The stone spire shifted, flung aside huge pieces of the upper floors, and hurled itself clown into the courtyard below. The rolling sound was like angry thunder. Men in windows around the court stared open-mouthed at the tumbling stone. Most of them were too tired to scream. Others seemed to take some satisfaction in seeing the tower fall. The last of its walls toppled into ruin, and dust rose up as the tortured stones of the courtyard heaved one last time.

Shandril looked around the court, spellflames dancing in her hair, breast heaving, Another turret toppled, It shattered on impact and sent stones bouncing and rolling almost to her feet.

Once the dust settled, she stood back, satisfied-and then frowned, Wizards' Watch Tower had been only one in a forest of gray fortress towers, most of which still stood. She raised her hands to bring the whole lot tumbling down… and then paused: a frightened dunwing was flying past her, calling to a mate it could not find.

Shandril watched it go, sighed, and shook her head. Life went on, towers rose and fell-and who noticed? What difference did it all make? She spread her hands and saw the spellfire rippling along her skin, What good was all this power to hurt and kill and compel? It was empty, Well, at least she could also heal.

Shandril turned to where her companions lay, and spellfire flared in her hands again, Narm's body was still, his lips twisted in a snarl of agony. Shandril looked down at him, and the face of Delg came into her mind.

Her eves blurred with sudden tears, She knelt and kissed those twisted lips gently, and felt them move under hers as spellfire slid slowly out of her. Carefully she held its flow in check, pressing herself against the body of her man, willing his hurts to fade away, Spellfire rushed through him, clearing away burns and clotted blood, scars and contaminated flesh, Narm groaned weakly, shifting under her, and Shandril shared her spellfire, letting it run into him in a pool of fiery force, Narm stiffened.

"Ohh!" he gasped, "Gods, but that burns!" His eyes flew open.

Shandril smiled down into his bruised face and kissed him, taking her spellfire back. Flames leaked around their lips as he smiled in grateful relief from the pain, then hugged her happily.

When Shandril broke free to breathe, Narm grinned up at her, "You've won! You did it!" he said.

Shandril crooked an eyebrow, "We did it," she replied, almost disapprovingly, "Without you-and the others-I'd be so much meat on Fzoul's floor right now."

She sighed and glanced up, A Zhentilar who'd been cautiously approaching across the courtyard turned and fled, Shandril chuckled.

"Fzoul and most of the wizards here- are dead-and I think I'm done with killing Zhents for a bit… unless they try to bother its again before we leave," She stood up. "How do you feel?"

"Weak, but whole," he said with a smile, He tried futilely to smooth down his hair with his fingers; it stood out straight from his scalp, "I've had enough of a taste of spellfire to know I never want such power" he added, "How are you, Shan?"

Shandril smiled at him, "Never better, lord of my heart." Spellfire danced in her eyes for a moment.

Narm shank away with an involuntary shiver.

Sadness touched Shandril's eyes as they stared at each other. Narm reached out to lay his hand firmly on her arm, "It's not-I don't fear you, my love; it's just the fire-"

"I know," she said softly, "You, at least, don't think of me as a prize to be fought over, or a goddess of fire to be feared."

Narm looked at the motionless forms lying nearby, "Neither do these Harpers, love," he said.

She turned to Narm and replied, "Yes, time to wake these dear friends-all but Sarhthor, I fear." She stared at the wizard's sharp features and impulsively bent and kissed his cheek. He did not stir, Sad and sober, Shandril turned to heal her other friends with a kiss,..

The last tingling of the spellfire left Mirt, and the gentle healing hands withdrew. The Old Wolf growled and tried to struggle to his feet. The world swam, and his knees gave way, He fell back, too weak and dazed to rise yet…

Tessaril sighed and fought her own weakness, Dragging herself upright, she leaned on her sword for support, "Come, Lord," she said quietly, extending a hand. Mirt groaned again, and struggled to reach her slim fingers…

"Mono. That was a nice kiss," Belarla said, stretching, as she lay on her back on the flagstones. Shandril watched the wrinkles of pain fading away from the Harper s beautiful face and smiled down at her. Belarla smiled back.

"Yes, she's much better than most of our clients," a still groggy Oelaerone commented from nearby, She sat idly turning something in her fingers: a few scorched feathers clinging to a blackened wooden shaft-all that was left of the arrow that had nearly claimed her life. "But then they're men… and what do men know of kissing?"

Belarla rolled up to one elbow. She stiffened and put a warning hand on Shandril's arm. "Speaking of men," she murmured, pointing.

Shandril looked up quickly and saw men with grim faces-priests in the black robes of Bane-coming into the courtyard. The Holy of Bane were more than a score strong, and some of them held glowing staves and maces, A tall man at their head raised his staff, pointed at Shandril and her companions, and shouted, "For the glory of Bane, stay them!"

"Slay them!" thundered thirty throats as one, and the priests loyal to Elthaulin, the New Voice of Bane, followed him forward.

With a dark look in her eyes, Shandril rose from the Harpers. Spellfire swirled around her hands and ran swiftly along her hair-and then she sent it lashing out, Elthaulin blazed up in front of her like a dry torch.

Healing took far more spellfire than smiting, Shandril realized wearily. Mast I go on killing forever? "Halt, men of Bane!" she cried, "Let me be, and I'll leave: you alive. Or strike at me-and taste this!"

Shandril let flames roar up into the sky and forced a savage smile onto her weary lips. The priests-' charge ended, They screamed and pushed at each other in a mad retreat. Shandril followed, grimly determined to make the city safe by nightfall,

No, they'd not soon forget Shandril Shessair in this city.

By the time Shandril returned to Spell Court, the sun was setting over the Citadel of the Raven, In the gloaming, she saw winking spell lights beside the cluster of her friends, The lights faded, and a single figure stood where they'd been-the Bard of Shadowdale. Shandril ran joyously to meet Storm, who had begun conversing with Mire and the others.

As Shandril approached, Storm turned and called out warmly, "I wondered when you'd grow tired of devastating the place."

They hugged each other. "Belarla and Oelaerone send you their heartfelt thanks and their congratulations," Storm said, "Mirt tells me they had to get back to their house, before the customers started to come calling-and before you got them into another fight they might not walk away from."

Shandril had started to laugh, but she fell silent at those set words, She looked past the bard at the body of Sarhthor of the Zbentarim lying still on the flagstones, Shivering she clutched Storms strong, reassuring body harder and quietly told the bard what the wizard had done before he died.

Storm drew back in surprise, staring alternately at Shandril and Sarhthor, "I don't recognize him," she said, "but I don't know all the Harpers in Faerun, after all," Her face darkened, "Come; let's be gone from here before Manshoon regains control."

"Manshoon?"

Storm smiled ruefully." Manshoon is always less dead than he appears, Elminster's slain him more than once before-quite thoroughly-only to have to do it again a winter later, Manshoon has his secrets," She smiled more broadly and dropped something into Shandril's hand, "And now you do, too."