'Back! Back!' she cried to the knights behind her, and hurled spellfire forth again. Pillars of broken wall stood like huge teeth against the sky before they too toppled. The keep was gone, completely fallen, and still the fires raged.
Oh Tymora, release me! Will this never end? And yet, look, you gods! Such power! Nothing stands against me-not the dracolich, not his worshippers, not the stones themselves-not even this mountain!
Shandril laughed. Her blazing fingers found the throat of her tunic and ripped it open. From her bared breast poured out spellfire as she backed down the tunnel. Rock cracked and burst into fragments.
The fires were less now. Shandril could feel herself shaking as the energy raced through her, pouring out of her breast and mouth. She was on her knees again, amid the scattered gold of the dracolich's treasure. Above her the ceiling of the great cavern was breaking away and falling. Spellfire crackled and spat.
Suddenly Shandril felt very tired, and she swayed on her knees. Her gaze fell to her hands. The ring and armlet of electrum and sapphires still gleamed and sparkled. She managed to bring her arms up before her as she fell forward, shivering, onto the cold stone.
The fire was gone, and she was so cold, so numbingly cold.
'Shandril!' Narm screamed, slipping out of Elminster's grip at last. He crashed full tilt into the old mage's unseen wall of force, clawed his way along it in helpless frustration, and screamed at Elminster, 'Let me go to her! Is she dead?'
The sage shook his head, understanding and pity in his eyes. 'No. But she may not live. I had no idea how much art that balhiir had absorbed. Careful now.' And the barrier was gone. Narm stumbled forward, falling twice on his way to Shandril.
'Gods,' Florin said simply, as he followed. Beyond the place where Shandril lay, the mountain had been blasted open into a vast crater. They stood now in daylight.
''Rare in the Realms,' you said,' Torm noted to Elminster as he came past. 'And a good thing, too!' The other Knights of Myth Drannor had already joined Narm, kneeling beside Shandril's body. As Elminster walked up to them, the young apprentice raised a tearful face and asked the mage, 'Can I… will it hurt her if I touch her?' He gulped and bit his lip. Shandril lay before him face down and motionless, her long hair spread out over her back like a last lick of flame.
Elminster shook his head. 'No. No, it cannot. And yet… Rathan, can ye heal yet?'
The cleric nodded. 'I've only a little favor of the Lady, I fear,' he rumbled. 'I used most on Lanseril, back there.'
Elminster nodded. 'Use what you can then. Narm?' The tear-tracked face lifted, almost challengingly. 'After Rathan heals thy lady, carry her back to the cavern where ye waited for me. Haste matters more than gentleness. I shall go to Shadowdale at once for healing scrolls left hidden by Doust Sulwood, when he was lord, and then meet ye at that cavern.' Rathan was already chanting softly, kneeling by the fallen girl.
Narm nodded, slowly. 'Yes.' Then, roughly, he burst out, 'You knew it would kill her! You knew!'
Elminster shook his head. 'No, Narm. I feared it might but saw no other way.' He turned away. 'Do not delay me now, or Shandril may die.'
Rathan touched Narm's shoulder. 'I am done, lad. Let us get her moved-if Elminster counsels haste, ye may be sure haste is the thing.'
Narm nodded slowly, tore his eyes from the old mage's back, and sighed. 'Yes. I trust him. Sorry.' He looked down and burst into tears.
'Look,' said a voice by his other ear, 'stop blubbering and lift your lady by the shoulders. I'll take her feet. Jhessail, hold her head as we carry.' Narm found himself looking at Torm, who nodded at Shandril. 'Come on. Haste, the man said.'
'Aye.' Narm reached out a tentative hand and fumbled at the open front of her tunic.
'Leave it,' Torm said firmly. 'I promise you I won't look-much.'
Narm shouted at him, a raw torrent of words that made Torm broaden his grin and finally break into a chuckle. Seething, Narm stopped when he realized he had no idea what he was saying.
