Spellfire

The radiance faded and left her somewhere cold. She was lying on stone again. Shandril sighed inwardly as she twisted against the ever-tightening, ever-slithering rope.

"Where are we?" she hissed at her captor, almost in tears. The relief she had felt when the power to move her own limbs had returned was gone.

The Shadowsil shrugged. "A ruined keep. Come." The rope had shifted backward to more securely bind Shandril's arms to her torso; she found she could get to her knees, and, painfully, to her feet. The mage led her down a curving stone stair, but not before Shandril got a good look out the window. She saw mountains that looked cold and jagged-and many days' journey from Myth Drannor. A snow hawk glided across the scene, but she could see no other life before she was dragged down a dark, curving, stone stairway. It was narrow and steep and littered with old feathers and bird droppings. There was no sound or other sign of life now. Shandril was propelled ahead down the stairs with a firm hand.

"I told you he'd poke his nose into something straight away, and buy a swift grave before we'd even got to your next sausage!" said a familiar voice, swimming somewhere above Narm. "That's why I followed, not for treasure."

"Well, ye'd be the one to know about poking one's nose," said another. "By the gods, but he caught it squarely! Do ye think he'll live?"

"Not if you don't use some healing magic quickly, leviathanbelly! Don't wag your jaws-waggle your fingers! He grows weaker with each breath you waste. Look at the smoke coming off him; he smolders still! No, lie still, Narm. I can hear you."

Narm struggled through excruciating pain to tell them of the girl from the inn and the woman in purple, but all that came out was a twisted sob. Torm spoke gently in reply.

"Lie down, Narm. You want us to rescue the pretty girl bound in the rope of entanglement that the mage-with our good fortune she's an archmage, no doubt-just pushed through that gate. Well, lie still; rest easy. You're lucky enough to have found the greatest reckless fools in all of Faerun, and we'll do it for you. Oh, by the stars, don't cry! It gives me the shivers!"

"Hush," said Rathan. "How can I work healing when ye're blaspheming Tymora?"

"I never!"

"Ye did! 'Our good fortune,' I heard ye say in a slighting tone. Now hold this healing potion; he'll be able to drink it after this." There was much murmuring, and through the watery red haze before his eyes Narm saw a flash of radiance. Then sweet coolness spread slowly through his limbs, banishing the shrieking pain. He fainted.

They descended the crumbling stairs for eight or more turns around the inner wall of the tower, and then the stonework gave way to natural stone scarred with tool marks. "What is this place?" Shandril asked wearily, but the mage behind her made no reply. She dared not ask again, as the rough tunnel about them opened suddenly. It joined other passageways in a small, slope-ceilinged cavern.

Symgharyl Maruel pushed her firmly toward the largest opening, which led steeply downward into darkness. Shandril came to a stop. "I can't see!" she protested. The Shadowsil chuckled softly behind her.

"You do nothing in your life, little one, that you cannot first see where it may lead?" She laughed again, gently, and said, "Very well." She did something unseen in the darkness, and light appeared. Four small globes of pearl-white, pale radiance grew from nothing before Shandril's eyes and then drifted apart in midair in stately silence. One moved to hang at her shoulder. Another drifted well ahead, dimly outlining the rough ceiling of the tunnel, which descended sharply from where she stood. The other globes moved behind her for Symgharyl Maruel's benefit. Shandril stood motionless and peered about. There was stone all around and cool air wafting toward her. Suddenly, something struck her bottom hard, and she fell to her knees.

The Shadowsil had kicked her.

"Up and on," came the cold voice. "My patience grows short." Shandril struggled to her feet in the tight coils of the magical rope, in angry silence.

Up and on. Under her feet as she descended, the uneven ramp became broad stairs cut out of the solid rock, and the air grew cooler. There was some sort of dim, scattered light ahead, beyond the pale globes. Shandril turned to find the left wall and descend with it, but Symgharyl Maruel twitched the rope that bound her sharply, and she turned back to her original course with an inward sigh. The twinkling lights were farther away than they appeared and were all about when the stair ended.

