best do, when we're all gone, is take a walk in that beautiful garden out there with your uncle, and talk about what you want to do in life. Not to do what he says, but to decide for yourself. We all have to, sooner or later. If it makes you feel better to hear it, I'd passed away almost seventy years before I stopped my wild, witless pursuit of fun and started wondering what I wanted to do for myself.'
Oburglan gulped. 'Seventy years?' he said faintly. 'I didn't know there was that much fun.'
The table roared with laughter once more. When Lord Thael could speak again, he slapped Oburglan's arm, 'Well said!' He turned to Storm and added quietly, 'And very well said, Lady. I don't think I've a tongue nimble enough to thank you rightly for saying those words. I've never heard it said better, in all my… er, sixty-eight years.'
Storm smiled at him. 'Shall I come back in two years to ask you what you've decided to do with your life?'
There were uneasy chuckles around the table, and Thael shook his head with a rueful smile. 'I'd forgotten that the tongue can be sharper than a sword.'
'I think you have the quotation wrong, Lord,' the priest offered jestingly, but Storm turned on him with a smile.
'What, Hand of Tymora? You stand in service to a goddess and don't know for yourself the truth of that maxim? Truly, you must be a very good priest! All the clergy I know would much rather face the swords of foes than the lashing tongues of their superiors!'
Dathtor Vaeldeir winced. 'I begin to see the truth of another maxim, Lords and Lady: 'If thou art captured, do and say anything to keep yourself from the hands of your foe's womenfolk.''
Deep laughter rolled out around the table, and more than one eyebrow in the room rose to see Storm laughing as heartily as the others.
She raised her glass of newly filled, still-poisoned wine, her heart light, and bid the night continue long.
When the table did rise, her wish had been fulfilled; they'd talked away most of the time until dawn, and the first shift of servants had been replaced at table by a second. Most of the men were stumbling with drunken weariness as they sought out the jakes; Dathtor the priest was roaring drunk, and Oburglan had been emboldened enough by his imbibing to ask her how one best chose a wife. Storm was still smiling and shaking her head over that as she went to the women's garderobe-which, of course, she had all to herself.
No one attacked her there. Afterward, she went for a walk in the gardens in the last faint moonlight, avoiding the torchlit areas. Someone at that friendly table was a shapeshifter… and a Malaugrym dare not leave her alive, when she could call down the Simbul upon him or point him out to half a hundred wizards. The poison raging through her veins was proof enough of that.
No, an attack would come. She kept to the shadows as Loth Shentle strolled past, a little unsteadily, singing an old familiar ballad about ladies fair and fey. He startled her a few steps farther on when he paused on one of the bridges, announced, 'Gods, but she's beautiful!' and proceeded to vomit his evenfeast helplessly into the pond.
Someone else was walking among the far fern beds, impossible to identify in the gloom. Storm sat down on a bench in the lee of a spiky bush, only then discerning the seneschal, Burldon Hawklan, who strode softly past, hand on sword, eyes sober and alert, taking care to make little sound.
Storm rose thoughtfully and watched him vanish into the night. In one hand, she hid the small thing she'd taken out in the garderobe.
'Out takin'-takeeng-air, pretty lady?' said a loud voice by her elbow. The drunken priest of Tymora tried to lean against the tree, missed, and went for a short stagger before finding his balance again. Storm brought her hand to her mouth to cover her smile as he grinned loosely at her, sketched a shaky salute, and said, 'Doan- doant-don't you worship the Lady Tymora, e'en as I do? C'mere!'
He was upon her, and the smell of wine was strong, and triumph blazed up in his eyes as he embraced her. His arms tightened… and seemed to be changing shape.
This was it. Their lips brushed together, and Storm worked her small magic in careful haste.
