By the time the Rankan entourage reached the palace gates, Molin Torchholder had already arrived, Kama in tow.

In the palace temple's quiet, he was giving grateful thanks for the storm which had come to quench the fires (that, unattended by gods, threatened to bum the whole town down) while, at the casement, Kama stared out over smoking rooftops toward uptown, where the pillar of fire spat and wriggled.

She had sidled into the alcove, away from priestly ritual, and she couldn't have said whether it was the cold storm winds with their blinding sheets of rain so fierce that she could see it bounce knee-high when it struck the palace roof, or the demonic twistings of the fiery cone which resisted quenching that made her hair stand on end.

She was more conscious of Molin than she should have been. Perhaps that was the reason for the superstitious chill she felt: she was about to be indicted for attempted assassination and what-have-you, and she was worried about what the priest really felt in his heart-about how she looked and whether he believed her and what he thought of her... about whether anyone of her lineage ought to be thinking infatuated thoughts about anyone of his.

It wouldn't work; he was a worse choice for her than Critias. But, like Critias, it was impossible to convince Molin of that.

It was nothing he'd said-it was everything he did, the way their bodies reacted when their flesh touched. And it frightened Kama beyond measure: she'd need all her wits now just to stay alive. Her father would take Crit's word over hers without hesitation; oath-bond and honor outweighted any claim she had on the Riddler.

If she'd been born a manchild, it might have been otherwise. But things were as they were, and Torchholder was her only hope.

He'd said so. He knew it for a fact. She didn't like feeling weak, being perceived as vulnerable. And yet, she admitted, she'd spread her legs on the god's altar for the man now coming up behind her, who slid his arm round her shivering shoulders and kissed her ear.

"It's wonderful, the timely workings of the gods," he said in an intimate undertone. "And it's a good omen-our good omen. You must... Kama, you're shaking."

"I'm cold, wet, and bedraggled," she protested as he turned her gently to face him. Then she added: "While you were communing with the Stormgod, my father and Theron's party came through the palace gates. My time is at hand, Molin. Don't hold out false hope to me, or gods' gifts. The gods of the armies won't overlook the fact that I'm a woman-they never have."

"Thanks to all the Weather Gods that you are," said the priest feelingly and, after peering into her eyes for an uncomfortably long instant, pulled her against him. "I'll take care of you, as I have taken care of this town and its gods and even Kadakithis. Put your faith in me."

Had anyone else said that to her, she would have laughed. But from Molin it sounded believable. Or she wanted so to believe it that she didn't care how it sounded.

They were standing thus, arms locked about one another, when a commotion of feet and then a discreet "Hrrmph" sounded.

Both turned, but it was Kama who whooped a short bark of disbelieving laughter before she thought to choke it off: Before them were Jihan and Randal, the Tysian Hazard, arms around each other.

Or, more exactly, Jihan's arms were around Randal's slight and battered frame. She was holding the mage easily, so that his feet hardly touched the floor. His glazed eyes roamed a little but he was conscious-his quizzical, all-suffering looking confirmed it.

Jihan's eyes were full of red flames and Kama heard Molin exclaim under his breath, "The storm-of course, it's brought her powers back."

"Powers?" Kama whispered through unmoving lips. "Were they gone? Back from where?" and Molin answered, just as low, "Never mind. I'll tell you later, beloved."

Then he said, in his most ringing priestly voice, "Jihan, my lady, what brings you to the Stormgod's sanctuary? Are the children well? Is something amiss with Niko?"

"Priest," Jihan stamped her foot, "isn't it obvious? Randal and I are in love and we wish to be married by the tenets of your... faith... god, whatever. Now!"

Randal hiccoughed in surprise and his eyes widened. Kama would have been more concerned with the exhausted little wizard if she wasn't still reeling from shock: Beloved, Molin had called her.

Randal raised a feeble hand to his brow and Kama wondered whether the casualty was capable of standing under his own power, let alone making any decision about marriage.

So she said, "Randal? Seh, Witchy-Ears, are you awake? My father isn't going to like you marrying his girl ranger, not considering the use he tends to make of her. I'd-"

Jihan's free hand outstretched, pointing, and Kama's flesh began to chill.

Molin stepped in front of Kama. "Jihan, Kama meant no slight. She's in dire straits herself. With our help. Froth Daughter, you shall be able to wed your chosen mage before..." He craned his neck to peer out the window, where no sun could be seen, just the demonic pillar of fire and the lightning of Stormbringer. "... before sundown, if that's your desire, and I will wed mine. If you aid me, my gratitude and that of my tutelary god will be inscribed in the heavens forever and-"

"You're marrying a mage?" Jihan's winglike brows knitted, but her pointing finger, with its deadly cold, wavered, and her hand came to rest on her own hip.

"Not a mage. Kama, here. I can divest myself of Rosanda easily enough: she's abandoned me. But I'll need your help in securing Tempus's permission... he's your guardian as well as Kama's."

"Guardian?" Both women snapped in unison as two feminine spines stiffened and two wily women considered alternatives.

"Someone," Torchholder intoned through the objections of the two women, "must set the seal on the betrothal pacts," thinking that he'd found a way to free Tempus from Jinan and, for that boon alone, Tempus owed him any favor he cared to ask.

And for Kama's hand, Kama's freedom, and Kama's honor, he'd be glad to call their debt even. But for Kama's willing love he needed more. Standing behind her, his arms circling her in the proper pose of the protective husband, he whispered: "Trust me in this; accept a formal betrothal. I am sacerdote of Mother Bey, Vashanka, and Stonnbringer. It will take a month to untangle the necessary rituals. It will take longer-if you desire."

The tension along her spine eased. She let her breath out with a careful sigh.

Once more, Molin Torchholder gave fervid thanks to the Stormgod, who had seen fit to visit rain upon this paltry thieves' world in all His bounty, to quench the fires of chaos, and even to restore Jihan's powers.

Over Kama's head, as he looked out the window, it seemed to him that even the demonic pillar of fire was shrinking under the onslaught of the god's blessed rain.

Tempus was still trying to explain to Theron, who'd come down here to the empire's nether-parts because of that black, ominous rain falling in the capital of Ranke, Abarsis's visit, and because it was the tendency of omens to make or break a regent's rule, that the plague had been specious (a handy way to keep Brachis under wraps) and the storm merely natural; that the fires and the looting were simply consequences of the demonic pillar of flame, which had much to do with Nikodemos and nothing at all to do with Theron's arrival; and that "No one will construe it otherwise, my friend, unless we show weakness," when they came upon Molin Torchholder in Ka-dakithis's palace hall.