A great open cavern lay before them. Its walls were studded with the fist-sized, sea-green gems which Shandril recognized as the fabled beljurils, for at odd intervals one or more would give forth a silent burst of light just as the storytellers had said. Shandril could tell by their light that the cavern stretched away to her right, but of its true size she had no idea. It was big, she knew-and suddenly she shivered in the twinkling darkness. Would the mage slay her here, leave her in a cage to be tortured later, or killed or deformed by magic in some experiment or other? Or did something lair here? Shandril could hear only the soft sounds of the mage behind her and the noise of her own passage as she descended into that winking display of lights. Where in the Realms was she?

"Halt, little one, and kneel." Shandril did as that quiet voice bade her; the rope was already tightening about her knees to reinforce the order. The pale globes winked out. Behind her, Shandril heard The Shadowsil chant something softly, and then there was light all about, and Shandril could see clearly the rough walls of the huge cavern around her.

The floor descended in front of her, and its lowest reaches were heaped with things that gleamed and sparkled in the light. There were gems, and coins beyond number, and here and there statuettes of ivory and of jade. The gleam of gold also caught her eye, and there were many other dazzling things beyond Shandril's knowledge.

Then a great voice boomed and echoed around them, freezing Shandril in terror. It spoke deeply and slowly in the common tongue of humans, and to Shandril the voice seemed old and patient and amused-and dangerous.

"Who comes?" it demanded. Something moved deeper in the cavern, beyond the mage's light, and then Shandril saw it. Her dry throat tightened, and she would have fled if the rope's coils had not held her firmly where she stood. As it was, her struggles caused her to fall sideways on the stone, where she lay face-down and did not have to see.

"Symgharyl Maruel Shadowsil stands before you, O mightly Rauglothgor. I have brought you a gift: a captive, gained among the ruins of Myth Drannor. Its blood may be valuable to you. But the followers of Sammaster would question it first. It may be one who escaped them at Oversember, and they would know how that was accomplished."

The lady faced the great night dragon calmly and spoke with respect but in tones that held no fear. Shandril peered sidelong up at it. She dared not meet its eyes again; she shuddered at the very thought. But the thief of Deepingdale saw its great skeletal bulk advance across shifting treasure toward them, vast and terrible. By its great wings and claws and tail it was a dragon, but except for the chilling eyes, it was only bones. Its long, fanged skull leered down at her.

Shandril knew it could see her looking at it and knew further, with a stirring of defiant anger, that it was amused.

"Look at me, little maid," it rumbled, the creature's voice echoing in Shandril's head. She shook her bonds in terror. She would not look at the creature! Tears blinded her. She sobbed as the ropes tightened about her, pulling her to her knees again, pulling her brow and throat to turn her head up. Through a mist of tears, Shandril looked, and she saw.

The cunning eyes held hers, like two tiny images of the moon reflected in mica panes, like two candles set at the head and foot of a shrouded corpse. Shandril shivered uncontrollably as she looked, and she felt those eyes boring into her very soul. She looked back as deeply herself, and she knew much.

It had been old, this sly and gnarled giant among dragons, when men first came to the Sea of Fallen Stars and fought with elves and the tribes of bugbears and kobolds of the Thunder Peaks, the mountains that the elves called Airm-bult, or 'Storm-fangs.' Rauglothgor had been the fangs amid the mountain storms often. Rauglothgor the Proud, dragonkind had called the creature, for its presumption and quickness to take offence or pick quarrels.

In cunning and malice it had sought out weak, old dragons and slain them, often by trickery, to seize their lairs and treasure. Hoard upon hoard had fallen into the dragon's claws, and it had piled them up in deep and secret places beneath the Realms known only to it-for other creatures of all sizes who ventured therein were slain, from peryton to centipede, without mercy or patience.

Years passed, and Rauglothgor grew and devoured whole herds of rothe in Thar and buckar on the Shining Plains and more than one orc horde coming down the Desertsedge from the North. Rauglothgor became strong and terrible, a giant among dragons. It thrust aside pretense and prudence and slew all dragons as it met them; in air, on land, and even in their lairs, slaying with savagery and skill, and adding hoards anew to its own.

Yet in its dark heart the old red dragon grew afraid-as it grew older and escaped clever traps set for it and slew more dragons-that one day its strength would fail and some younger, greedier dragon would drag it down as it had served its elders, and all its striving would have been for naught. For years such worries ate at the creature's old heart, and when men came with offers of eternal strength and wealth, the dragon slew them not, and it listened.

