Orlugrym trembled as he stared full into the face of his doom. Slender arms spread to encircle his own. Deadly lips parted as they moved to meet his, murmuring, "All you need do in life, Orlugrym, if you'd cling to it, is hold onto yourself-if, that is, you know who you are."
Their breasts brushed together-and his world became roaring, rushing flames of searing silver, flowing up and over all. Orlugrym's last memory was of her lips, floating disembodied amid the silver fire, and advancing to meet his, parted and eager…
El sighed. It had been Alassra's memory, shared with him, and never his own-but to lose it and know it was gone still hurt. It fled from his mind, now, leaving him no longer knowing just what it had been. He'd felt such dazed emptiness before, long ago, and where was that recollection?
Ah, here. Archdevil, enjoy the show.
Silver flames and drifting darkness, like cloaks tumbled by lazy waves from which the sun had fled …
What?
Elminster could feel the amazement in Nergal's voice... no, bafflement.
Bafflement. Aye, give him bafflement, over matters of magic and silver fire and Mystra herself... Mystra, now: three snippets of divine memory that had leaked into his own mind in a moment of shared passion. Memories of Khelben and of silver fire.
Roaring, ravening silver...
Yes. Silver fire! The mysteries of the silver fire! Yield to me, Elminster Aumar! Reveal all!
Darkness drifted away like the great black billowing robes of the Lord Mage of Waterdeep, windblown in his wake. He soared like an ungainly carrion crow over the spires, turrets, and rooftops of that proud city. His salt-and-pepper beard curled in the wind of his journeying. His dark eyes were as hard as dagger points as he searched for another flash of the magic misused below....
Shrugging, he plummeted like a vengeful arrow at a familiar turret below: Blackstaff Tower. There Laeral waited, her eyes holding that sparkle that was for him alone....
Come another night, years later...
Khelben and Laeral lay abed in Waterdeep, talking quietly in each other's arms of the day's deeds and plans to come. They looked up at summer stars overhead. The Lord Mage of Waterdeep had few conceits; one was the domed ceiling of their bedchamber. It twinkled with a thousand stars, mirroring the clear night sky overhead even when fog, snow, or cloud hid the real sky from view.
They both were restless tonight. Itches and tinglings sprang up in their bodies and shifted about, roiling inside them. Khelben frowned after a particularly violent surge of discomfort. They snarled in irritation, scratching furiously.
"Much power is moving this night," he said, staring about in the darkness. "Mystra's power-or Art that affects her, at least. What d'ye make of it?"
"Something is happening to our Lady, I am sure," Laeral said. "Look at us." She caught his hand and held it up between them. In the darkness, both bare arms glowed with a ghostly blue radiance. As they watched, it seemed to pulse, grow brighter, fade again, and then grow. The stirrings within them matched its changes.
"Should we try to speak to the Lady?"
Khelben was rarely indecisive, but he was puzzled and unsure now. His lady shook her head, long hair stirring and curling about her shoulders of its own accord, moved by the awakening An within her.
"No," she said, "we might disturb her will at a dangerous time. She'll touch us, should she need us."
She pursed her lips and set her head on one side, thoughtful eyes on his. "But what if we reached to my sisters or to Elminster?"
Khelben shrugged. "Perhaps a good thing. Yet no doubt they feel what we do and know little more. Perhaps dangerous, if we are linked when the Lady calls on our power, or shifts power into us. I know not what to do... I have never felt this much-timult-of Art before."
"Nor I," Laeral agreed softly, and drew him to her in a tight embrace. They held each other under the stars like two lost children, snuggling against the cold, and waited. Sometimes waiting is all even archmages can do.
Silver fire dancing, in a little ring in the darkness above a tranquil pool, in a wood wherein no man has ever set foot...
Stop playing games with me, human! The rage in nergal's mind-voice overwhelmed the bewilderment. How is it that you show me memories that can’t possibly be your own?
Diabolic thoughts raced, dark and furious.
How can you even know such things?
Fear rang like cold steel from Nergal's coiling thoughts. A moment later the archdevil was plowing through Elminster's mind like a dragon intent on pouncing and slaying, heedless of the chaos he left. Archways cracked, and ceilings tumbled…
Tell me, wizard! Your tongue could lie, wherefore it's gone, but here you can't hide from me os deceive! Tell me!
All was bright lightning and red blood as Nergal came. El dimly knew he vomited blood out onto the stones he crawled over. The pain made his vision of the onrushing dragon pulse and fade, pulse and fade.
The pain. He hurled himself into it, sinking thankfully as if into cooling waters, plunging deep.
The dragon was coming for him, reaching out its talons, jaws gaping-
El tumbled deeper through his memories, screaming out nonsense words as if deranged, wrapping himself in armor made of his own screams-
Don't go mad on me, mage! Don't you dare go mad on me!
Elminster grinned to himself in the heart of his wild screams. I mustn't dare go mad, eh? Or what?
A blustering quip from another world came to him, like a bright glimmering. The Old Mage hugged it to himself as he tumbled deeper, the dragon thundering in pursuit:
Only one of us is going to leave this room alive, and it ain't going to be me!
Chapter Three
THE DAY THE MAGIC DIED
A flame danced and guttered above the kitchen table in Elminster's Tower in Shadowdale, between two mages who were frowning and trembling in concentration.
The flame fed on empty air. Vivid blue tinged with purple and sometimes green, it seemed about to flicker out despite all that the Simbul and Jhessail-both leaning forward over the table, sweat running down their cheeks and dripping from their chins-could do. The air almost crackled with risen magic between the queen of Aglarond and the far less mighty in Art lady Knight of Myth Drannor. Nearby, the Bard of Shadowdale sat calmly, staring into the scrying flame. Elminster's scribe, Lhaeo, watched from one corner of the room, a cooling pot of tea forgotten in his hands. He was unable to stifle a long sigh of relief when the lady bard brightened. Not taking her eyes from the dancing flame, Storm Silver-hand announced, "She-yes, it's Sharantyr, and she's laughing and chasing someone."
Jhessail frowned. "Laughing and-? Who would she be chasing about and laughing at?"
"Elminster," Lhaeo and the Simbul said flatly, together. Their faces wore identical, knowing expressions. At their tone. Jhessaii sputtered in amusement. That sent everyone in the room laughing-including a faint, ghostly giggle from the empty air between Storm and the Simbuclass="underline" their spectral sister Sylune.
Storm lost contact amid the mirth. She spread her hands helplessly as the flame exploded into a drifting cloud of winking purple and blue sparks … which faded away to nothing. She shook her head, sighed, and sat back, rubbing her temples with weary fingers. "Well done, you two," she said, "considering how unreliable all Art has become …"
"We three,” the Simbul corrected. "Sylune provided the focus."
Storm smiled as she felt cool lips brush her cheek. "My thanks, Sister," she said to the empty air.