Spellfire

"I expected to see the cultists here long ago," Torm said, slipping lightly up onto a high, flat rock. "Or at least to see something of the dracolich. Why so long?"

"Fear of us," Rathan said with a grin. Florin remained alert by the entrance, obviously expecting an attack.

"I'm so scared I can scarce stand still," Shandril said, "and you talk calmly of strategies and jests! How do you do it?"

"We always talk before a fight, lady," Rathan answered. "One is excited and among friends and may not live to see the next dawn." The fat cleric shrugged. "Besides… how better to spend the waiting? Much of what a bard calls 'dashing adventure,' at least for us, is a little fast and hard running and fighting and lots and lots of waiting. We would grow bored wasting all that time in silence."

"Hmphh!" said Elminster. "All this jaw-wagging's the mark of minds too feeble to ruminate in solitude." Torm chuckled. Jhessail rose from the rocks, the sparkling and glowing balhiir moving above her. She went to Shandril, and took her hand.

"Elminster," the magic-user said, turning from Shandril to the ancient wizard, "there will doubtless be time for chatter later. After the battle, most likely. Tell us now of the balhiir. That thing floating in the air above us has not approached you since destroying your globe, so I know you bear no magic item. It will rob you of your spells, as it has done me, if we do not deal with it. What say you?"

"Yes, yes," Elminster said severely. "I am not so addled that I forgot the lass or"-he indicated the shifting mist above the two women with the head of his staff-"that." He took off his battered hat and hung it upon the staff now cradled in the angle of one arm. He then leaned back against a massive boulder and cleared his throat noisily.

"The balhiir," the old sage began in measured tones, "is a most curious creature. Rare in the Realms and unknown in many of the pi-"

"Elminster!" Jhessail protested. "The short version. Please."

The sage regarded her in stony silence for two long breaths. "Good lady! This is the short version. It would do ye good to cultivate patience… a habit I have found useful these last five hundred winters or so." Pointedly he turned his head away to speak solely to Shandril.

"Listen most carefully, Shandril Shessair." The young would-be thief tensed at the old mage's serious tone. "In this place, we lack all means for banishing or destroying this balhiir, save one, and ye alone can master it. 'Tis a dangerous affair for all of us, but for ye most of all. However, there is no other answer. Are ye willing to attempt it?"

Shandril looked around at the adventurers who had become her friends. Then she gazed up at the strange, magic-eating, glowing wisp above her. Letting out her breath in a long, shuddering sigh, she said, "Yes. Tell me."

She met the old sage's eyes squarely, holding them with her own. Gently she disengaged herself from Narm's encircling arm and stepped forward.

The old mage bowed to her solemnly. This drew surprised looks from the knights who watched. He then asked, "Narm, ye retain a cantrip, don't ye?" His twinkling blue eyes, grave and gentle, never left Shandril's.

"Yes," the apprentice magic-user replied.

"Then cast it while touching thy lady," he said, "and we shall stand clear. This will draw the balhiir to ye both. Shandril, thrust both hands into the midst of the glow. Try not to breathe in any of it, and keep thy face-eyes, in particular-away from it. When Shandril touches the balhiir, Narm, ye must flee from her at once, as fast as ye can. All here, stand clear of Shandril from then on. Her touch will probably be fatal."

The great sage went forward to clasp the determined but trembling Shandril by the arms. The balhiir coiled above them both.

"Child," Elminster said then, voice gentle, "thy task is the hard one. The balhiir's touch will tingle and seem to burn. If ye would live, ye must keep thy hands spread within it and not withdraw. You will find you can take the pain-a cat of mine once did. Use the force of your own will to draw the fire into thee, and it will flow down your arms and enter your body. Succeed and ye will hold the balhiir's energy.

"Ye must then slay its will or perish in flames. Ye will know when ye have destroyed it. Master it as quickly as ye can, for the fire within thee will burn more the longer ye hold it. Ye can let it out from thy mouth, thy fingers, even thy eyes. However, beware of aiming the blasts carelessly. Ye could easily slay us all." Shandril nodded, dark eyes meeting his.

"Ye must go out through the entrance, if the dracolich or the cultists have not attacked us by then. Seek them out and blast them until ye have none of the balhiir's energy left. Let go of it all, or it may slay ye." Their eyes held for a time longer, and then he bent slowly to kiss her brow. His beard tickled her cheeks, and his old lips were warm. Her forehead tingled, and she felt somehow stronger. Shandril drew herself up and smiled at him.

