Caught up in the passion of her words, Crysania’s eyes deepened to blue, her skin, cool on Raistlin’s hand, flushed a delicate pink. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the lifeblood pulse in her neck. He felt her tenderness, her softness, her smoothness... and suddenly he was down on his knees beside her. She was in his arms. His mouth sought her lips, his lips touched her eyes, her neck. His fingers tangled in her hair. Her fragrance filled his nostrils, and the sweet ache of desire filled his body.
She yielded to his fire, as she had yielded to his magic, kissing him eagerly. Raistlin sank down into the soft carpet of dying leaves. Lying back, he drew Crysania down with him, holding her in his arms. The sunlight in the blue autumn sky was brilliant, blinding him. The sun itself beat upon his black robes with a unbearable heat, almost as unbearable as the pain inside his body.
Crysania’s skin was cool to his feverish touch, her lips like sweet water to a man dying of thirst.
He gave himself up to the light, shutting his eyes against it. And then, the shadow of a face appeared in his mind: a goddess—dark-haired, dark-eyed, exultant, victorious, laughing...
“No!” Raistlin cried. “No!” he shrieked in half-strangled tones as he hurled Crysania from him.
Trembling and dizzy, he staggered to his feet.
His eyes burned in the sunlight. The heat upon his robes was stifling, and he felt himself gasping for air. Drawing his black hood over his head, he stood, shaking, trying to regain his composure, his control.
“Raistlin!” Crysania cried, clinging to his hand. Her voice was warm with passion. Her touch worsened the pain, even as it promised to ease it. His resolve began to crumble, the pain tore at him...
Furiously, Raistlin snatched his hand free. Then, his face grim, he reached out and grasped the fragile white cloth of her robes. With a jerk, he ripped it from her shoulders, while, with the other hand, he shoved her half-naked body down into the leaves.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice taut with anger. “If so, wait here for my brother. He’s bound to be along soon!” He paused, struggling for breath.
Lying on the leaves, seeing her nakedness reflected starkly in those mirrorlike eyes, Crysania clutched the torn cloth to her breast and stared at him wordlessly.
“Is this what we have come here to attain?” Raistlin continued relentlessly. “I thought your aim was higher, Revered Daughter! You boast of Paladine, you boast of your powers. Did you think that this might be the answer to your prayers? That I would fall victim to your charms?”
That shot told! He saw her flinch, her gaze waver. Closing her eyes, she rolled over, sobbing in agony, clasping her torn robe to her body. Her black hair fell across her bare shoulders, the skin of her back was white and soft and smooth...
Turning abruptly, Raistlin walked away. He walked rapidly and, as he walked, he felt calm return to him. The ache of passion subsided, leaving him once more able to think clearly.
His eyes caught a glimpse of movement, a flash of armor. His smile curled into a sneer. As he had predicted, there went Caramon, setting out in search of her. Well, they were welcome to each other. What did it matter to him?
Reaching his tent, Raistlin entered its cool, dark confines. The sneer still curled his lips but, recalling his weakness, recalling how close he’d come to failure, recalling—against his will her soft, warm lips, it faded. Shaking, he collapsed into a chair and let his head sink into his hands.
But the smile was back, half an hour later, when Caramon burst into his tent. The big man’s face was flushed, his eyes dilated, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I should kill you, you damned bastard!” he said in a choked voice.
“What for this time, my brother?” Raistlin asked in irritation, continuing to read the spellbook he was studying. “Have I murdered another of your pet kender?”
“You know damn well what for!” Caramon snarled with an oath. Lurching forward, he grabbed the spellbook and slammed it shut. His fingers burned as he touched its nightblue binding, but he didn’t even feel the pain. “I found Lady Crysania in the woods, her clothes ripped off, crying her heart out! Those marks on your face—”
“Were made by my hands. Did she tell you what happened?” Raistlin interrupted.
“Yes, but—”
“Did she tell you that she offered herself to me?”
“I don’t believe—”
“And that I turned her down,” Raistlin continued coldly, his eyes meeting his brother’s unwaveringly.
“You arrogant son of a—”
“And even now, she probably sits weeping in her tent, thanking the gods that I love her enough to cherish her virtue.” Raistlin gave a bitter, mocking laugh that pierced Caramon like a poisoned dagger.
“I don’t believe you!” Caramon said softly. Grabbing hold of his brother’s robes, he yanked Raistlin from his chair. “I don’t believe her! She’d say anything to protect your miserable—”
“Remove your hands, brother!” Raistlin said in a flat, soft whisper.
“I’ll see you in the Abyss!”
“I said remove your hands!” There was a flash of blue light, a crackle and sizzling sound, and Caramon screamed in pain, loosening his hold as a jarring, paralyzing shock surged through his body.
“I warned you.” Raistlin straightened his robes and resumed his seat.
“By the gods, I will kill you this time!” Caramon said through clenched teeth, drawing his sword with a trembling hand.
“Then do so,” Raistlin snapped, looking up from the spellbook he had reopened, “and get it over with. This constant threatening becomes boring!”
There was an odd gleam in the mage’s eyes, an almost eager gleam—a gleam of invitation.
“Try it!” he whispered, staring at his brother. “Try to kill me! You will never get home again... .”
“That doesn’t matter!” Lost in blood-lust, overwhelmed by jealousy and hatred, Caramon took a step toward his brother, who sat, waiting, that strange, eager look upon his thin face.
“Try it!” Raistlin ordered again.
Caramon raised his sword.
“General Caramon!” Alarmed voices shouted outside; there was the sound of running footsteps.
With an oath, Caramon checked his swing and hesitated, half-blinded by tears of rage, staring grimly at his brother.
“General! Where are you?” The voices sounded closer, and there were the answering voices of his guard, directing them to Raistlin’s tent.
“Here!” Caramon finally shouted. Turning from his brother, he thrust the sword back into its scabbard and yanked open the tent flap. “What is it?”
“General, I—Sir, your hands! They’re burned. How—?”
“Never mind. What’s the matter?”
“The witch, sir. She’s gone!”
“Gone?” Caramon repeated in alarm. Casting his brother a vicious glance, the big man hurried out of the tent. Raistlin heard his booming voice demanding explanations, the men giving them.
Raistlin did not listen. He closed his eyes with a sigh. Caramon had not been allowed to kill him.
Ahead of him, stretched out before him in a straight, narrow line, the footsteps led inexorably on.
4
Caramon had once complimented her on her riding skill. Until leaving Palanthas with Tanis Half-Elven to ride south to seek the magical Forest of Wayreth, Crysania had never been nearer a horse than seated inside one of her fathers elegant carriages. Women of Palanthas did not ride, not even for pleasure, as did the other Solamnic women.
But that had been in her other life.
Her other life. Crysania smiled grimly to herself as she leaned over her mount’s neck and dug her heels into its flanks, urging it forward at a trot. How far away it seemed; long ago and distant.