By the arts of the Cult of the Dragon, the great and evil red dragon became, in time, a great and evil dracolich. Dead it was and yet not dead, and the years touched not its vigor and strength, for it had become only bones and magic, and its strength was of the art and could not be diminished by age.

The years passed, and Faerun changed, and the world was not as it had been. Rauglothgor flew less often, for there was little left to match its memories, and few lived that it had known, and willing men of the cult brought it treasure to add to its dusty hoard. The dracolich grew moody and lonely as kingdoms fell and seas changed and only it endured. To live forever was a curse. A lonely curse.

Shandril could not look away from those lonely eyes. "So young," said the deep voice, and abruptly the bony neck arched up and the eyes closed and she was alone, shivering.

"Well met, Great One," Symgharyl Maruel said. "By your leave, I would question this one before I leave her with you."

"Given, Shadowsil," Rauglothgor replied. "Though she knows little of anything, yet, I deem. She has the eyes of a kitten that has just learned to walk."

"Aye, Elder Wyrm," said the Shadowsil, "and yet she may have seen much in the few days just past, or even be more than she seems." The lady in purple strode around to stand before Shandril. At a gesture, the rope slithered slowly from Shandril and left her free. Shandril gathered herself to flee, but Symgharyl Maruel merely smiled down at her in cold amusement and shook her head.

"Tell me your name," she commanded. Shandril obeyed without thinking.

"Your parents?" the mage pressed.

"I know not," Shandril replied truthfully.

"Where did you dwell when younger?" The Shadowsil continued quickly.

"In Deepingdale, at The Rising Moon."

"How came you to the place where I found you?"

"I… I stepped through a door of light that glowed in the air."

"Where was that door?" the mage continued, a note of triumph in her voice.

"I… I don't know. In a dark place-there was a gargoyle."

"How came you there?"

"B-by magic, I believe. There was a word, on a bone, and I said it…"

"Where is the bone now?"

"In a pool, I think-in that ruined city. Please, lady, was that Myth Drannor?"

The dracolich chuckled harshly. The Shadowsil stood silently, eyes burning into Shandril's. "Tell me your brother's name!" she demanded abruptly.

Shandril shook her head, confused. "I–I don't have a brother."

"Who was your tutor?" The Shadowsil snapped at her.

"Tutor? I've never had-Gorstag taught me my duties at the inn, and Korvan about cooking, and-"

"What part of the gardens did the windows of your chamber look upon?"

Shandril flinched. "Chambers, lady? I–I have no chambers. I sleep-slept-in the loft with Lureene most nights…"

"Tell the truth, brat!" the mage in purple screamed, her face contorted in rage, eyes gleaming. Shandril stared at her helplessly and burst into tears.

The deep chuckle behind the mage cut through both angry threats and sobs. "She speaks truth, Shadowsil. My art never lies to me." Shandril looked up, startled.

Symgharyl Maruel dropped her rage like a mask and regarded the disheveled, tearful Shandril calmly. "So she is not the missing Cormyrean princess, Alusair," she said aloud. "Why then is she such a sheltered innocent? She is not simple, I believe."

The dracolich chuckled again. "Humans never are, I have found. Ask on; she interests me."

The Shadowsil nodded as she moved forward to confront Shandril. Her dark eyes caught and held those of the young thief; Shandril prayed silently to all the gods who might be listening that she be free of this place and these two horrible beings of power.

Symgharyl Maruel regarded her almost sympathetically for a time and then asked, "Were you a member of the Company of the Bright Spear?"

Shandril lifted her head proudly and said, "I am."

"'Am?" The Shadowsil laughed shortly. Shandril stared at her with mounting fear. She had secretly hoped that Rymel, Burlane, and the others had somehow escaped the great dragon. She covered her face at the memory of the vicious attack, but she knew the truth now. The mage's cold laughter forbade her to deny it any longer. Tears came.

"You were taken by the cult and imprisoned in Oversember. How did you escape?" The Shadowsil pressed.

"I–I…" Shandril's face twisted in fear and grief, and mounting anger. Who was this cruel sorceress, anyway, to drag her here and bind and question her thus?