"We shall be nearby," he said. "Narm will follow thee, and we shall guard ye both. Are ye ready?"

Shandril nodded. "Yes," she said, lips suddenly dry. "Do it now." She hoped the effort of keeping her voice steady did not show on her face. She raised her hands over her head as Elminster bowed again and drew back. Narm stepped forward reluctantly. The balhiir winked and swirled overhead, closer now, as if it were waiting for her to destroy it.

"Forgive me," Narm said, coming to her side, "but the cantrip I have will make you-uh, belch."

That struck her as so incongruously funny that her helpless laughter rose and rang out across the silent cavern. She was laughing as the magic was cast and the balhiir descended upon her. She saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing but the curiously coiling sparks and wispy mist which smelled ever so faintly of rain upon leather, as the balhiir enveloped her.

The pain began. Elminster had spoken the truth and Shandril wondered, only briefly, if he had ever done this himself. He must have, mustn't he? She could feel the sparks, the fire, the energy somehow flowing into her, stirring. She bent her head back to gasp a breath, found herself staring at the dark rock above her, heard her own voice sobbing, moaning, crying out… It hurt. By the gods, it hurt!

The tingling grew with the rising, burning pain, until her whole body was shaking and twitching. She had to fight to hold her hands out. She wanted desperately to pull back and clutch herself in pain as the fire spread down her arms and across her chest.

Shandril sobbed. Blue-purple fire was ticking up her rigid outstretched arms. Narm rushed toward her, some part of his mind noting as he screamed at her to stop that the flames were not touching her hair or her clothes.

"No!" he cried, reaching out desperate arms to her. As the young apprentice rushed past, Elminster extended a long, thin arm of his own and clutched his shoulder.

"No!" the great mage said in his turn. "Keep back, if ye love her!"

Narm scarcely heard the words, but the hand gripped him like iron, and he could not break free of its grasp. Shandril's sobs rose into a raw, high shriek. "Gods have mercy!" she screamed, and flames leaped from her mouth. Elminster waved imperiously at the knights watching in amazement to get down and seek cover.

The fire raged down Shandril's arms and flared up from her shoulders. She could not see; flames of blue and purple rose from her nostrils and mouth. She could feel energy rolling restlessly around her arms and breast, coiling and flaring, drawing in… drawing all in. She could feel burning anger rising within her, too, crawling behind her throat and forcing her to roar and snarl.

Flames rolled before her nose. Startled, she stopped, cast a burning gaze at Jhessail, saw the flames reflected back from the mage's beautiful, anxious face, and waved an apology as she looked away again. Her veins were boiling; her body shook.

Something scuttled and writhed snakelike within her, awakening fear. She couldn't control it! She would bring death to these new friends, to Jhessail, to Florin, to the great Elminster, to Narm… No! The flames rolled away, and she could see Narm's face, the reflected flames dancing on it, his eyes meeting hers and darkening instantly in pain. Then they were gone as Elminster stepped in front of her love, grave eyes meeting hers, steadily, urging her on. How like Gorstag's those eyes were. She thought of Gorstag, kind and jovial, roughly wise and knowing. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to fight the coiling thing within her. The heat and the pain rose suddenly and sharply, squeezing her heart in a blazing grip.

And then she was through. Sharp pains pierced her knees as she fell hard onto the rocks, white heat building within her. She was burning still, but she could master it.

Exulting, Shandril rose, and saw Florin and Merith, their blades flashing, fighting many men in the narrow mouth of the cavern. Her heartbeat was deafening thunder in her ears and she barely heard Elminster's shout. The elf and the ranger drew aside, steel flashing. Florin raised his blade in solemn salute as she rushed past them.

Shandril knew she was shouting. White lightning lanced from her hands, mouth, and eyes, and crackled ahead of her. Wherever she looked men burned and died. She heard screams, and drowned them out with a long, triumphant shriek of her own, rising high as men were swept away in flames. Then the cavern mouth was empty, blackened. Men lay still, blades smoking in crisped hands.

Oh gods, what have I done? Six, seven… twelve… how many? Was there no end to them? Shandril recoiled in horror, fighting the fires raging within her. As she stood there, hands spread and smoking, a long skeletal neck swung down into the cavern opening, and two chilling eyes stabbed at her. Rauglothgor the Undying opened his bony jaws, and the world exploded in flame.