They climbed up over broken rocks, Rathan at Narm's elbow, Jhessail hip-to-hip beside him cradling Shandril's head. Shandril's eyes were closed, her lips parted. She looked so beautiful. Narm started to weep again. Through the tears, he saw the elf, Merith, guiding Torm through the tricky entrance to the smaller cavern beyond where he and Shandril had been trapped together. The smell of burned flesh was strong around them. Narm looked down at Shandril in disbelief. He had seen it, yes. How much force had it taken? How much had she held? And how in the name of all the gods could she survive it?
'The scrolls-is Elminster back yet?' he asked frantically as they stumbled forward into the now-familiar, low-ceilinged cavern. Lanseril, in his own form again, sat against a wall with lit torches on either side of him.
'I felt the mountain shake,' he said. 'Was it Shandril?' At Torm's nod, he said nothing but only shook his head. And then a thought struck him. 'Bring her over here. No, not straight across-Elminster might teleport in right there-around this way.'
'Good thought, but unnecessary, as it happens,' came a familiar voice from the back of the cavern. 'Rathan- scrolls enough for both Lanseril and Shandril.' Elminster held out the rolls of parchment to the cleric as he came forward, set aside his staff, and bent down. 'I only hope the force within her did not damage her overmuch.'
'Damage?' Narm asked.
'The spellfire burns inside,' Elminster said gently. 'It can burn out lungs, heart, and even the brain, if held overlong.' He shook his head. 'She seemed to be master of it at the last, but she held more than I have ever known anyone to bear before, without bursting into flames and being entirely consumed on the spot.'
'Cheerful, isn't he?' Torm put in lightly. Narm stared at him in horror, then burst into tears and started to tremble. Jhessail held his shuddering shoulders and looked at the thief levelly.
'Torm,' she said in a cutting tone, 'sometimes you are a right bastard.'
Torm indicated Narm with one hand. 'He needed it,' he said soberly.
Jhessail held his gaze for a moment and then said, 'You're right, Torm. I'm sorry. I mistook you.' She enfolded Narm in her arms, and he uncontrollably sobbed out his relief into her breast.
'You and the rest of the world,' said Torm mournfully. 'Most of the time.'
'And with no cause at all,' Merith added innocently. 'Now shut your clever lips and help me spread my cloak over her.'
Rathan nodded that he was done as they approached and got up wearily to see to Lanseril.
'A hard day of healing?' the half-elven druid asked wryly as the cleric knelt beside him. Rathan grunted.
'Hard on the knees, anyway,' he agreed, rolling open the next scroll. 'Now lie there, damn ye. It is hard enough convincing the Lady that healing an unrepentent servant of Silvanus like thyself is a devout act, without ye squirming around.'
'True enough,' Lanseril agreed, settling himself. 'How does the young lady fare?'
Rathan shrugged. 'Her body is whole. She sleeps. But her mind? We shall see.'
Across the cavern, Narm looked down from Jhessail's arms at the softly breathing form. 'Why does she not awake?' he moaned. 'She's healed, the priest said. Why does she sleep?'
'Her mind heals itself,' Elminster said from near at hand. 'Do not disturb her. Be calm, Narm… a fine mage ye'll make, indeed, with all this weeping and shouting! Come away, and eat something and rest.'
'I'm not hungry,' Narm said sullenly, as Jhessail rose and pulled him up, her slim arms surprisingly strong.
'Oh, aye,' Elminster said in obvious disbelief, handing him a sausage and producing a knife to saw at the hard piece of bread on his lap. Narm stared at the sausage and thought of Shandril and himself and sausages, and burst into laughter. Tears came again as he rocked helplessly back and forth.
'Stable fellow, isn't he?' Elminster inquired of the world at large. 'Eat,' he commanded, thrusting Narm's arm toward his mouth with a flick of his fingers and the quick saying of an unseen servant spell. The wood and string in the mage's hands melted away into nothingness, and suddenly Narm was sobbing on sausage, then eating ravenously. Elminster, shaking his head, used the spell to convey a flask from where it lay by Torm through the air to his own waiting hand. Torm discovered its theft, but snatched for it much too late.
Merith, who had been carefully examining the chamber with Florin, came over to Narm in his customary silence and touched the young mage's elbow. Narm surfaced from his sausage slowly. 'Yes? Oh, sorry.'
'No, lad. Don't be sorry,' Merith told him. 'If you would, point out to us where this mage your lady felled with