The dracolich's deep, hissing laughter rolled around Shandril again. "She has a temper, Shadowsil. Beware. Ah, this is good sport!"

"I found the bone and read what was on it," Shandril answered sullenly. "It took me to the place with the gargoyle. I know no more."

Symgharyl Maruel strode toward her angrily. "Ah, but you do, Shandril! Who was that fool who attacked me before we took the gate here?"

Shandril shook her head helplessly.

"My name, witch,"-a new voice echoed over them all in answer-"is Narm!" There was a flash and a crackling in the air, and Shandril saw the mage stagger and almost fall, face contorted in pain and astonishment, as a swarm of small bolts of light struck her body.

Shandril looked behind her as she rose from her knees. High above, at the mouth of the cavern, were six humans. Two in robes stood before the others. One of them, also the one who spoke, she recognized from those last seconds before Symgharyl Maruel had forced her through the gate. He was young and excited. The other, a woman whose hair was as long as The Shadowsil's, stood with hand outstretched. She had been the one who had just hurled magic at the purple-robed sorceress.

Shandril had no time to see more before the cavern rocked with Rauglothgor's roar of challenge. The dracolich reared up to face the newcomers, eyes terrible, bony wings arching. Shandril hurled herself at The Shadowsil, who sprang away and hissed a word of art-and vanished before Shandril could grab her. Rauglothgor spat a word that echoed in the grotto around her, and a fiery streak lashed high over her head and exploded flame in all directions.

Shandril dove flat and looked around wildly. The newcomers were leaping down the sloping cavern floor toward her, apparently unharmed by the fireball. She saw the purple-robed sorceress appear on a high ledge behind them all.

"Look out!" Shandril screamed, pointing above them. A man in plain robes glanced up and back, and there was a winking of red light from a circlet he wore. From it burst a thin red beam that struck The Shadowsil. The sorceress stiffened, hands faltering in their spell-weaving, and then she slumped back against the rock wall, holding her side and screaming curses of anger and pain.

The dracolich roared again, and the long-haired woman lashed out in reply with a bolt of lightning. As it crackled overhead, the lightning outlined a tall man in blue-gray plate armor and the young man as they scurried down the slope toward her. The man in armor held a drawn blade.

The young man called out to her. "Lady! You from The Rising Moon! We come to aid you! We-"

His words were lost in the roar of the dracolich's second fireball, bursting just behind the two running figures. Shandril turned in panic and ran downslope, slipping on coins, hard jade, and shifting bars. Behind her there was a cry of pain, the hissing laughter of the dracolich rolled around her, and the light abruptly faded in the cavern.

Shandril's feet slid again in slithering coins. She caught her balance with a painful wrench and leaped onto rocks. The silent winking of the beljurils grew ahead of her as she neared a wall. Behind her there was another flash and the metallic clinking sound of running feet on the heaped coins.

But the feet did not sound as if they were following her.

Shandril gasped for breath as she climbed rocks with bruising speed. Light sprang into being again, and she dove forward into a cleft between two boulders. The dracolich roared again.

And I haven't even a blade! Shandril thought, rolling to her feet, banging knees and elbows in the process. She peered back across the cavern at the battle.

Symgharyl Maruel stood upon a high rock, hands moving-but she was not spellcasting. Rather, she was slapping at something very small. Insects!

The slim and beautiful newcomer in robes was casting a spell, facing the dracolich across the grotto. Knee-deep in coins at the dracolich's feet stood the man in armor, chopping and slicing at the skeletal form that towered over him. Another warrior was racing down the slope to join him. An elf! This one, too, bore a glowing blade. The blade's radiance was briefly overwhelmed by a roaring blast of flames from the dracolich's bony maw.

Rauglothgor turned his head toward Shandril as he rose up from a gout of flames he'd launched at the warriors. Shandril turned in panic and scrambled up the cavern wall, praying that the dracolich would not overwhelm her.

"Lady!" came that voice again. The young man was still pursuing her, but she dared not stop. She clambered up over rocks and loose rubble. The dracolich, Symgharyl Maruel, and these powerful newcomers all stood between her and escape, she decided, and she doubted if the gods cared enough about Shandril Shessair to save her. Better to flee while they were busy slaying each other!