Shandril moaned, pain atop pain raged within her. Tears blurred the wall of flames; then she could see again, and Rauglothgor's horned skull-face was still before her. The dracolich's evil eyes met hers, and she was afraid.

Those eyes laughed down at her with all the arrogance and strength of cold centuries and dragonfire, and she was suddenly angry. This skeletal creature was laughing at her, secure in the knowledge that she was a girl, unskilled and unwise in the ways of battle and magic.

She felt her anger grow. A rock-a mere rock! — had felled Symgharyl Maruel, in all her pride and cruel mastery of magic. Oh yes, she faced a dracolich now, but now she had the means to strike back! Burn, then, oh-so-mighty Rauglothgor, burn and know how it feels, you who burn us like so many flies scorched in torchfire… burn!

Shandril flung her arms out as if she could stab the undead dragon with her fingertips, and from them crackled lightnings anew. Rauglothgor burned. A sullen radiance pulsed white within his bones. The dracolich reared up high and roared in pain and fear. Stones raked from the cavern ceiling by his horns fell in a shower about him, and his great claws convulsed. He raised bony wings and writhed, until finally the great undead dragon sank down, bones blazing with white, blue, and purple flames.

So passed Rauglothgor, Night Dragon of the Thunder Peaks; His bones blackened, split, and burst asunder. All that remained crumbled as the flames died.

Shandril stumbled into the darkness, fire still raging within her. The cavern beyond was dark and large, and there were torches flickering below her, glimmering and dancing on drawn swords. More cultists, just come, scrambled to meet her, blades raised-easy prey stumbling blindly, undoubtedly fleeing the great Rauglothgor beyond.

Easy prey, indeed. Shandril opened her mouth and screamed as they came, and flames gushed forth. She raised her hands and smote them with spellfire, hurling blasts again and again, until none stood against her. Shandril stumbled on, exulting, fire still blazing within her. Less, now-she could see and hear that the knights followed her.

"Shandril!" Narm's anguished voice broke through the roar of her fire.

She shook her head and motioned him back. Fire from her hands fell harmlessly against Elminster's ready barrier of force, and Narm stayed silent as Shandril ran on. Still the fires raged within her, and she feared to bury herself and them all by blasting at the rocks around her. So she ran across the cavern and up its far slope, seeking the outside-and any more cultists who might lie ahead.

She found them, laden with treasure; though they soon enough dropped it to find their blades when she blasted the first of them. Some raised arms to hurl spells, but magic missiles curled past her and struck them down before the art could be unleashed. It was too late for them to run or fight. In the face of her spellfire, they only had time to die. As Shandril climbed past them, she thought that they did that very well. More cultists met her in the cavern above, and more died.

Shandril climbed up through the tunnels to the keep, and daylight. As she moved up the crumbling steps, blue flames licking the old stone where her boots touched it, Shandril saw the mountain slopes below. No cultists were upon them, and the sky was clear and cloudless. She turned, flames blazing around her swirling hair, and screamed, "Get back!" And the knights fell back. Elminster, his barrier still up, restrained Narm. Shandril turned to the sky and stones about her and spread her hands.

She threw back her head and screamed her pain and exultation, loud and long, and flames rolled forth. Stones cracked and fell around her, the shards cutting her, and she laughed. Daylight grew as the walls fell and stone crumbled. She backed down the stairs of the shattered keep as it fell away around her.

"Back! Back!" she cried to the knights behind her, and hurled spellfire forth again. Pillars of broken wall stood like huge teeth against the sky before they too toppled. The keep was gone, completely fallen, and still the fires raged.

Oh Tymora, release me! Will this never end? And yet, look, you gods! Such power! Nothing stands against me-not the dracolich, not his worshippers, not the stones themselves-not even this mountain!

Shandril laughed. Her blazing fingers found the throat of her tunic and ripped it open. From her bared breast poured out spellfire as she backed down the tunnel. Rock cracked and burst into fragments.

The fires were less now. Shandril could feel herself shaking as the energy raced through her, pouring out of her breast and mouth. She was on her knees again, amid the scattered gold of the dracolich's treasure. Above her the ceiling of the great cavern was breaking away and falling. Spellfire crackled and spat.

Suddenly Shandril felt very tired, and she swayed on her knees. Her gaze fell to her hands. The ring and armlet of electrum and sapphires still gleamed and sparkled. She managed to bring her arms up before her as she fell forward, shivering, onto the cold stone.

