Shandril smiled at her man. "Yes, Narm, love. Tis me. By Mystra's will I can be wherever spellfire or silver fire is awakened."
Narm sobbed, still reaching for her, knowing there was nothing he could hold or caress, but wanting-wanting so much to "Mystra brought me to Gorstag, across all the miles betwixt here and the Rising Moon," Shandril told him softly, "and promised me I could whisper to you whenever I desired. All's right for me now, and I want it to be right for you, too."
Narm swallowed. "How can that be?" he wept. "Without you?"
"Listen to me, beloved," Shandril told him, drifting nearer. "I want you to do something for me. I need you to do it for yourself."
"What?" Narm whispered, trying to touch her.
"Find the right girl, get married, and have a long and happy life, as far away from adventure as possible."
Narm shook his head, smiling bitterly, his face bright with tears. "How by all the gods will I ever know who the 'right girl' is? You were the right girl!"
Shandril smiled a little sadly, and replied, "The one you'll be happy with, my spell-lion."
Narm shook his head, lips trembling. "What if she's another shapechanging monster, or I've just chosen wrong?"
"Well, then," Shandril told him softly, "I'll just have to come back and haunt you."
She drifted up and kissed him, then-a cold, cold tingling that crackled like spellfire against his lips-then was gone. He was staring at empty air, blinking away fresh tears.
He rode alone, silent all the rest of that day, and cried into the firelight that night. Three different hands silently reached out to comfort him but said not a word to disturb his memories.
Narm remembered that, too, down the passing years.