stones of the manor. But she could move and think… though the cold white flames made her tremble uncontrollably as they roared through her.
Sylune found she could move, if she bent her will hard to the doing. Let us be doing, then.
With slow determination, she drifted nearer the Old Mage, sitting motionless on his bit of wall. His hands were uplifted and his lips open, wearing the disgusted frown of his realization that whatever it was had caught him again.
So they were in some sort of trap. A magical trap, though its flames-which didn't seem to harm anything-had withstood the wildness of magic stalking Faerun for some time; it seemed. Some of the wildflowers growing amid the stones had bloomed and withered since the magic had begun. The companions had been here for days, then. Sylune wished she could sigh. I've not been a ghost long enough to learn patience for waits that may well take years.
She looked at the Old Mage's pipe, still floating beside his head where he'd left it, and saw that the flames bent around it.
They seemed to be avoiding it! Sylune stared at the spell-flames narrowly for a time; they boiled up out of nowhere on one side of the ruins, arced over her frozen companions, and then returned in an endless rush to nowhere on the far side of the broken walls. It was some sort of stasis field that avoided Elminster's small, curved, ever-smoking pipe.
So, the pipe yet radiated its own magic-and floated on its own, not frozen by the flames. She frowned. He'd once been able to teleport with it, hadn't he?
She drifted nearer, noticing faint wisps of smoke curling up out of the pipe bowl ever so slowly and rising to mingle with the onrushing flames.
She eyed it. This was probably going to hurt.
Mystra, if any part of you is still around to hear, she thought firmly, aid me now. And with the resolve still strong in her, she surged forward, thinning a part of her essence into the pipe.
Magics swirled and tore at her, defenses against tampering that bore Elminster's trademark spell-upon-spell interlacing. Gods, the pain!
Whirling around in a silent scream, Sylune found that the pipe could teleport vapor in and away, in an endless cycle-giving her an escape whenever she wished-and could also transport anyone who touched it and willed it, thus, from place to place.
Elminster sat frozen, but perhaps she could guide the pipe to him… yes! That very movement was a direction he'd given the pipe several times recently, so how to do it was displayed right in front of her!
Sylune swirled around the pipe and moved it down toward the Old Mage's mouth. The flames bent away from her, and grim satisfaction rose within her as she made the slow, drifting journey. This was going to work!
At last the pipe touched the Old Mage's lips, but he sat open-mouthed, unmoving, and she could feel no quickening of will within him, only the endless roaring. The magic was binding his wits, then. Of course it must be, or he'd have used spellfire to drink it down to nothingness long ago. Sylune wanted to sigh again.
Perhaps she could force a teleport by-oh, gods, this might well be the last thing she ever did, the last moment she knew.
Farewell, Faerun, Sylune thought, and flowed back into the pipe. She must will it to take the Old Mage away from here, to the meadow. The meadow where Sharantyr had danced about with a glowing sword in the depths of the night-a lifetime ago, it seemed-in the meadow just over there.
And then white flames roared up between her ears and up her throat and the world exploded, whirling her away… Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Flamerule 15
'I have seen enough shadow weaving and clearing away of dead kin and rubble to last me many an eon,' the gigantic horned worm declared in a voice that echoed in the far corners of the cavernous room, 'and Shadowhome is rebuilt sufficiently to set my gorge at ease-for now.'
With a rattle of huge chitin plates, he glided into the dim, shadowed chamber, and there dwindled into a bald, long-tailed, gray-scaled humanoid. Othortyn of the Malaugrym eyed his minions, a pair of tentacled lesser kin who peered into the flickering, floating light of a scrying portal at the center of the chamber. Othortyn shifted his tail and asked irritably, 'So how've you two been wasting your time?'
'Watching what befalls in the world of the humans,' Inder said boldly, 'as you commanded.' His quiet companion, Hastrim, nodded but said nothing.
'And what have you found?' Othortyn asked, settling himself on a crumbling stone throne that was almost as old as he.
'The ambitious humans who dwell in Zhentil Keep, bolstered by their god-or one who claims to be Bane-have gone to war,' Inder said in a voice swift and shrill with excitement. 'They've sent four armies into adjacent lands, the largest by road into Shadowdale… where the Great Foe dwells.'
'And what befell this force sent against Elminster?' Othortyn asked quietly.
'Some local human mage called down lightnings and cooked many in their armor… and then the Foe turned a few thousand into boulders while they were camped at a place called Voonlar. No doubt he planned to transform them all, but-'
Othortyn blanched. 'Mass transformation? You dare to tell me that the Great Foe can turn whole armies into toads? I've not heard that sort of nonsense since I was a youngling and pranksome elders tried to scare me with wild tales of human wizards!'
Inder met his master's gaze steadily. 'Didn't you believe those tales?' he asked quietly.
Othortyn glowered. 'So, just how many spells, oh wise apprentice, do these wizards hurl around that I don't know about?' he asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. As he eyed the younger Malaugrym, his tail curled out to open a door that had been secret for long years. He took out a dusty bottle from the dark niche beyond.
Inder shrugged. 'Several thousand, perhaps.'
'So, with all this magic to hurl about, reshaping worlds,' Othortyn snarled, the end of his tail rearing back and lengthening into a hollow stinger, 'why did oh-so-mighty Elminster stop making his rocks before the whole host was done?'
Inder frowned as his master pierced the cork of the bottle and drank deeply. The apprentice said, 'His spell- as would any mighty magic, we believe-created an area of wild magic… which is still spreading. A wizard would see such a thing as the greatest danger of all, and would do nothing to aid its spread-nor dare to risk himself in its vicinity.'
'So the Great Foe did not confront his own foes directly,' Hastrim added, 'fearing for his skin.'
'He turned instead to the other armies, where only lesser mages stood against him,' Inder continued, 'and-'
'Speak no more of the Foe,' the old Shadowmaster said sharply. 'What has become of our kin who reached Faerun?'
'Atari, Yinthrim, and Revered Elder Ahorga survived the battle with the three accursed humans who came here,' Inder said in more sober tones, 'and seem to be roaming Faerun in many shapes, learning its ways and uses.'
'Others of our house have found their own, separate ways into Faerun,' Hastrim added. 'We have scryed Bralatar and Lorgyn, and seen one other, whom we believe to be Lunquar, get of Byatra…' His voice trailed away, and there was a little silence.
'Is that all?' Othortyn growled. 'I thought Jaster had gathered a dozen or more eager younglings around him!'
'He did,' Inder said quickly, 'but when Starner came to you with word that the Great Foe was caught in the loop trap you cast at their gate, you told him to gather all kin with spells to spare and make haste to-'
'Blast all who defy me!' Othortyn roared, and lightning leapt from his eyes like two darting white flames, roaring across the chamber to swallow up Inder and the scrying portal with him.
Hastrim staggered back with a startled sob as his companion and their spell vanished into wisps of curling smoke.
'I did tell you, Inder, not to mention the Great Foe again,' Othortyn said chidingly. Then he turned his head from the drifting smoke and said politely to Hastrim, 'Please continue with the exposition of events that Inder so abruptly abandoned…'
Hastrim stared at him in stunned silence, face pale. Muscles rippled around his mouth as he fought for