The fire was gone, and she was so cold, so numbingly cold.

"Shandril!" Narm screamed, slipping out of Elminster's grip at last. He crashed full tilt into the old mage's unseen wall of force, clawed his way along it in helpless frustration, and screamed at Elminster, "Let me go to her! Is she dead?"

The sage shook his head, understanding and pity in his eyes. "No. But she may not live. I had no idea how much art that balhiir had absorbed. Careful now." And the barrier was gone. Narm stumbled forward, falling twice on his way to Shandril.

"Gods," Florin said simply, as he followed. Beyond the place where Shandril lay, the mountain had been blasted open into a vast crater. They stood now in daylight.

"'Rare in the Realms,' you said," Torm noted to Elminster as he came past. "And a good thing, too!" The other Knights of Myth Drannor had already joined Narm, kneeling beside Shandril's body. As Elminster walked up to them, the young apprentice raised a tearful face and asked the mage, "Can I… will it hurt her if I touch her?" He gulped and bit his lip. Shandril lay before him face down and motionless, her long hair spread out over her back like a last lick of flame.

Elminster shook his head. "No. No, it cannot. And yet… Rathan, can ye heal yet?"

The cleric nodded. "I've only a little favor of the Lady, I fear," he rumbled. "I used most on Lanseril, back there."

Elminster nodded. "Use what you can then. Narm?" The tear-tracked face lifted, almost challengingly. "After Rathan heals thy lady, carry her back to the cavern where ye waited for me. Haste matters more than gentleness. I shall go to Shadowdale at once for healing scrolls left hidden by Doust Sulwood, when he was lord, and then meet ye at that cavern." Rathan was already chanting softly, kneeling by the fallen girl.

Narm nodded, slowly. "Yes." Then, roughly, he burst out, "You knew it would kill her! You knew!"

Elminster shook his head. "No, Narm. I feared it might but saw no other way." He turned away. "Do not delay me now, or Shandril may die."

Rathan touched Narm's shoulder. "I am done, lad. Let us get her moved-if Elminster counsels haste, ye may be sure haste is the thing."

Narm nodded slowly, tore his eyes from the old mage's back, and sighed. "Yes. I trust him. Sorry." He looked down and burst into tears.

"Look," said a voice by his other ear, "stop blubbering and lift your lady by the shoulders. I'll take her feet. Jhessail, hold her head as we carry." Narm found himself looking at Torm, who nodded at Shandril. "Come on. Haste, the man said."

"Aye." Narm reached out a tentative hand and fumbled at the open front of her tunic.

"Leave it," Torm said firmly. "I promise you I won't look-much."

Narm shouted at him, a raw torrent of words that made Torm broaden his grin and finally break into a chuckle. Seething, Narm stopped when he realized he had no idea what he was saying.

They climbed up over broken rocks, Rathan at Narm's elbow, Jhessail hip-to-hip beside him cradling Shandril's head. Shandril's eyes were closed, her lips parted. She looked so beautiful. Narm started to weep again. Through the tears, he saw the elf, Merith, guiding Torm through the tricky entrance to the smaller cavern beyond where he and Shandril had been trapped together. The smell of burned flesh was strong around them. Narm looked down at Shandril in disbelief. He had seen it, yes. How much force had it taken? How much had she held? And how in the name of all the gods could she survive it?

"The scrolls-is Elminster back yet?" he asked frantically as they stumbled forward into the now-familiar, low-ceilinged cavern. Lanseril, in his own form again, sat against a wall with lit torches on either side of him.

"I felt the mountain shake," he said. "Was it Shandril?" At Torm's nod, he said nothing but only shook his head. And then a thought struck him. "Bring her over here. No, not straight across-Elminster might teleport in right there-around this way."

"Good thought, but unnecessary, as it happens," came a familiar voice from the back of the cavern. "Rathan-scrolls enough for both Lanseril and Shandril." Elminster held out the rolls of parchment to the cleric as he came forward, set aside his staff, and bent down. "I only hope the force within her did not damage her overmuch."

"Damage?" Narm asked.

"The spellfire burns inside," Elminster said gently. "It can burn out lungs, heart, and even the brain, if held overlong." He shook his head. "She seemed to be master of it at the last, but she held more than I have ever known anyone to bear before, without bursting into flames and being entirely consumed on the spot."