The flickering glow of another burst of flame reflected off the rocks before her. Shandril heard a man roar in pain as the fire died away. Behind her, much closer than she expected, she could hear the young man chanting rapidly. Was he trying to trap her with a spell, too? She scrambled away.

Suddenly, she slipped and fell hard, knocking the wind from her lungs. The favored of Tymora, as usual, she thought, gasping for air.

Shandril looked up in time to see the young man who'd been pursuing her land softly at her side. She jumped to her feet to run away, raising an arm to fend off attack.

Narm grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. "Lady!" he panted. "Keep down. The sorceress…"

Abruptly, there was a flash and a deep, rolling explosion, and small stones clattered and fell about them.

"She is free of the insects!" the young man gasped, looking around them frantically. "Oh, gods!" he cursed.

Shandril followed his gaze up the purple-robed form of Symgharyl Maruel, who appeared before them with a triumphant smile.

But the smile was knocked from her face as a slim, dark figure leaped at the sorceress, somersaulting in the air. The figure's feet struck The Shadowsil with bruising force in the shoulder and flank. The two figures hurtled clean out of view behind rocks.

"Well met, witch!" a merry voice said from behind the rocks. "I am Torm, and these are my feet!"

Back down below, however, Rauglothgor hissed and roared, and Shandril saw its great bony form twisting and rearing. Next to her, the handsome young man chanted, "By grasshopper leg and will gathered deep. Let my art make this one"-he touched Shandril's knee-"leap!" He thrust something small into her hand. "Lady," he hissed, "break this, turn, and leap up there. The sorceress!"

Shandril, goaded into fearful scrambling, fumbled with the wisp, broke it, and jumped. The art took her high and far in one mighty bound. She landed on a ledge in the heights of the cavern. Behind her she heard The Shadowsil chant high and shrill, and then there was a flash. Shandril landed lightly on tumbled rocks. Whatever art the sorceress had hurled had missed her.

Shandril glanced down-and met Symgharyl Maruel's glittering, angry eyes. She was casting yet another spell, arms moving in fluid motions. Again the acrobatic figure in dusty gray sprang at her from the side. But The Shadowsil crouched at the last second, turned with a laugh of triumph, and hurled the spell meant for Shandril at the somersaulting Torm. But from his hands flashed two daggers, blades spinning end over end through the air.

Shandril turned and ran on without waiting to see who would die. A dull, rolling boom sounded from far behind her, and stones shook beneath her feet. The floor of the cavern, rising still, was scattered with riches. The faces of long-dead kings carved from cold white ivory stared at her as she pushed past, shuddering at the thought of how large the beasts who yielded those tusks must have been.

Shandril was feeling her way past a curtain of strung amber, the toothed ceiling of the cavern low overhead, when there was yet another mighty blast behind her. Dust swirled as small pieces of rock rained down around her. Shandril heard the hasty, sliding steps of someone running across loose rocks and coins behind her. She hurried on, stumbling for the hundredth time, hands outstretched to break her fall. The steps behind grew closer.

"Damnation!" she cursed aloud. "I can't keep running anymore. When will this nightmare end?"

And the gods heard. There was an ear-splitting crash from the cavern behind her. Shandril was flung violently forward amid a helter-skelter of rocks, coins, gems, gold chains, and choking dust. Over the din, the thief of Deepingdale heard the dracolich Rauglothgor give an anguished, bellowing roar that rose and fell, then died away in hollow echoes.

Then came three short, sharp explosions. Shandril screamed and held her ears. The deep rolling did not die away, but seemed to be coming from all sides. Small rocks struck her like stinging rain. Then loud booms sounded again, and larger slabs and pillars of rock broke free and fell. Refusing to be entombed alive, Shandril crawled desperately on into the darkness. She heard faint, despairing shouts far behind in the dark, but the words dissolved in the never-ending echoes.

When chaos finally died into stillness, Shandril was alone in the drifting dust. Her ragged breathing was deafening in the sudden silence. She lay still, aching from bruises and scrapes, covered by sweat and dust and small stones.

