her.
But it did not come. Blinking, Storm stared at the skull-and saw Shandril's arm raised from the floor in front of her, gathering in all the spellfire that was meant to slay Storm. Shuddering in relief, the bard fell to her knees, leaning on her sword in exhaustion. Her silver hair swept down over her burned body, and she whimpered.
Shandril looked at her once, and her eyes flamed. She rose, struggling against the stream of spellfire as Elminster had done, and snarled in sudden defiance. Spelifire roared out of her eyes, white-hot and destroying. The force of her blasts hurled the skull back against the farthest wall of the room and held it there. The skull tried to break free of the streaming flames, but could not. It tried to scrape along the wall, but she forced it into stillness. pinning it against the cracking and protesting stones with the continuous force of her blasting fire. She knew how to destroy it now-she hoped. When she'd willingly given it that surge of fire, it had been angry, and its draining hadn't quickened…
A tongue of darker force curled out from the skull, reaching for her. Shandril watched it come, knowing that it would drain her of spellfire again if it reached her. She snarled and pounded the skull with her spellflames.
The bony jaw moved, and the skull spoke. 'Why do you tolerate these fools, child? How do you endure the stupidity of Those Who Harp? They waste their power helping others-craven weaklings, all. As are you, little one, for aiding them and consorting with such dross.'
'And you, skull,' Shandril replied in a voice of cold, biting iron, 'are too selfish to find any joy in aiding others, or in what good might befall them. If you think kindness and love are marks of weakness, you are the stupid one.' She strode forward. 'I am tired of pain-and of what you have done to my friends. You want my spellfire so much- well then: Take it! Take it all. — '
And she leaned forward to embrace the dark tentacle of flame that was straining to reach tier. Spellfire rolled out of her-but this time, she did not fight it. Instead, she forced the energy out of her in waves, hurling it through the linkage at the ever-brighter skull that bobbed against the wall.
A holocaust swirled around the skull, white and bright. The thing of bone shook, teeth chattering, and then a keening, rising wail escaped it: 'Nnnnoooooo000!' The wail ended abruptly in a burst of flame.
Shandril felt the brief, stinging rain of powdered bone on her cheeks-and then the room fell silent.
In the sudden quiet, both women heard the Old Mage groan.
In an inner chamber of the temple, Fzoul Chembryl reeled back from a font of water that still flashed and bubbled, and he howled in pain.
The lich lord was gone-destroyed while it was linked to him. Fzoul clutched his head and shrieked. An upperpriest rushed in.
'Master?' he asked hesitantly. Fzoul was crouched against the wall, whimpering.
At the sound of his voice, the Master of the Black Altar turned his head and looked up. He stared at the upperpriest but did not see him-and small wonder: smoke was curling up from his eyes in two thin, gray plumes…
'Old Mage,' Storm whispered, 'are you-all right?' 'Of course I'm not all right,' Elminster replied as the bard rushed toward him. He tried to rise, and then reeled back, fires rising from his body. 'Stay back!' he ordered Storm weakly, waving a hand. 'There 's still enough spellfire in me to kill ye!'
The Old Mage groaned, then raised his head, cleared his throat, and said testily, 'Must I do everything, look ye? Can no one else save the Realms this time?' He seemed to be speaking not to the two women, but to someone else. Though no one answered him, Elminster nodded as though satisfied.
He thumped a flagstone with his fist and tried to rise. Halfway upright, he grunted, stiffened, and sank back down. Flames tumbled out of his mouth in a little, rolling puff. He fell back full length on the blackened flagstones, fires flickering here and there along his body. Then there was a sudden whirlwind of blue-white flame where the Old Mage lay-and he vanished, leaving the bare floor behind.
Shandril made a small, startled sound in her throat. The two women stared at the empty place where Elminster had been, and then at each other. Storm shook her head.
'Gods… to see the Old Make so hurt; does your power challenge the gods, Shan?'