"Cheerful, isn't he?" Torm put in lightly. Narm stared at him in horror, then burst into tears and started to tremble. Jhessail held his shuddering shoulders and looked at the thief levelly.

"Torm," she said in a cutting tone, "sometimes you are a right bastard."

Torm indicated Narm with one hand. "He needed it," he said soberly.

Jhessail held his gaze for a moment and then said, "You're right, Torm. I'm sorry. I mistook you." She enfolded Narm in her arms, and he uncontrollably sobbed out his relief into her breast.

"You and the rest of the world," said Torm mournfully. "Most of the time."

"And with no cause at all," Merith added innocently. "Now shut your clever lips and help me spread my cloak over her."

Rathan nodded that he was done as they approached and got up wearily to see to Lanseril.

"A hard day of healing?" the half-elven druid asked wryly as the cleric knelt beside him. Rathan grunted.

"Hard on the knees, anyway," he agreed, rolling open the next scroll. "Now lie there, damn ye. It is hard enough convincing the Lady that healing an unrepentent servant of Silvanus like thyself is a devout act, without ye squirming around."

"True enough," Lanseril agreed, settling himself. "How does the young lady fare?"

Rathan shrugged. "Her body is whole. She sleeps. But her mind? We shall see."

Across the cavern, Narm looked down from Jhessail's arms at the softly breathing form. "Why does she not awake?" he moaned. "She's healed, the priest said. Why does she sleep?"

"Her mind heals itself," Elminster said from near at hand. "Do not disturb her. Be calm, Narm… a fine mage ye'll make, indeed, with all this weeping and shouting! Come away, and eat something and rest."

"I'm not hungry," Narm said sullenly, as Jhessail rose and pulled him up, her slim arms surprisingly strong.

"Oh, aye," Elminster said in obvious disbelief, handing him a sausage and producing a knife to saw at the hard piece of bread on his lap. Narm stared at the sausage and thought of Shandril and himself and sausages, and burst into laughter. Tears came again as he rocked helplessly back and forth.

"Stable fellow, isn't he?" Elminster inquired of the world at large. "Eat," he commanded, thrusting Narm's arm toward his mouth with a flick of his fingers and the quick saying of an unseen servant spell. The wood and string in the mage's hands melted away into nothingness, and suddenly Narm was sobbing on sausage, then eating ravenously. Elminster, shaking his head, used the spell to convey a flask from where it lay by Torm through the air to his own waiting hand. Torm discovered its theft, but snatched for it much too late.

Merith, who had been carefully examining the chamber with Florin, came over to Narm in his customary silence and touched the young mage's elbow. Narm surfaced from his sausage slowly. "Yes? Oh, sorry."

"No, lad. Don't be sorry," Merith told him. "If you would, point out to us where this mage your lady felled with the balhiir-globe and a rock lies now." The elf's eyes were serious and wary.

Narm blinked at him. "There, among the rocks." He pointed, but his hand moved uncertainly when he could not see Symgharyl Maruel's feet.

"Aye," Merith agreed soberly. "We thought so."

"She's gone?" Narm asked, astonished.

"She is nowhere in this chamber," Florin said quietly. "Not even among the bodies at the entrance."

"Then… where is she?" Narm asked, his mind still on Shandril and spellfire and sausages.

"I'm afraid," the battle-leader told him, "we'll find out soon enough."

Her jaw ached abominably. That little bitch had broken it, and her arm and probably her cheek, too. The cheek was so swollen that her left eye was almost shut. Symgharyl Maruel was still able to hiss spells and command words, though, and it would not be long before that wench would pay. Pay dearly, too; burn off her legs with the fire of Symgharyl Maruel's favorite wand, and then her arms, and then set to work with a knife. Oh, she'd whimper and plead-until her tongue was cut out. Symgharyl Maruel chuckled in her throat and winced at the stabbing pain this brought to her jaw. Gods spit upon the little whore!

Symgharyl Maruel found her feet wearily and unsteadily crossed the cave that was her refuge. Too unsteadily. Gods, the pain! She leaned wearily against the shelves which held her grimoires, arbatels, and librams. It was no use. She could not study art in this pain. Where were those thrice-damned potions?