Suddenly, she noticed a pale glow from the rubble below. Shandril stared at it as her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. The glow came from a sphere of crystal. Its curves were glossy-smooth, and it was a little larger than a man's head. The steady white radiance came from within it, and by its light Shandril could see that it lay among a pile of treasures.

She picked her way to the sphere. When she nudged it cautiously with a toe, the glow did not flicker. She watched it for a time, waiting for any change, peering closely to see if anything might be hidden beneath it. Finally, she reached down and touched it. She ran her hand lightly over the cold smooth surface, then stepped hastily back, eyeing the sphere narrowly. But nothing flickered, nothing changed. Shandril crouched down and gently lifted the sphere. It was light, and yet somehow unbalanced, as though something were moving inside. But she couldn't feel, hear, or see anything inside.

Holding the sphere up like a lamp, Shandril looked around. The jagged ceiling of the cavern hung close overhead, stretching away perhaps twenty paces, to meet the broken and rubble-strewn stone floor. She swung around slowly, gold coins and other treasures winking as the radiance met them. She was at a dead end. The roof of the cavern had fallen in, and she was trapped, far underground!

Panicking, Shandril scrambled forward. There must be a way out! The whole wide cavern can't have been blocked, just like that' "Oh, please, Tymora, whatever has gone before, smile upon me now!"

And then the light she bore fell upon an outflung arm.

The young man who had been chasing her across the cavern earlier lay face-down, silent and unmoving. A pile of stones half-buried his legs. Shandril stared down at him for a moment and then knelt carefully amid the rubble and gently brushed the hair from his face.

His eyes were closed, his mouth slack. She knew him now. He was the man whose eyes she'd met across the taproom of The Rising Moon, the same man who'd defiantly hurled magic at Symgharyl Maruel before the gate in Myth Drannor.

He was handsome, this man. And he had tried more than once to help her. Abruptly, he moved slightly. Before she knew it, she had set the globe down and was carefully lifting and cradling his head.

He stirred and worked his jaw. Pain and concern lined his face, and he spoke suddenly. "More devils! Is there no end? No-" His hands moved, and he caught at her. Shandril found herself dragged down onto the rock beside him.

"Must… must…" he hissed weakly.

Shandril grunted and struggled against his grip, reaching for a weapon she no longer bore. And then, inches from her ear, she heard a surprised "Oh." The pressure on her shoulders eased, and his hands became suddenly gentle. Shandril looked up into his eyes, now open and aware. They met hers in wonder, and in them she saw dawning hope, and confusion, and regret.

"I pray your pardon, lady. I have hurt you." His hands fell away, and he scrambled to rise, rocks rolling all about. He fell back weakly.

Shandril put her hand out to him. "Lie still! Rocks must be moved first. Your feet are covered. Do they hurt?" She clambered past him as she spoke, wondering to herself if it would be safest to leave him helpless, unable to reach her. But no; she could trust this one. She must trust him. The rocks lifted easily. They were many, but small.

"I-can feel nothing. My feet seem… a little bruised, but no worse, I hope." He smiled wanly. "Lady, what is your name?"

"I-Shandril Shessair," she replied. "What do they call you?"

"Narm," he replied, moving one foot experimentally. It felt intact, so he rolled over to help her free his other foot. "How came we here?"

Shandril shrugged. "I ran. The fight went on, and-was that you following me?"

"Yes," he replied, grinning.

After a moment she grinned back. "I see," she said. "Why?"

Narm looked down at his empty hands for a moment and then into her eyes. "I would know you. Lady Shandril," he said slowly. "Since first I saw you at the inn, I have… wanted to know you." Their eyes held for a long silence.

Shandril looked away first, reaching to take up the glowing globe and cradle it in her arms. She looked at him over it, eyes in shadow, long hair veiling her face. Narm opened his mouth to tell her how beautiful she looked, and then closed it. She was looking at him steadily.

"The cavern fell in upon the others," she said abruptly. "We have been buried, walled off."

Narm sat up, heart sinking. "Is there no way out?"

Shandril shrugged. "I was looking for one when I saw you," she said. "Can your art open a way?"

Narm shook his head. "That is beyond me. But I can dig, gods willing," he said with a nod. "Where did you leave off looking?"