Shandril turned to her and began to cry. 'No, Storm. No. If it did, I'd still have my Narm!'
Narm lay sprawled on the floor, face gray. hands spread in a last, futile effort to help her.
Shandril looked at him once and then buried herself in Storms embrace. It was all over; Narm dead, Delg gone, her dreams shattered, Manshoon's slaying only a passing satisfaction, this place and her newfound friends here destroyed, even Elminster laid low… how could the gods be so cruel?
Shandril was sobbing bitterly against Storm's chest when priests in the robes of Lathander burst up the stairs into the room, led by a soot-smudged Tessaril and a pair of Purple Dragon guards with frightened, grim faces and drawn swords.
Storm, in her burnt leathers. knelt with arms around the sobbing wielder of spellfire. She nodded at Tessaril in recognition and then said quietly, 'There is nothing you can do here, now; all of you save Lord Tessaril, please leave us.'
Tessaril gestured silently to her soldiers in confirmation of these orders, and the men obediently filed back down the stairs. Their shocked expressions told Storm what the room around her must look like to those who hadn't seen the battle.
When they were gone, Storm reached out to pat Tessaril's shoulder in thanks and said quietly, 'Shandril, there is something we must do.'
The Lord of Eveningstar looked down, unsmiling. She shuddered and reached out her hands.
Storm shook Shandril until she looked up through her bitter tears. The bard stared into her eyes and said, 'There's a chance we can save your Narm. Only a chance. We need your aid.'
Shandril nodded numbly, and the two women took hold of her hands and formed a kneeling ring around Narm's body They laid their free hands on her husband's chest.
Then Storm looked up and said gravely, 'We need your power, little one-slowly and steadily at first. Then give as more, carefully, and we shall see if your spellfire matches the fabled fire of old.'
White-faced and trembling, Shandril nodded. Tears rained from her cheeks as the spellfire slowly curled down her arms.
As they knelt together over Narm, his body began to glow.
'The collective performance of the Brotherhood thus far has been a source of some amusement,' Xarlraun said, its deep voice cutting across the chamber, 'but hardly effective.'
The beholder floated above the human Zhentarim gathered in the room. Deep in its shadow, Fzoul replied, 'Aye. Manshoon is dead.'
'For how long, this time?'
'Forever, we believe.' Fzoul blinked his newly healed eyes, but was unable to keep a smile entirely from his face. 'He may find it difficult to come back from death without any bodies to possess.'
'He had six or seven waiting.'
'Aye.' Fzoul bowed. 'Unfortunately for our esteemed high lord, 'had' is the correct word.'
'I see,' the beholder said softly, drifting away. 'The price of spellfire grows high indeed.'
Fzoul nodded. 'I've ordered Sarhthor to call our magelings back from pursuing spellfire. Brotherhood trading concerns have been neglected, and immediate steps should be taken. Certain trade officials in Melvaunt, Ordulin, oral Priapurl, for example, have lived too long.'
'Undoubtedly,' said the beholder. It sounded amused. 'Is the hunt for spellfire over then?'
'Rather than becoming an attractive addition to our power, spellfire could well become the doom of the entire Brotherhood. It would certainly have done so, the way Manshoon was going about it. Its capture became his private obsession.'
Fzoul paused and looked around the chamber-at the upperpriests and Sarhthor, at the head of the surviving, senior mages. His mouth tightened as he recalled Manshoon's traitor agent, Ghaubhan Szaurr. He wondered briefly if the wizards had discovered his own agents among their ranks.
'Nonetheless, spellfire is too important to ignore. At the very least, we must destroy its source-how much longer can one young girl have such luck, after all? — or prevent our rivals in Mulmaster, Thay, Calimshan, and the Cult of the Dragon from seizing it. With or without us. the hunt for spellfire will continue.'
Fzoul turned and pointed at a certain mage as if coming to a sudden decision. Let them all think him as headstrong and arbitrary as Manshoon; it would lead to traitors revealing themselves before their plans were