An instant later cruel claws raked her back, tearing away her gown and the flesh beneath in ribbons. Storm gasped and stiffened at the raw pain-but instead of trying to pull away from the Malaugrym, she leaned into his embrace, deepening their kiss. His savaging of her back slowed in astonishment, but Storm clung to him with all her own great strength, holding him firmly as her tongue thrust her saliva into his mouth. With it went the powdered silver from the coin she'd dissolved with her spell.
The shapeshifter spasmed in sudden agony, fear, and desperation. The silver was as poisonous to him as the liquid he'd been feeding Storm all night. Had she not been one of Mystra's Chosen, she'd have died hours ago, after the first sip Lord Thael offered her. She kept that in mind as she drew her mouth away from his and watched him closely. The creature who was not Dathtor Vaeldeir shuddered in her arms, convulsed, and died.
When she was sure he was dead, Storm swung his body over one shoulder, letting the claws that still dripped her blood dangle, and carried it grimly toward Lord Thael's kitchen wing, where there should be firewood enough to burn it.
She was most of the way there, crossing the great flagstone terrace, when many doors opened in the manor walls and a score of servants rushed out with lit torches, enclosing her in a wide ring.
Lord Thael stepped out last and faced her, sword in his hand. 'What have you done, witch?' he bellowed, monocle dangling. He peered at her, and asked, 'Or… is that you, Lunquar?'
Storm met his eyes coldly. 'You know what I've done, Malaugrym. And what I must do.' She lifted one side of her mouth in a mirthless smile, and asked, 'Just to save time, tell me-how many more are there of you in this house?'
'I need no aid to deal with the likes of you, mortal woman,' was the cold response. 'With your precious Elminster dead, there's no one to watch us… and no one to stop us!' His teeth glinted in the torchlight as they lengthened into fangs, and he added with soft smile, 'Faerun will be ours!'
One of the servants screamed. Lord Thael was turning slowly into a thing with a tail and hunched shoulders of corded muscle. He came forward in a slow, careful crouch, eyes gleaming.
Storm let the body fall from her shoulder, kicked off her high sandals, and walked barefoot to meet him in the bloody tatters of her gown.
When she was only two paces away, the Malaugrym sprang and brought his blade around in a vicious arc. Storm strode right at him. His blade whistled through her as if she were smoke, and she grappled with him.
The Malaugrym ducked away and hacked at her again, saw that the blade really could not touch her, and flung it away with a snarl. It was still clanging across the flagstones amid sparks when he flung himself on her.
They strained together in the torchlight, two sets of rippling muscles gleaming. The shapeshifter seized her shoulder and wrist and pulled, roaring triumphantly.
He'd intended to tear her limb from limb, slapping her awake and making her scream for mercy-but he strained and pulled with all his might… and she resisted him easily, smiling all the while, and whispered the words of an enchantment.
The Malaugrym grunted in amazement at her strength, then felt his mouth and tongue moving of their own accord-no, her will! — to utter the single word 'Ahorga.'
Her magic had forced him to name himself! Enraged, Ahorga grew his neck to eel-like length and his fangs into snapping jaws, and he bit savagely at the smiling face of his foe. She turned her head away and forced his own arm up into the way of his jaws-such strength! He darted his head down and sank his fangs deep into her left shoulder and breast.
Now the screaming would start, and she'd plead for mercy… but no. This Storm woman hissed in pain but did not shriek or collapse. He bit deeply again, and twisted his head to tear a great gobbet of flesh free. Her blood fountained over them both, running freely to the flagstones, and he raised his head to roar exultantly at the high, glittering stars.
Then he felt pain such as he'd never felt before, greater than the fire spells that had scarred him in his youth. He writhed helplessly in his torment. Silver flames licked along her spilled blood, fire the same hue as her silvery hair, blazing up into a pillar now-and he was burning with it!
It was in pain and despair that Ahorga of the Malaugrym roared, struggling to break free of her grip, and failing. He stared once into her face, and saw that her eyes were two silver flames, too.
'Nooo!' he screamed. 'Mercy!'