Shandril went forward with the globe. "Here," she said. Slowly, carefully, they moved along the stones, shining the globe high and low. But they found no gap. Together they continued on around the walls of their prison. Reaching their starting point, they straightened wearily.

"What now?" Shandril sighed.

"I need to sit down," Narm said. He selected a large, curving boulder and sat, patting the rock beside him. Slowly, Shandril moved to join him. Narm swung a battered sack from his shoulder and pulled it open. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Shandril replied. Narm handed her a thick sausage wrapped in oiled cloth, a partially eaten loaf of round, hard bread, and a leather water skin.

"What is it?"

"Only water, I fear."

"Good enough for me," she said, taking a long swig. They ate in silence for a time.

"Who was that sorceress?" Narm asked suddenly.

"She called herself Symgharyl Maruel, or The Shadowsil," Shandril said. She told him of the Company of the Bright Spear, and of finding herself imprisoned in the cavern, of how the bone had brought her to Myth Drannor, and The Shadowsil to this place. She stopped her speech suddenly and eyed Narm. "Your turn."

Narm swallowed a lump of bread quickly and shrugged. "There is little to tell. I am an apprentice of the art, come from Cormyr with my master, Marimmar, to seek out the lost magic of Myth Drannor. When we reached the ruined city, we met several Knights of Myth Drannor, who warned us away from the city, speaking of devils. But my master thought their counsel false, and he tried to enter the city by another route." Narm paused and took a pull from the skin. "Marimmar was slain. I would have died as well, had not another pair of knights rescued me. They took me to Shadowdale, where Lord Mourngrym lent me an escort back to Myth Drannor. I came upon you and was nearly killed. The knights healed me, and I… persuaded them to come through the gate with me to… rescue you."

They looked at each other.

"I thank you, Narm," Shandril said slowly. "I'm sorry I ran from you and led you into this." Their eyes met. Both knew they would probably die here. Shandril felt a sudden, raw regret that she had found a man so friendly and so attractive too late. They had met just in time to die together.

"I'm sorry I drove you here," Narm replied softly. "I am not much of a warrior, I fear."

Wordlessly Shandril passed him the bread and clasped his forearm as the company clasped those of their equals. "Maybe not," she said after a time, desire stirring within her, "and yet I live because of you."

Narm took her hand and raised it slowly to his lips, eyes on hers. She smiled, then, and kissed him on impulse.

It was a long time before they parted and looked at each other. "More sausage?" Narm asked hastily.

And then they both laughed nervously. They ate sausage and bread, huddled together in the gentle light of the globe. "How came you by this globe?" Narm finally asked.

Shandril shrugged. "It was here," she said, "with the other treasure. I know not what it is, but it has served me as a lamp. Without it I wouldn't have found you."

"Yes," Narm said, "and my thanks for that." The look in his eyes made Shandril blush again. "You asked about the dracolich. This is the first time I've ever seen one, but my master told me of them. They are undead creatures, created by their own evil and a foul potion, just as a fell mage becomes a lich. A depraved cult of men worship such creatures. They believe that 'dead dragons shall rule the world entire,' and they work to serve these dead dragons so that they will be favored when this prophecy comes to pass."

"How does one serve a dragon, save as a meal?"

"By providing the potions and care it needs to achieve unlife," Narm replied. "After that, they provide spells and treasures. Servants also provide a dracolich with information and much flattery when visiting."

He fell silent as they ate. After a time, Shandril asked quietly, "Narm, how great is your art?"

Narm shook his head. "Feeble, lady. Too feeble. My master was a capable mage, though I have never seen him hurl magics as the Lady Jhessail of the knights did, back there." He nodded at the darkness where the rocks had fallen to wall them in. "I know a few spells of use, a few more that are but tricks or little things used to hone the will or the nimbleness of mind and fingers, and the names of a few who may tutor me further. My master is no more, and as a mage, I am almost nothing without him."

"Something more than nothing rescued me," Shandril countered. "You did, and your magic was strong and swift when I needed it. I–I will stand with you and trust in your art."

Narm looked at her for a time and laid his hand on hers. "I thank you," he said. "It is enough, indeed." They embraced, holding each other fiercely in the near-darkness. "We may die here," Narm said abruptly, in a low voice.

