Mirt chuckled wickedly across the table and said, "Well done, Shan. Ah, to see wizards wearing that sort of expression more often." He lifted his own steaming plate to Narm and said, "Cooked it meself, lad-try it; 'tis good!"

Ignoring Narm's expression of disgust, the old merchant went on jovially, "One must have the right sort of snake, of course, and prepare it just so… or it's best to slay with chicken instead, roasted with almonds, That comes close to the same taste, but falls short."

"I'm certain you're right," Narm said in a voice that indicated nothing of the sort. Then the young mage peered suspiciously at Mirt. "Where'd you get the snake, anyway? I'm sure Tessaril doesn't have them stacked up in her larder."

Mirt smiled at him and pointed at a door, "I found it in one of the rooms-the one with the bones an' open graves."

Narm wandered away, waving dismissive hands at the proffered plate and looking rather green.

"Mirt! Stop it." Tessaril's voice was reproving, "I've brought friends to visit," From behind her, Storm grinned at Mirt, eyes twinkling.

"Mmm," Mirt said in welcome, holding his rejected plate of fried snake up toward her, "The Bard of Shadowdale-and me without anything to plug my ears."

Storm stuck her tongue out at him and took the plate. Out from behind her stepped a familiar figure that made Shandril squeal with delight and bounce up from the table.

"Elminster!" she cried, "Are you well?"

A flicker of a smile crossed the bearded face as Shandril threw her arms around him and embraced him lightly. Warm, avid lips met hers, and she pulled her head back, startled, "You're not Elminster!"

"No," Torm said with a grin as his magical disguise melted away, "but there's no need to stop giving me that sort of enthusiastic welcome; I'm much prettier than he is."

Shandril whirled free of his arms and flounced away; the punch she threw in the process left Torm doubled over and breathless,

Narm hooted with laughter at the sight and asked, "Why the disguise?"

"Torm's been fooling a dozen or so Zhentarim into thinking Elminster's enjoying a quiet rest in Shadowdale," Storm told him, and looked teasingly at the thief, -It's been a terrible strain on Torm, though; he hasn't been able to get in any philandering, robbing cradles, or lightening purses for almost a tenday now."

The chorus of mock-sympathetic groans was momentarily deafening; Torm hung his head just long enough to drift close to Mirt and deftly snatch a bottle of wine from the Old Wolf's grasp.

Tessaril pursed her lips and wiggled a finger; the bottle promptly shot up out of Torm's fingers and curved down smoothly in a return journey to Mirt's hand. The Old Wolf chuckled, saluted her, and drank, As usual, he didn't bother with a glass.

"Tess," Shandril said in a low voice amid the general hilarity, "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I'm getting very restless here," She grinned. "Am I healed enough, yet?"

The Lord of Eveningstar smiled at her, "I think you are," she replied, "and I've something to show you," Tessaril led her through several rooms into the small, cozy, tapestry-hung bedroom Shandril had adopted during her stay in the Hidden House, There, she indicated a window.

Shandril looked at her curiously. "I've looked out it many times," she said, "but it always shows the same thing," She turned to the window-and saw the scene she expected to see.

It was winter outside the panes she was looking through, She could feel the cold coming off the glass, She was looking at a crossroads, somewhere, with high banks and bare-limbed trees all around. As always, there was snow, falling softly and endlessly, In its midst, where the roads met, stood a leaning stone marker with letters up and down the sides, Whenever Shandril stared at the stone pillar, she had the curious impression it was looking back at her.

She turned to Tessaril. "That's what I always see. Where is it?"

"Another world entirely," her hostess replied softly. "But that's not what I want you to see, Have you ever tried to picture someone while standing at this window?"

Shandril stared at her, and then looked at the window and frowned.

Snow swirled outside the glass for a moment and seemed to turn to fog-and then, through a slowly widening gap in the smoky swirling, she saw Gorstag and Lureene sitting wearily in the taproom of The Rising Moon, Hot mugs stood by their hands, and they were smiling at each other, Lureene's bare feet-dirty, as usual-were propped one on each of Gorstag's massive shoulders, and he was gently and deftly massaging one of her calves with his powerful hands. Shandril smiled, and found her eves full of tears.

Tessaril put a hand on her shoulder. "They're well and happy, yes." She stroked Shandril's hair gently, "Are you sorry you ever left the Moon?"

Shandril looked up at her, "Once I would have answered you very differently, but-no, I'm not sorry," She laughed shortly, "I always wondered what adventure would be like, and what the other Dales looked like… and now I know."

Tessaril nodded, "Look out my window again," she said softly. Shandril saw a very different scene this time.

It was a large but dark chamber with stone walls, A man in a black, high-collared robe sat at a table of ebony marble and seemed to speak to someone who wasn't there. His hands were clasped: Shandril realized suddenly that he was praying.

She turned to Tessaril in wonder, "Who is he?"

"If you plan to have any dealings with the Zhentarim," Tess told her, "you'll be facing the wits of this man: Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of the Black Altar, the temple of Bane in Zhentil Keep-and leader of the Zhentarim at present, Watch him for a few days, please, before you leave the Hidden House, If you really must walk into the lair of a snake, 'tis best to know what he plans for youand which is the safe way back out."

Shandril watched the black-robed man, "Where is he?" she asked softly.

"Someplace that surprises me a little," Tessaril replied, "He's not in Zhentil Keep at all-but instead in the Citadel of the Raven, well to the north. It's a huge fortress that the Zhents took over by trickery years ago. The room you're looking at is one I usually see when spying on Manshoon. It's in Wizards' Watch Tower," She smiled. "Some folk of the citadel call it the Old Fools' Tower."

"He's taking over Manshoon's items and places of power," Shandril said slowly, "now that I've destroyed Manshoon."

Tessaril looked sidelong at her and murmured, "Be not so sure Manshoon's gone, Shan. Others have been sure they destroyed him before."

Shandril turned, "Then where is he?" Tessaril shrugged. "Perhaps you succeeded, at that. Fzoul's never been this bold before."

The man in black seemed to suddenly become aware of their scrutiny. He rose and came around the table toward them, his face angry, With glittering eyes, he suspiciously looked their way.

His hands came up, and Tessaril's face suddenly tightened. She took a wand from her belt and held it in front of Shandril, drawing her back a step from the window.

White lines of force sprang from Fzoul's hands, spiraling toward them across that far-off room-and then there was a sudden flash of blinding white, The window in front of them suddenly burst asunder, Glass shards flew in all directions, parting in front of Tessaril's wand as if before the prow of a ship.

In the empty, dark frame, only smoking ruin was left. The two women stood together looking at it for a long moment, and then sighed heavily.

Amid the broken glass that scrunched underfoot as they moved was something slippery, Shandril bent to look at the floor. Molten glass from the window had already hardened into droplets on the flagstones. A few were rather beautiful; they knelt to look at them together, Tessaril touched one, and then snatched scorched fingers back from it.