At all costs … there was a sudden red roiling of disgusting, elongated internal human organs, bloated and wriggling, as the foe mentally turned himself inside out-and burned. He was slaying himself, to keep from yielding to her. He was dying utterly at last. He was… gone, a drifting wisp of smoke in the heart of the leaping silver fire.
The silver fire reached to a brightness above, a brightness that was calling Storm. She reached for it and rose to it. . and slowly, very slowly, the light above her drew nearer.
Through her weary daze, Storm became increasingly ashamed of how twisted and besmeared the battle had left her. Yet she had prevailed, and was rising toward the light. New visions were coming.
Visions that had the warm, somehow brown feeling of Broglan's mind-visions of her beauty, impish outrageousness, and courage, laced about with awe and growing love. Faithfully, doggedly, and continuously replaying the vivid scenes that awoke in him both lust and love, Broglan was thinking of her.
The fouled, rising shadow seized on that anchor, and was suddenly Storm once more.
She saw the Realms around her again, and felt breezes moving over her body and something hard under her feet. She turned to look at Broglan, silver flames darting from her eyes.
Startled, the war wizard stepped back and raised his hands to cast a spell if need be. His brow was dark with worry.
"Are you Storm?" Broglan asked gravely, almost formally, "or-someone else?"
She gave him a weak smile, and her eyes became the silver-laced blue he remembered. "I am Storm Silverhand," she said slowly, "thanks in large part to you, Broglan."
She looked over her shoulder. The body of Maxer was lying on a bed of silver flames. His face was peaceful, his hands at his sides, and his eyes closed. Storm bit her lip, turned back to the watching wizard, and took two quick strides forward.
"Thank you," she said fervently, as their lips met. Her next impassioned words were silent echoes in his mind. Oh, Broglan, thank you. All the time you wrestled against loving me and then surrendered to it, and loved me, and aided me, and never forced yourself on me or demanded anything in return. The Lady needs more men like you. I needed you, though we were not for each other. I still need you. I revere you. Then from her mind a gentle touch of silver fire reached out, and Broglan felt pleasure greater than he ever had before. It raised him up, gasping, to trembling heights of bliss. He was suddenly intensely aware of the beautiful woman he held in his arms, her bare skin against him in a hundred places, her sweet lips touching his own eagerly.
It was suddenly too much, and he murmured and broke free, feeling wild elation-and rising fear.
Broglan shook his head slightly as he gazed at her, tears in his eyes. When she reached for him again, he shuddered involuntarily and backed away, raising his hands to ward off danger.
She halted, and he looked at her in horror-horror at himself. White-faced, he looked slowly down at his treacherous hands and then back up at her, ashamed.
Storm reached out in a wave of forgiveness, and gave him a sad little smile. "Farewell, love who might have been," she said softly. "Know that you shall always be in my heart, and welcome. Come to see me in Shadowdale, as a friend. . when you're ready. However long it takes, we'll"-she nodded toward Maxer's sleeping body-"be there. I hope."
"You hope?" Broglan asked, hesitantly.
"What was once a part of Bane is gone-destroyed, not driven out," Storm told him firmly, "but what is left behind could be a mindless thing, or something halfwitted … or a Maxer who hates me for what I've done to him."
EPILOGUE
The hour was late, and the torches were guttering low. Storm watched them flicker toward smoky deaths. She glanced at the bedchamber door for perhaps the thousandth time. Its closed surface told her nothing. She sighed, struck a chord on her harp, and let her fingers wander gently over the strings in an old, old song of wistful hope. She'd long since played all of her favorite ballads, several times, and then all the others she could remember or half-remember, and was on to the tunes-or snatches of them-that her fingers remembered when her mind could not. This one had lyrics of the half-remembered sort; she sang the few words that came to her.
"In the morning when the mists steal away, I'll still sit and softly play. I sing for you, every night, every day, the long years through.."
She was groping for the refrain when the door opened. Her fingers froze on the thrumming strings.
He stood there in a pair of her old breeches, barefoot and barechested, with one of her night cloaks thrown around his shoulders. He was smiling the way she remembered. His blue eyes were merry and bright.
Storm stared at him, unable to utter another sound.
"All these years you waited for me," Maxan Maxer said with a smile, his eyes shining. "I knew that, somehow, if I was ever set free, 'twould be my Storm that'd do it. Yes, my lady-'tis truly me, and not some last trick of the Dark One wearing my smile. Shall we carry on where we left off?"
Wordlessly Storm nodded, shaping his name with lips that trembled. She flung the harp down as if it were worthless kindling and leapt into his arms. Tears burst from her in a waterfall, and she could not speak.
"There, there," Maxer said soothingly, as he stroked her hair and shoulders, and felt her clinging to his ribs with bruising force. "Gods," he added huskily, a moment later, as his own eyes grew moist, "I've missed you. The feel of you, the smell of you… the warmth of your love."
They cried together for a time, and then looked into each other's eyes and laughed, and then cried again.
"Enough of this leaking all over the passage floor," Maxer growled after a time. "I'm much more interested in doing this." His lips met hers hungrily, and bore down.
Storm moved in his arms and murmured, and silver fire swirled around them as they embraced. Maxer cried out in wordless wonder at its cool, cleansing touch.. and then it died away, and they were somewhere else.
Somewhere with cold flagstones under their feet, and a woman hissing, "Gods above!" in shock. A sword rang from its sheath.
Storm and Maxer stood with their arms around each other and smiled at Shaerl Rowanmantle, the Lady of Shadowdale, who stared back at them in disbelief over the bright point of her drawn sword.
"Storm?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "Maxer?"
"Be at ease," said a musical voice from the empty air across the table. "They are truly what they seem to be. Welcome back, both of you."
Maxer stared around the low-beamed kitchen with a happy smile, scarce believing that he was in Storm's arms again, and would never have to leave. He cleared his throat several times before he managed to say, "My thanks, Sylune.. and my apologies, Lady Shaerl, for our precipitous arrival."
Storm smiled at them with very bright eyes, and then buried her face in Maxer's chest again and cried. Wearing an expression of amazement, Shaerl watched her shaking shoulders.
"So success managed to find you again, Sister," Sylune said briskly. They saw the kettle lift from its hook by the hearth and head toward the pump. "There are scones in the warming-oven, and I suppose you'll be wanting tea."
"Tea," Maxer said slowly, and then one end of his mouth lifted in an impish grin. "And-zzar?"
"Of course," the unseen Witch of Shadowdale replied dryly. "It's in the cupboard behind you-if you can bring yourself to peel one inch of your flesh away from my sister for an instant or two."