"Aye," Shandril said. " 'Adventure,' they call it."

Abruptly, from the back of the cavern, they both heard clearly the click and clatter of a falling stone. They fell silent, listening, but there were no more sounds of moving rock. They exchanged worried glances, and then Shandril picked up the globe and held it high. Its radiance fell across the rocks but revealed nothing. Narm stepped carefully toward the wall of rock, dagger in hand. He walked about for some time.

"Nothing, my lady," Narm said, returning. "But I found this for you." He held out a pendant of electrum wrought in the shape of a falcon in flight, set with garnets for its eyes. She took it slowly, smiled, and hooked it about her neck.

"My thanks," she said simply. "I can only give you coins in return. I am sitting on a heap of them, and one at least has fallen into my boot."

"Why not?" he said. "If die we must, why not die rich?"

"Narm," Shandril said very softly, "could you not gather coins later?"

Narm turned and looked at her. Shandril held out her arms toward him. When he knelt by her, he found she was shaking. "Lady?" he asked, holding her.

"Please, Narm," she whispered, dragging him down atop her, her hands moving with sudden urgency. Narm, surprised, found that she was very strong. His discarded pack fell across the globe, and they spoke no more for a very long time.

Later, they lay face-to-face on their sides in the darkness, Shandril's breath warm upon Narm's throat and chest. Even cold coins and rock could make for a comfortable bed, he decided. Shandril held Narm gently, thinking he had drifted off to sleep, but he spoke to her then.

"Lady," he said roughly. "I know it has been but a short time since we met, but I love you."

"Oh, Narm," she said. "I think I have loved you since our eyes first met in The Rising Moon, and that feels like so very long ago-a lifetime at least!" She laughed, hugging him tenderly. Her expression turned thoughtful. "It's strange, but I'm not afraid to die now. It's not so terrible to die here, if we die together." Narm's arms tightened about her.

"Die?" he said. "Who knows but that a little digging might win our freedom? The dracolich's grotto is too big to be completely filled with rock… I hope."

"We'll dig, then," Shandril said, "if you'll let me up." They rolled apart and uncovered the globe. Its radiance showed them each other, shadowed and bare, and Shandril snatched up her tunic automatically to cover herself.

"Lady," Narm said gently, "may I not even see you?"

Shandril laughed in embarrassment, and her laughter became tears. Narm held her and soothed her as her sobs died away. He murmured gentle support and reached over her shoulder to catch up her tunic. "We're not dead yet," he whispered.

They sat together for some time in silence, arms about each other, summoning strength. Then Shandril began to shiver, and they both dressed and got up to walk around for warmth. Narm gathered gold enough to fill both their pouches and found another treasure for his lady.

He handed Shandril a ring and bracelet joined together by fine chain, so that it covered Shandril's forearm from finger to elbow with curved plates and worked hoops of chased electrum, chain and all being set with many sapphires.

For himself, he found a dagger, with its brass pommel worked into the snarling head of a lion, and two rubies inset as the lion's eyes. He passed over many splendid treasures, but he managed to put one bar of gold in his pack before he heard Shandril's hiss of surprise.

Something moved on the rocks beyond Shandril, approaching her from the tumbled rockfall. Something black and scaly, and about as long as a shortsword. It scuttled soundlessly over, around, and through the stones toward them. It was some sort of long-necked, long-tailed lizard. Narm stepped forward hastily to blast the creature with his art if it attacked. Without slowing, the creature crested a rock five paces from Shandril, who raised the globe to see the creature more clearly.

Suddenly, the creature began to grow. It continued down the rear side of the rock, boiling, shifting, and growing taller. The black surface flecked off. Beneath was purple cloth. Rising tall, and stretching slim arms out, Symgharyl Maruel smiled at them triumphantly.

"So we meet again," the sorceress said with soft menace. "Cower there, dear," she told Shandril, "while I deal in art with this young lion of yours." Her hands were moving like gliding snakes. Shandril looked back at Narm. His hands were also moving, but she saw in his face the brave despair of one who has no power left to hurl magic.

The Shadowsil hissed a word of power, then took the time to laugh. Shandril felt red rage boil up within her, and she leaped forward. At least she would have the satisfaction of seeing the sorceress surprised before she herself died.