The chest! Of course. She clawed her way along the shelves in frantic haste, fell upon her knees by the chest, and fumbled it open with her good arm. Careful, now; the right ones… She searched among the many vials for a certain rune. It would not do to make a mistake now. She'd never thought to need these, carefully gathered here so long ago. But if one plays with fire, she thought ruefully, one must expect to get burned. But a mere nothing of a girl, and with a rock! She snarled through the blood in her mouth and winced at the result. The pain! Would it never end? Never, indeed, if she didn't drink the potions! Gather your wits, Symgharyl Maruel-who knows but one of them might follow here. A spell-sealed cave, yes, but not to one with a tracer spell.

There! That one. And that one. Carefully she drew the precious vials out and, cradling them firmly against her breast, wormed her way across the floor to a heap of cushions where she was wont to lie and study. At last!

The liquid tasted clear and icy on her tongue, with a tang of iron and an odd, faint scent. Symgharyl Maruel lay back and felt the potion's gentle balm spreading down in a tingling, delicious, slow wave through her breast and shoulders and arms. The stabbing, sickening pain in her arm sank to a dull throbbing. Ah, good. Now the second one. Her long-ago mentor was a sentimental fool, but he knew a few tricks. It had been he who had insisted she cache these potions-potions not used until now.

Well, even if he came to Rauglothgor's lair and stood against her, he could save neither the little thief, nor the powerless lacklore of a dweomercraefter who had tried to protect her. There'd been another in the cavern-a druid, by his garb-when she had come to her senses, and the two of them gone, with the stench of burned flesh at the cave's mouth. Doubtless Rauglothgor had cooked some of the reckless adventurers who'd attacked him. Perhaps the wench was dead, too, but not likely. She'd interested Rauglothgor. Well, too bad, Symgharyl Maruel thought savagely. The dracolich could be interested in her corpse.

The pain was almost gone. She could think again, and plan. She rolled up from the cushions and found her feet, noting her torn robes as she did so. Breeches and boots, yes, and a half-cloak. She'd be dragonriding, if all went well. Wands, rings, and potions too. Adventurers were trouble unless you brought art enough to overmaster their every attack. They'd give her no second chance.

Symgharyl Maruel began the complicated ritual of passing the magical and monstrous guardians of her main cache of art. Blood would spill, indeed.

Far away, in a high cavern within a mountain, another dracolich sat upon much gold, and before it knelt three men in armor. Its voice was a vast hiss that held the echo of hammers upon metal and the whistle of high winds through great leathery wings. It regarded the men before it through eyes that glowed chilling white as they floated in dark eyesockets. Otherwise, it appeared as a gigantic blue dragon, vast and terrible, its scales gleaming in the guttering light of the torches the men had brought with them.

"Treasure, yesss, good treasure," it said. "As alwaysss. But I can only play with treasure ssso much. Pile it here, pile it there… as with all, I grow bored. Bored beyond waiting. You never entertain me! What newsss in the world without?"

"A dracolich's lair is despoiled!" rang out a new voice. "The cult needs your great strength, O Aghazstamn!"

The dragon reared its spike-crested head with a great hiss. "Who comesss?" it enquired. Swords flashed as the cultists before it scrambled to their feet and turned to search out the intruder.

They had not far to look. Upon a coach of iron with chased gold and ivory panels, half-buried in a sea of gold coins, stood a woman in black and purple. She stood beautiful, proud, and alone, for all the world as if she had appeared there out of thin air. Of course, she had.

Nonetheless, the warriors of the Cult of the Dragon came toward her to slay, gold coins slithering under their feet. She raised a hand, and before them flashed the image of the dracolich Rauglothgor, its huge skeletal wings spread from wall to wall of the cavern. Aghazstamn hissed involuntarily, and spread its own wings with a mighty clap of air that scattered treasure like drops of rain and startled one warrior into a fall among the deeply sloped piles of coins. The image spoke in a deep, booming voice. "The Shadowsil, mage of the Cult of the Dragon, stands before you and would serve you. She seeks aid for one who is not used to asking for it; I, Rauglothgor, of the Thunder Peaks. I am beset by thieves, and they have loosed a balhiir that confounds my spells. Will you aid me? Half my hoard is yours, Aghazstamn, if you come speedily! Let the lady ride you. You can trust her." And then the image slowly faded away.

Symgharyl Maruel stood calmly silent, arms crossed upon her breast. Her art had shaped the image that her ring of dragons had called into being. She knew not how Rauglothgor would take losing half his treasure, nor did she care, so long as the wench died.

The cult warriors had halted, awed, at the image's speech, and now looked to the dracolich for direction, swords glittering in the torchlight. Aghazstamn's wings lowered slowly; its head sank, snakelike gaze remaining fixed upon the mage. "That wasss not real," it said finally, "and yet I know thee, sssmall and cruel one. You came to me before, not long ago. Did you not?"

