Crown of Fire

Shan was nodding as the Lord of Eveningstar looked across the room and added, "And so should your h-"

Tessaril's words broke off and, frowning, she glanced from one of them to the other.

Shandril and Narm both followed her gaze, then looked down at themselves. Both wore identical bearskin rugs.

"What's the matter, Tess?" Shandril asked quietly.

The Lord of Eveningstar's eyes were troubled, "Throw those furs off, right now! There should only be one of them!"

Shandril and Narm stared at her for one shocked moment, then Shan saw a gold light glowing in the eyes of the dead bear. She shrieked and tried to throw off the skin. Narm's fur fell lifeless and heavy to the stone floor, but Shandril's felt suddenly wet and glistening, and it slapped at her breast and flank as she snatched at the fur around her, Frantically she flung it away, just as it grew a long, hooked claw-that tore a thin ribbon of flesh from her ribs. Dancing backward, Shandril stared down at the blood, The fur (in the floor in front of her gathered itself, shifting, and scuttled toward her, Shandril had the brief impression of tentacles as she backed away, Her hands flamed.

"No!" Tessaril shouted at her. "No spellfire in here!" Shandril rushed to her discarded clothes and snatched up the Zhent dagger she'd picked up in the courtyard of the Wyvern-the one that had come so close to taking %arm's life. With a snarl, she turned back to the thing that wasn't a bearskin rug, and drove the blade deep into it. Warm, pink liquid as thick as honey gushed out, and the flesh seemed to quiver under her thrust.

The thing had grown, rising to about the height of a large dog, It was moving away from her, slashing with clawed, humanlike hands at Tessaril, who was angrily backing at it with a belt dagger of her own, The Lord of Eveningstar turned her head then and called, "Knights!" Her words were still echoing in the room when a door appeared in the ceiling and promptly fell open. Torm and Rathan plunged into the room through it calling, "A rescue! A rescue!" as they came, "form hit the floor in a roll, bounced up, and slashed at the moving rug with the slim blade in his hand. Rathan landed hard on the thing with both feet, grunted as it convulsed and threw him off, and staggered back to fetch up hard against the wall. With a flourish he brought a mace out of his belt and swung it down to thump solidly in the middle of the shapeshifting fur, Mirt rolled back in through the door at that moment. "Ye gods!" he said, looking hurt. "I leave for a moment an' ye start the fun without me!"

Mirt rolled back in through the door at that moment. "Ye gods!" he said, looking hurt. "I leave for a moment an' ye start the fun without me!"

Tossing tankards in all directions, he snatched out his blade and lumbered forward, bellowing, "My turn, blast ye! Out o' the way, Torm!"

The rug was bleeding freely now under their blows, but rising into a man-high form, Tentacles emerged and coiled and shifted back into the main bulk of the thing; the fur broke into shifting patches that floated atop a rippling, glistening, flesh-colored bulk.

Shandril stared at it in horror, then found Narm at her side, his hands raised to cast a spell if need be.

Tessaril stood beside them, her own hands also raised. "Kill it swiftly!" she said urgently, eyes on the thing. "Its magic can overmaster all of us!"

Torm laughed as he leapt over tentacles and repeatedly thrust his blade to the hilt. "Not so long as Elminster's spell lasts!"

"The Old Mage's spell ended when he was laid low fighting the lich lord!" Tessaril screamed, "Beware!"

"So that's what's making my amulet burn." Rathan said, bringing his mace down with renewed vigor.

"Hurry, lads-it won't last much longer!"

"It may surprise ye to learn that I am hurrying!' Mirt puffed as ichor of many colors splashed around him. driven by the force of his blows.

"You must be old," Torm remarked, as he hacked away a tentacle. that threatened to grip his throat. The rising column in front of him had grown a head now, and its featureless front began to twist and shift- swimming into Delg's face.

"No!" Shandril stared at it. "Torm-stop! What if-?" "Shandril," the face said, in Delg's familiar rumble, turning beseeching eyes to meet her gaze, "Stop them, lass! They're-"

"Not a chance," Torm said coldly, ru

Delg's eyes turned to flaming gold, gazed at the knight, and spat feeble jets of flame at hum

Torm leapt back and crashed against the wall of the room-but the eyes were already flickering and fading, Wearing Torm's sword, the shapeshifting bulk sank down, coiling and sliding into a sickening puddle of flesh, Mirt and Rathan backed away from it, sweating, and watched it die.

As the first whiff of its death reek came to them, Torm picked himself up from the floor, rubbed at one elbow gingerly, and said, -'Gods above! What a knight has to do to get a drink around here! Throw us a tankard, will you, Shan? Be useful for once.'

Shandril glared at him, opened her mouth to make a sharp reply… and then closed it again, smiled grimly, and went to get him a tankard, After today, she could wait to take her revenges…

Much later that night, when they were alone at last, Narm pushed their bed over to where they could look out the newly repaired magical window, and see the everchanging scenes of Faerun that appeared beyond.

They lay in bed together and saw stars falling over the dark, dead ruins of an empty city; wolves howling on moonlit moors; men huddled around campfires in high mountain valleys; and a grim place that could only have been Zhentil Keep, Beholders floated menacingly there above a dark altar, where bowls of blood were cast into fires by horn-masked priests clad all in black, A priest they did not know lifted his head and cried some unheard invocafion to Bane.

Shandril shivered at the sight. "Harm, hold me," she said softly, trembling, "I'm afraid, So many folk want us dead."

Narm put his arms around her and held her tightly, as if the fierceness of his grip could keep enemies from her. He knew he must be strong when she needed him, It was the least he could do.

"No, my lady," he said firmly into the darkness, "this is where we live happily ever after, as the tales say,…" "Tell me one of those tales, my lord," said Shandril in a small voice. Narm looked up into the darkness overhead-and for just an instant, he could have sworn he saw Elminster's face winking at him, pipe in mouth. He blinked, and it was gone.

Narm cleared his throat, settled his lady's head close beneath his chin, and said firmly, "Later, First, tell me what you plan for us both in the days ahead. How are you going to use your spellfire to remake Faerun?"

"Well," she said, in a small, quavering voice that gathered strength and humor as she went on, "first there're the rest of the Zhentarim to roast-and then the Cult of the Dragon and their dracoliclies. I'd still like to get to Silverymoon-remember? and meet Alustriel. After that… well, we'll see."

Narm shook his head; his nose told him he was indeed smelling a faint whiff of pipesmoke…