Spellfire

“Fear of us,” Rathan said with a grin. Florin remained alert by the entrance, obviously expecting an attack.

“I’m so scared I can scarce stand still,” Shandril said, “and you talk calmly of strategies and jests! How do you do it?”

“We always talk before a fight, lady,” Rathan answered. “One is excited and among friends and may not live to see the next dawn.” The fat cleric shrugged. “Besides… how better to spend the waiting? Much of what a bard calls ‘dashing adventure,’ at least for us, is a little fast and hard ru

“Hmphh!” said Elminster. “All this jaw-wagging’s the mark of minds too feeble to ruminate in solitude.” Torm chuckled. Jhessail rose from the rocks, the sparkling and glowing baihiir moving above her. She went to Shandril, and took her hand.

“Elminster” the magic-user said, turning from Shandril to the ancient wizard, “there will doubtless be time for chatter later. After the battle, most likely. Tell us now of the baihiir. That thing floating in the air above us has not approached you since destroying your globe, so I know you bear no magic item. It will rob you of your spells, as it has done me, if we do not deal with it. What say you?”

“Yes, yes,” Elminster said severely. “I am not so addled that I forgot-the lass or”-he indicated the shifting mist above the two women with the head of his staff-”that.” He took off his battered hat and hung it upon the staff now cradled in the angle of one arm. He then leaned back against a massive boulder and cleared his throat noisily.

“The baihiir” the old sage began in measured tones, “is a most curious creature. Rare in the Realms and unknown in many of the pi-”

“Elminster!” Jhessail protested. “The short version. Please.”

The sage regarded her in stony silence for two long breaths. “Good lady! This is the short version. It would do ye good to cultivate patience… a habit I have found useful these last five hundred winters or so.” Pointedly he turned his head away to speak solely to Shandril.

“Listen most carefully, Shandril Shessair.” The young would-be thief tensed at the old mage’s serious tone. “In this place, we lack all means for banishing or destroying this baihiir, save one, and ye alone can master it. Tis a dangerous affair for all of us, but for ye most of all. However, there is no other answer. Are ye willing to attempt it?”

Shandril looked around at the adventurers who had become her friends. Then she gazed up at the strange, magic-eating, glowing wisp above her. Letting out her breath in a long, shuddering sigh, she said, “Yes. Tell me.”

She met the old sage’s eyes squarely, holding them with her own. Gently she disengaged herself from Narm’s encircling arm and stepped forward.

The old mage bowed to her solemnly. This drew surprised looks from the knights who watched. He then asked, “Narm, ye retain a cantrip, don’t ye?” His twinkling blue eyes, grave and gentle, never left Shandril’s.

“Yes,” the apprentice magic-user replied.

“Then cast it while touching thy lady,” he said, “and we shall stand clear. This will draw the balhiir to ye both. Shandril, thrust both hands into the midst of the glow. Try not to breathe in any of it, and keep thy face-eyes, in particular- away from it. When Shandril touches the balhiir, Narm, ye must flee from her at once, as fast as ye can. All here, stand clear of Shandril from then on. Her touch will probably be fatal.”

The great sage went forward to clasp the determined but trembling Shandril by the arms. The balhiir coiled above them both.

“Child,” Elminster said then, voice gentle, “thy task is the hard one. The balhiir’s touch will tingle and seem to burn. If ye would live, ye must keep thy hands spread within it and not withdraw. You will find you can take the pain-a cat of mine once did. Use the force of your own will to draw the fire into thee, and it will flow down your arms and enter your body. Succeed and ye will hold the balhiir’s energy.

“Ye must then slay its will or perish in flames. Ye will know when ye have destroyed it. Master it as quickly as ye can, for the fire within thee will burn more the longer ye hold it. Ye can let it out from thy mouth, thy fingers, even thy eyes. However, beware of aiming the blasts carelessly. Ye could easily slay us all.” Shandril nodded, dark eyes meeting his.

“Ye must go out through the entrance, if the dracolich or the cultists have not attacked us by then. Seek them out and blast them until ye have none of the balhiir’s energy left. Let go of it all, or it may slay ye.” Their eyes held for a time longer, and then he bent slowly to kiss her brow. His beard tickled her cheeks, and his old lips were warm. Her forehead tingled, and she felt somehow stronger. Shandril drew herself up and smiled at him.

“We shall be nearby,” he said. “Narm will follow thee, and we shall guard ye both. Are ye ready?”

Shandril nodded. “Yes,” she said, lips suddenly dry. “Do it now.” She hoped the effort of keeping her voice steady did not show on her face. She raised her hands over her head as Elminster bowed again and drew back. Narm stepped forward reluctantly. The balhiir winked and swirled overhead, closer now, as if it were waiting for her to destroy it.

“Forgive me,” Narm said, coming to her side, “but the cantrip I have will make you-uh, belch.”

That struck her as so incongruously fu

The pain began. Elminster had spoken the truth and Shandril wondered, only briefly, if he had ever done this himself. He must have, mustn’t he? She could feel the sparks, the fire, the energy somehow flowing into her, stirring. She bent her head back to gasp a breath, found herself staring at the dark rock above her, heard her own voice sobbing, moaning, crying out… It hurt. By the gods, it hurt!

The tingling grew with the rising, burning pain, until her whole body was shaking and twitching. She had to fight to hold her hands out. She wanted desperately to pull back and clutch herself in pain as the fire spread down her arms and across her chest.

Shandril sobbed. Blue-purple fire was ticking up her rigid outstretched arms. Narm rushed toward her, some part of his mind noting as he screamed at her to stop that the flames were not touching her hair or her clothes.

“No!” he cried, reaching out desperate arms to her. As the young apprentice rushed past, Elminster extended a long, thin arm of his own and clutched his shoulder.

“No!” the great mage said in his turn. “Keep back, if ye love her!”

Narm scarcely heard the words, but the hand gripped him like iron, and he could not break free of its grasp. Shandril’s sobs rose into a raw, high shriek. “Gods have mercy!” she screamed, and flames leaped from her mouth. Elminster waved imperiously at the knights watching in amazement to get down and seek cover.

The fire raged down Shandril’s arms and flared up from her shoulders. She could not see; flames of blue and purple rose from her nostrils and mouth. She could feel energy rolling restlessly around her arms and breast, coiling and flaring, drawing in… drawing all in. She could feel burning anger rising within her, too, crawling behind her throat and forcing her to roar and snarl.

Flames rolled before her nose. Startled, she stopped, cast a burning gaze at Jhessail, saw the flames reflected back from the mage’s beautiful, anxious face, and waved an apology as she looked away again. Her veins were boiling; her body shook.

Something scuttled and writhed snakelike within her, awakening fear. She couldn’t control it! She would bring death to these new friends, to Jhessail, to Florin, to the great Elminster, to Narm… No! The flames rolled away, and she could see Narm’s face, the reflected flames dancing on it, his eyes meeting hers and darkening instantly in pain. Then they were gone as Elminster stepped in front of her love, grave eyes meeting hers, steadily, urging her on. How like Gorstag’s those eyes were. She thought of Gorstag, kind and jovial, roughly wise and knowing. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to fight the coiling thing within her. The heat and the pain rose suddenly and sharply, squeezing her heart in a blazing grip.