"Aye, great Aghazstamn. I brought you treasure fourteen winters past. One of my first duties in the cult." Symgharyl Maruel's crossed hands both rested upon the ends of the wands she wore sheathed on her hips. Her eyes darted continuously from the warriors to the dracolich and back, but her voice and manner were relaxed and at ease. Symgharyl Maruel had come a long way to stand where she did in the cult and had risen far and fast; fear and timidity were luxuries she seldom had time for. She waited, now, because it was the best thing to do.

"Ssso." The dracolich put its great head to one side and regarded her, considering. It had been proud and great in life, and very curious. It had thought much on the intricacies of the art, and on death, and so had accepted the cult's offer to die and become undead.

Aghazstamn had accepted young and missed many years of high flying and dealing death upon lesser creatures, of battling other wyrms in the clear air, and of mating in roaring silence, gliding together in the chill upper air. It regretted the losses. Now here was a call to war. To leave its safe lair and its rich hoard, to face enemies… enemies, hah! Puny humans, even as these at its feet were, waving their tiny steel fangs and making much outcry and commotion. To ride the high winds again, to see the lands spread out below, feel the cold bite of the air about as lesser creatures fled in terror, far below…

"Kneel to me, Ssshadowsil, and pledge to turn not against me nor aid Rauglothgor in altering the ssstated bargain. Do that, and I will accept."

Symgharyl Maruel knelt among the coins, on the ornate top of a coach that had once carried young princes of Cormyr to hunt in the high country, before some forgotten wyrm had seized it, horses, royal blood, and all, and flown off. Hiding her smile in a low bow over the coins, she was rewarded by the great voice sounding again. "Mount, then. Warriorsss of the cult! Attend! Guard well my hoard in my absssence, and let not one coin be missssing when I return, nor any of you gone, or all will answer for it! Bow and pledge your obedience in thisss!"

The cult warriors, with frightened looks at Symgharyl Maruel, did so, and she wasted a flight spell in bravado (or rather, she told herself, began it a little early; she intended to have its protection about her when on Aghazstamn's back, in case of a fall in aerial battle or treachery on the part of the great dracolich). She flew past them, skimming over the heaped coins, trade-bars, gems, and inlaid armor to reach Aghazstamn. She paused before the dracolich's broad head and bowed again, eyes lowered-for it is not safe to meet the wise old eyes of a dragon, even if one is a great mage. Even less safe is it to peer into the awful floating, flickering orbs of a dracolich. She flew slowly up and around in a smooth arc to settle lightly upon a bone of its spine, between the wings.

"My thanks, great one," Symgharyl Maruel said, as she drew gauntlets from her belt, settled the wands on her thighs for rapid drawing, and nestled herself in behind a fin she could grasp once her gloves were on.

"Nay, little one," came the hissing reply. "My thanksss." The great wings gathered above them as the dracolich leaped upward in a great bound into the darkness. The shaft from its lair twisted and bent back upon itself to entrap and discourage flying intruders, but Aghazstamn knew it well. The great wings beat twice, precisely in the rare spaces where they could spread. Suddenly there was daylight, and they burst out into it in a great roaring glide that curved up and became a climb. The great dracolich let out a roar that echoed back from the surrounding peaks, and it wheeled out over the Desertsedge and back again through the Desertsmouth Mountains, where of old had been the realm of Anauria before the Great Sand Sea swept its greatness away, and gained the name Anauroch.

"Where is thisss lair we ssseek? In the Thunder Peaksss?" the great voice hissed back at Symgharyl Maruel. She did not try to shout into the wind ripping past her ears, but used instead her cult ring to speak to Aghazstamn's mind: Yes, great one. On the eastern flanks of the range, above Lake Sember.

"Ah, yesss! Fried Elf Water! I know it."

The Shadowsil winced but managed to stifle her giggle. 'Fried Elf Water'? No doubt. And there had been an elf among the adventurers who had attacked when she'd been questioning the wench before Rauglothgor. Well, who knows what the future holds and the gods see?

Upon the back of the mighty blue dracolich, she rode back toward the lair of Rauglothgor, to deal death upon them all. Die, all, and let The Shadowsil rise up on your bones!

She did not realize she had cried that aloud until she heard Aghazstamn chuckle.