Mistledale, Flamerule 15
It was horribly dark and somehow dusty, followed by a whirling moment of wrenching pain that became a red agony in her chest, rising up to choke her. Threads of pain rolled down limbs stiff from disuse to an aching forest of fingertips… and then light and sound suddenly burst and swam all around her. The Witch of Shadowdale found herself blinking back tears.
She had a body again!
Fighting an urge to shriek in triumph, Sylune clung to that thought: she had a body again! A body Torm had obviously just finished dressing in a black lace cutaway gown that left her bare there and there and there… He stood with his back to her, humming a contented ditty as he held up a red silk garter before the lamp and surveyed it critically.
It did look rather splendid, but Sylune bent all her attention to making the still unfamiliar body move-pushing against the bed with utmost care to sit up silently, and then leaning forward into a quick barefoot step, slipping her arms around him. Her lips went straight to his ear, and before she kissed its hairy lobe, she murmured into it, 'Torm… I've come for you! Torm…'
With a gratifying shriek, Torm leapt into the air, red silk flying. Sylune clung to his trembling limbs and made the leap with him, but the Knight twisted in the air to fling her free and grabbed at his belt dagger. The Witch of Shadowdale put one leg behind her, bounced on it, and lifted her other knee smartly between his, ere she bounded backward onto the bed.
Lord Torm of Shadowdale, Knight of Myth Drannor and thief of some skill, rose into the air once more, sobbing. His darkening eyes met hers for just a moment-with a look of mingled pain, terror, and disbelief-before he crashed face first to the floor.
Some minutes later, the figure sprawled on the furs beside the bed stopped moaning and writhing, and asked hesitantly, 'Sylune? Is it you, truly?'
She stood up and walked slowly around the room, kicking experimentally to limber up stiff legs and toes. 'It is, Torm… which is why you still live, I suppose.'
Weakly, the thief on the floor began to chuckle. 'Bits of me do. Others I'm not so sure about. I'm sorry, Lady.'
'Apology accepted, lecherous scum.'
He laughed openly this time, his whooping breaking off with a catch as the shaking brought him fresh pain. 'Ohhh, gods,' he said at last, rolling over. 'I've not felt this much pain since… well, never mind.'
'I hope she was worth it,' Sylune said teasingly, and then asked curiously, 'Why weren't you wearing one of your usual flamboyant codpieces?'
Torm looked hurt. 'I wasn't dressed yet! Can you see me going downstairs in this?' He held his arms wide to fully display the patched and stained cotton undersuit that went under his fighting leathers. 'Ladies first,' he added, gesturing at her.
Sylune put her hands on her hips and gave him a level stare as she gestured, up and down, at herself. 'This is your idea of 'dressed,' I take it?'
Torm gave her a sly look from the floor, and rolled up to a sitting position, wincing once. 'Well, you hadn't complained before tonight,' he said, feigning innocence.
'Yet-as you may just have noticed-I'm doing so now,' Sylune told him calmly. Then she snapped, 'Take this frippery off me-at once!'
Torm bounded to his feet with an alacrity that belied the severity of his injury. 'My pleasure, Lady Sylune!'
'I'll bet,' she said dryly. 'Try to keep your hands on the buckles and thongs, now, and when you're done, I'll need a neck rub. Hmm-my calves, too. This body is as stiff as old wood!' She struck a pose, pirouetted experimentally, admired herself in the burnished metal looking glass, and rubbed her nose. 'You've taken some care with my hair,' she said in tones of pleased surprise. 'Diligent brushing, at the least. My thanks, Torm.'
'Lady,' Torm said seriously, reaching out a finger to stroke the silvery fall of her hair, 'in all my life I'd never dared touch your hair, or Storm's, but I always wanted to. It's… truly beautiful… like spun silver.'
Sylune laughed lightly and laid a hand on his cheek. 'Why, thank you, Torm-this, from the maid-chaser of Shadowdale?'
'Lady, I meant it,' the thief replied, and bowed. ' 'Twas an honor caring for your body.' A twinkle crept into his eye. 'In fact, if you weren't so many years my senior…'
Sylune glared at him, and gestured again at herself. 'You were hard at work removing all this saucy stuff, remember?'
Torm's jaw dropped-and he discovered the fallen garter. Plucking it up from the floor, he offered it to her mutely. Sylune gave him a withering look, so he shrugged and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he undid her sash, put his hands on her shoulders and spun her around lightly. He stripped her with a speed and expertise that told her he'd done this a time or two before.
'This bit's much easier when you're standing up and-er, with us,' he commented. 'Oh, by the way…the stone that lets you occupy this body is implanted here.' He touched the inside of her left arm, just above the elbow. Sylune probed cautiously, and thought she felt the magic stone deep within, alongside the bone.
'Mystra bless you and keep you, Old Mage,' she breathed, 'wherever she is.'
'What about prayers for me?' Torm asked teasingly, fingers busy undoing the black silk choker he'd put around her throat earlier.
'You'll be needing more than I feel capable of giving,' she replied with a chuckle. Then the Witch of Shadowdale reached out, caught hold of his chin, and kissed him firmly, darting her tongue into his mouth.
When she released him, Torm was smiling a little dazedly. 'What was that for?' he asked in pleased tones.
She put her arms around him, smelly undersuit and all. 'Torm, you rogue,' she said feelingly, 'do you know how long it's been since I've held someone? Kissed anyone? Tasted anything? Even your mouth is preferable to nothing at all!'
'Hey!' Torm said in aggrieved tones. 'What's wrong with the taste of my mouth?'
'Nothing,' she said tartly, spinning away from him, 'except that it's the only taste you've got.' She sat down on a chair. 'Now, about that neck rub.'
'If my taste is so bad,' Torm said, delving hurriedly into a wardrobe, 'how is it that you're in my bedchamber, out of a dozen more in this place? Hey?'
'That can be remedied,' she said, rising.
Torm caught her wrist and sat her back down. 'You're not going out into the hall like that!'
'Why not?' She gave him a deadly look. 'After what I've heard about what you've been doing to this body before I got here, it could hardly damage my reputation-or yours-any further! Has Ulistyl heard about this?'
Torm looked pained. 'How did you-? Oh. Elminster.'
She nodded in silent satisfaction. The thief looked at her, found his eyes drawn to meet her own, sighed, reminded himself again that this magnificent creature was a woman old enough to be his great granddam many times over, smiled ruefully, and turned her around to face away from him again. 'You wanted a rub,' he said, 'and you shall have it. Then you can go down those stairs and fight off the entire Zhent army doe-naked if you want… but you might catch cold before they get here.'
'Not if all the men of Mistledale give me the sort of hot glances you've been throwing my way,' she returned. Torm chuckled and tipped some scented oil out of the bottle he'd taken from the wardrobe, rubbed his palms together, and then laid gentle fingers on her shoulders.
Sylune stiffened. 'What're y-oh. Ohhh.' A few pleasant minutes later, she asked almost sleepily, 'How did you know I love the scent of cloves? Did Elminster tell you?'
'No,' Torm replied, sounding irritated.
'How, then?'
'Lady Sylune,' Torm said carefully, 'I am a thief.' He had to hold her up to keep her from falling off the chair as she bent over and shook with sudden, helpless laughter. Daggerdale, Flamerule 15
Valaster's Stand had thrust lancelike into the eastern Daggerdale sky for an age and more, and bid fair to do so for a long time to come. Long before Valaster had chosen to die there, the stand had been an arrowhead-shaped
