint of teeth catching moonlight in a grin. "In fact, you can call us Arauntar an' Beldimarr"

The priest spent precious air. He had to know "Wh- why?"

"Let's just say we've been known to harp," Arauntar murmured and broke the wizard's neck.