"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?"