"It's a good thing ye're the great age ye are, isn't it?" Storm teased him, mimicking his own voice and manner before lie could utter the same sentence. Elminster chuckled and wiggled his eyebrows. Obediently his pipe extinguished, rose up into the darkness overhead, and vanished.

The fire followed it, leaving behind only a warmth and a glowing in the air.

Storm stared at it, and then looked at Elminster, mouth open. "Ye gods," she whispered, "was that spellfire? I thought you'd used fire spells to ignite real wood…"

Elminster shrugged. “The little lass isn't the only one alive who can work such tricks. She merely does it naturally. Azuth taught me, long ago. It drains me overmuch, mind; I don't do it lightly."

"But you did it just for me," Storm protested.

"That was not a light thing," Elminster said, deadpan. He winked at her.

Storm reached a hand out through the faint glow to clasp the sage's hand. "You are a delight, El. I love you, Old Mage."

"Oh, good," was the dry reply, and she felt him wriggling closer. '"then ye won't mind if I lie beside ye here. Being old and shy an' all that, I'll be leaving my clothes on, though."

"You? Shy?" The bard snorted, and then wrinkled her nose. "I forgot to get our blankets, They're-"

"On the horses where they should be, keeping the faithful beasts warm," Elininster replied tranquilly. "Ye'll find ye won't need blankets-my Art'll keep its as if we were bundled up, but without getting too hot or the like, and make the ground beneath gentle to lie upon, as well. Trust me."

Storm met his eyes and smiled. "I do." They lay side by side in the darkness, holding hands, and looked at the silent stars glimmering high overhead. As Selune rose and grew bright, Elminster let the faint spell-glow fade until they lay in darkness under the night sky.

They remained together in silence for a time, watching the stars wheel overhead. Although a stranger looking down on them would have placed Storm in her lush late thirties, despite hard muscles and white sword-scars aplenty, and Elminster somewhere the gray side of sixty, both bard and archmage were hundreds of winters older than that.

With his fingers, Elminster stroked the hand that he held, and lie thought about the secret he shared with the woman who lay beside him in the grass. The secret that had shaped both their lives.

Both of them carried some of the immortal magefire locked forever inside their bodies, small parts of the divine power of Mystra placed in mortals of Faerun to maintain some great and mysterious balance. They could be slain, releasing the power of Mystra-as Storm's sister Sylune had been, not long ago-but grew old only slowly, aged more by the care of responsibilities and the grief of outliving even elven friends than by physical causes. Sometimes, they felt very old.

Elminster was wise enough to give Storm this time to drift into slumber under the watching stars. It would ease her heavy heart. For himself, however, it was enough to have her beside him. Of the sisters he'd reared, Storm was the most his friend, even if he loved the Simbul more as mate and companion. Elminster smiled up at the stars and was happy.

"El," the beloved voice beside him came softly, "you know I love riding Faerun with you… but tell me; where are we bound this time, and why?"

"We go to meet a certain old enemy of mine, and do a certain thing," Elminster said carefully. "Is that enough?" He heard the grin in her voice. "Of course. You phrase nothing so eloquently" With easy grace, she rolled up to one elbow and looked down at him. "And the 'why'?" Elminster looked into her level gaze and melted. "It is part of an ongoing game I play against-certain folk. A very old and deep game, to limit the power of those who watch from shadows in this world. The Malaugrym-aye, ye remember them, I know-are after Shandril of Highmoon. Her affair's by no means clear and done yet. We'll doubtless meet in Silverymoon, these Shadowmasters and I, to do spell-battle over her… What we do now will become important then. 'Tis more important that the Shadowmasters have no benefit from what I've left undone than that the Harpers or Shandril-or Toril itself-gain strength by what we do, if we prevail…"

Storm laughed softly and kissed him. "I love it, Old Mage, when you're so forthcoming and open." She lay down again beside him. "Never change, will you? Promise me that"

"Ah, lass," he said sadly. 'That's one of the promises none of us can keep."

He lay there in silence until she slept, holding her hand tightly. When her slumber was deep, he waved his free hand, and a spellbook floated silently out of the night to hang above his nose. Spellfire was but one of Elminster's little secrets; another was the fact that he no longer needed to sleep.

The old, familiar symbols and phrases filled his mind again as they had so many times before, but he did not let go of Storm’s hand, even for a moment. Throughout life, one does not miss any chance to hold onto the things that are really precious, if one is truly wise.

A cool wind whipped around the mages and howled off east, along the old and broken rock ridges of the Stonelands. It brought faint, far-off howls with it.

Ramath involuntarily looked over his shoulder, but the black-robed wizard beside him only smiled.

"Whatever it is would have to travel much of the night. to reach us, mageling, even if it knew we stood on this spot. My Art will turn it away if it tries. So stand easy."

Ramath shook his head. "I've tried, Dread Master but whenever I look where it's dark, I see her."

"Who?" The question was sharp.

Ramath swallowed. "A light-haired girl… shrouded in flames."

"What? She's here, and moving about, hidden from all but you by magic? Or can you see rocks and trees through her; do you see something from your dreams?"

"A dream image I suppose, Master-yet I'm not asleep. I see her walking amid trees, with a dwarf, a wizard of about my age, and a fat man in floppy old boots. They're just walking, not seeing me or anything-but they're always heading this way, straight toward us… 1 walked to the cliff over there-you saw me-and it seemed the same; straight toward me. It's-I've never known anything like this before."

Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr regarded him coldly for a moment, and then said very softly, "Who has spoken to you of such a band of travelers?"

Ramath looked startled. "No one, Dread Master. I've not heard of or seen any of these folk before-I was hoping you'd know what spell or ghost was affecting me."

"I think I do," the Dread Master replied. "Go down to the Zhentilar swordmaster by the fire and tell him to come up to me. And pay close heed to these images you see. When you return, I shall want a full and detailed account of anything new that you 've seen. Hasten."

Obediently his apprentice scrambled away along the path. Stroking his sharp-pointed chin thoughtfully, Ghaubhan Szaurr watched him go.

The wind flung the wizard's cloak out behind him like a black sail. Ghaubhan stood on the rocky height feeling its tug and listening to it flapping as excitement rose within him: Ramath had some sort of magesight, the gift of Mystra or Bane or some other dark power-and Shandril of Highmoon was coming this way.

Spellfire would be his soon; Ghaubhan could almost taste it. He thought how best to place the warriors-stupid brutes all, but useful against the maiden's companions for the battle to come. It was even more crucial to use his magelings so they stood no chance of tricking or turning on their Dread Master. Best if they all died at the maid's hands-men turned to ashes by spellfire could tell no tales to seeking magic, and could not whisper against him. If one ashen corpse wore Ghaubhan's cloak and ring, in fact, they d think Ghaubhan Szaurr fallen.

And given time to master spellfire while in hiding, this lowly tutor of magelings would become a Dread Master indeed! Then the high lords of the Keep had best look to their Art, for the Zhentarim would soon have a new master… If that book he'd found in old Asklannan's spell library spoke truth, any man whose blood joined with one who wielded spellfire stood a chance of gaining it himself. that joining, moreover, would be a pleasure…