Ye gods! Couldn't the lass just have a nice, comfortable fight with half-a-dozen evil archmages? Or a dragon or two? Liches, now-aye, liches were good, even mind flayers…

The Old Wolf was running toward her by then, boots kidding on the broken flagstones of the courtyard, What use he'd be to her, the gods alone knew; he could barely see the lass now, outlined in a white halo of fire, Streamers of spellfire lashed out from it-and beholders died, or reeled back in a shower of sparks, blackened and burning.

The beholders drifted above her like angry dragons, baffled, They were used to foiling the magic of foes with the large eyes in their bodies-but spellfire tore through their anti-magic fields as if nothing were there. They had magic of their own that lashed out from the snakelike eyestalks writhing atop their bodies. But spellfire drained away or boiled into nothingness the rays from their eyes, and it stabbed out at them in return. When their own disintegrating gazes were not brought to bear quickly enough, spellfire lashed through their defenses, and they died.

The Old Wolfs ears were ringing by the time he got close to her: the din of shrieking, air-ripping, crashing magic was incredible. A particularly violent spellblast shook the courtyard and threw him to his knees-and that saved his life. A beholder that would have crushed him with its fall crashed down in front of him instead, body blazing. Mirt got a good whiff of the reek of burning beholder, and was violently, uncontrollably sick, As he raised his head, the eye tyrant's body plates shattered from the heat within, and their darkened shards bounced past him.

Mages of the Zhentarim saw Mirt, a lone man in the midst of that field of ruin and magical chaos, but they could not have done anything to aid or attack him, even if they'd known who he was: a whirling spellstorm had begun to form over the courtyard, created by the struggle between magic and spellfire. Mages who tried to cast spells screamed, their minds burned to cinders-or they watched in horror as their magic went wild, creating mis-shapen flowers or rains of frogs or worse.

Spell-lightning arced repeatedly from the gathering storm cloud to the tallest spires of the citadel around, humming and crackling, Men plunged to their deaths from those heights, cooked alive, or fell into piles of bone and ash where they stood. And still the battle raged on.

Such a mighty outpouring of wild magic had to go somewhere-and it did:

Far to the west of the citadel, near the Border Forest, a great meadow of red-pedaled flowers quivered, bowed slowly in a spreading ripple that washed from one end of the scarlet field to the other, and then straightened again, One after another, the flowers all quietly turned blue.

In the woods near the shaking citadel, along the foot of the Dragonspine Mountains, a small tree tore itself up bodily, scattering soil in all directions, and shot up into the sky, The branches of the trees around it splintered and crackled and were utterly destroyed by its passage, A startled satyr who looked up through the newly created clearing saw the tree heading west high in the air, tumbling and spinning as it went.

One of the smaller towers along the south wall of the citadel simply vanished, With a groan like a dying dragon, another citadel tower grew a crack as wide as a man's hand from top to bottom, At the same time, smoke billowed suddenly out of the highest windows of Wizards' Watch Tower, followed by stray bolts of lightning, shadowy apparitions, and many-hued, winking spell-sparks. Startled Zhentilar warriors, arming hastily in their barracks, found themselves floating near the ceiling, their flesh glowing a brilliant blue.

One of the flagpoles overlooking Spell Court toppled suddenly, sizzling from end to end with lightning. Beside it, a beholder suddenly caught fire and spun away into the sky northward, A moment later, the horizon was lit by a brilliant burst of flame as the distant beholder exploded.

Wheezing, Mirt found his feet again and lumbered across the courtyard. The aura of spellfire around Shandril was noticeably feebler now. She still stood tall and proud, hair lashing her shoulders as if a high wind raged around her, arms raised to hurl spellfire. Her eyes were two raging flames.

A horrible bubbling sound came to Mirt's ears from overhead, It erupted from a beholder that hung, smoking, in midair, its glazed eyes rolling wildly about on writhing, cooked eyestalks.

Mirt ran on, At the edges of the courtyard, now, he could see many armored Zhentilar soldiers coming out of doors and rushing about wildly. They began hacking at folk who fled past them toward those same doorways, Through the archways that led off Spell Court, Mirt saw soldiers pursuing citizens off down the streets, their swords raised. He began to wish Khelben had never given him that rogue stone.

There came crashing sounds from overhead, as if huge wine bottles were bursting. The Old Wolf looked up and saw balls of lightning forming in midair and streaming in all directions, The leaping lightning struck two beholders and drove them into each other. They reeled apart, and Shandril cut one of them in half with a ragged, faltering boil of spellfire. Mirt looked on anxiously, She staggered as she brought both hands together and pointed them at the last eye tyrant, and for the first time in his long life, Mirt the Moneylender heard a beholder scream.

Shandril stood alone in the courtyard, her hands smoking, as the last of the beholders crashed to the earth in flames.

"Magnificent, lass! I've never seen such power. Well done!" Like a joyful buffalo, Mirt galloped toward Shandril through the wreckage of beholder bits and fallen stones.

She turned and looked at him, and it was a moment before her dull eyes ht with recognition. Shandril smiled wanly, lifted a hand that trembled-and then her eyes went dark, and she fell to the ground in a limp and sudden heap.

Mirt's old legs got him there a breath or two later. Shandril lay on her face on the stones, Mirt rolled her over; she was still breathing, Thank the gods!

Then he heard shouts, and the clank and clatter of metal. He looked up from Shandril's crumpled form, then slowly all around.

The Old Wolf crouched at the center of a grim, closing circle of Zhentilar warriors, Their drawn blades flashed as they came, and Mirt saw teeth flash in smiles of relief as they realized they'd not have to fight the maid who brought down beholders.

Well, perhaps he shouldn't have thanked the gods all that loudly. The Old Wolf snarled his defiance, beard bristling, and waved his saber at them, None of them turned and fled, Mirt sighed, straightened, and then just waited as they slowly closed in.

Narm paced back and forth under Storm's watchful eye, "I wish I was with her, right now, I feel so helpless!" he burst out, hurling the words at Tessaril.

She sat at the far end of the chamber, staring at nothing. Her hands were in her lap, and they trembled.

"Lord Tessaril," Narm said again, urgently, striding nearer.

Storm got up, a warning in her eyes, and blocked his path to the Lord of Eveningstar.

They both heard Tessaril say softly, "I know just how you feel, Narm. Go with Torm and get a good meal into you, whether you feel hungry now or not, Come back when you're done-and I'll have your teleport spell ready."

Narm could hardly believe he'd heard her say the words. "Thank you! Thank you!"

"I can't let one go, and then build a cage around its mate," Tessaril said softly, "but you may not thank me so fervently in the end, Narm-nor may that end be far off."

Narm bowed to her and said, "That's a chance I'll take, Lady-one all who live must take. My thanks for giving me the freedom to take it."

As he and Torm went out, Storm and Tessaril watched the young maze go, Then they looked at each other; new respect for Narm Tamaraith shone in both their gazes.