Hand of Fire

"Old Wolf," Laeral said crisply, "we have to talk." There was the faintest of sounds-and cold steel pressed against the Lady Mage's throat from behind.

"After," Asper said softly into Laeral's ear, from just behind the knife, "you identify yourself. I suspect you're the Lady Mage of Waterdeep, but we've been having a little trouble lately with shapeshifters."

Mirt made a half-amazed, half-delighted rumble deep in his throat. Like a striking snake, his leather-clad lady had swung down from the plant-filled skylight in the ceiling and now hung upside down above the Lady Mage, dangling from one foot caught in one of the rope loops used by those watering the plants.

Laeral calmly pushed the knife aside, turned around without stepping out of Asper's reach, and replied with a wry smile, "Most of the time I suspect I'm the Lady Mage of Waterdeep, too. Please accept my apologies for this overbold intrusion; 'tis not my habit nor to my liking, but-Asper, what shapeshifters?"

"Two I was forced to slay," Asper said, just as calmly, dropping barefoot and catlike to the floor with the knife still raised in her hand and ready to throw, "and one-"

"Who regrettably fell off yon balcony," Mirt rumbled with an airy wave of his hand, "when discussing the finer points of existence with me: my existence, to be more particular, and its chances of continuing."

"Malaugrym," Laeral muttered, "even here!" Mirt made a dramatic show of sighing. "Even in the best neighborhoods…"

Laeral gave him a sigh of her own and snapped four words: "Asper. Mirt. Spellfire. Shandril."

"What?" Asper asked, stepping forward, Mirt only a pace behind. "What's happened to Shandril?"

"She's heading this way," Laeral said grimly. "With half the darker folk in the Realms right behind her, blades and spells out."

"Me thought the lass was bound for Silverymoon and Alustriel," Mirt growled, rubbing his chin. "This city's a deadlier lair by far."

"Not so perilous as trying to cross the wilderlands to Silverymoon unseen," Laeral told him softly, plucking the decanter from his hands, "so my sister has agreed to come here, meet Shandril, and take her hence. Or wherever else she can best be safe." She raised the decanter, turned it, and eyed the liquid within, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

"Amberfire. Drink all you like, but be warned; he adds pepper to it," Asper said. "You need us to guard her." Her last sentence was a flat statement rather than a question.

Mirt lifted one bushy eyebrow. "Here in the 'Deep or out there in the wilds, a-finding her way hither?"

The Lady Mage drank deeply, shuddered, gave the decanter a disapproving look, and handed it back. "Both," she murmured, leaning forward. "If my Lord Khelben gets wind of this and goes rushing to her with risen magic raging around him, there can be no other outcome but spell-battle. Shandril will have no choice but to hurl spellfire or perish. In that sort. of storm, who knows what will happen to her spellfire?"

Asper stared at her. “You mean it might go wild, and grow to something dragons and archwizards alike would flee from?"

Laeral nodded. "In that case we three-and Alustriel and all the other Harpers and Chosen we could muster-would be facing a new foe who might even overmatch our combined strength: Shandril Shessair."

"If you stand still, Torm, just once, I'll mark you, I will!" Panting, Sharantyr swung away from the leaping thief's kick, flung her practice sword into the air before her, thrust her freed right hand to the ground in a spread-fingered claw, and on that pivot swept her body around. Her left hand caught her blade and stabbed it around ahead of her wheeling body, up and back. Torm was forced to fling himself over backward with an appreciative, "Woooa" to avoid a broken nose. The blunt steel blade whistled past his throat as he went over, and the lithe ranger let her swing carry her up and around with it to land facing him in a ready crouch.

Torm's backflip carried him into a similar pose, facing her from seven feet or so away. They gri

"Oh? See how beautiful she is when fury rides her?" Torm returned airily, gri

He met Sharantyr's rush with a leap to one side, a deft parry, and a shrewd, perfectly timed thrust that only just grazed the ranger's breast as she ducked away,

Sharantyr hissed something unladylike and gave ground, rubbing at where Torm's blade had struck home. Chuckling, the thief circled her, waving his own practice blade-unsharpened but as tempered and as heavy as his favorite long sword- tauntingly. "Who'll mark who, again, Lady Temper?"

With a tight smile she lunged, blade thrusting hard at his crotch. The moment his dancing parry struck her blade aside she leaped with it, coming around almost behind him and stabbing thrice. His blade caught the first two jabs-but the third reached just past him, and as Sharantyr sprawled into the grass, her blade was planted solidly amid the thief's ribs, hurling him over into a groaning fall beside her.

"Thy wine," Rathan told them both in an approving tone, "awaits-and I must say ye've earned it."

Gasping, the two slightly wounded, barefoot Knights rolled over to smile at each other. The dark, tight-fitting homespun tunics and breeches they both wore were plastered to them with sweat, and with one accord they rose, sprinted across the trodden grass-and hurled themselves into the pool on their backs, sending a sheet of water over the stout priest of Tymora.

Rathan roared out a startled oath and arched himself over the goblets of wine protectively. The water was just crashing down over him when the door of the little leaning stone tower that Elminster of Shadowdale was pleased to call home swung open.

The Old Mage was elsewhere, as usual, but his scribe Lhaeo came out blinking into the sunlight, pursued by a wonderful kitchen smell, and sighed at the sight of the drenched, sputtering priest and the two hooting and chuckling heads bobbing in the pond beyond.

"My message," Lhaeo a

There was a brief tumult in the water at his feet as Torm snatched Sharantyr's tunic up over her head-and then wrestled the lady ranger over backward, underwater.

Water roiled, a long leg kicked in the air, there was a brief but furious struggle beneath the waves… and Sharantyr rose from the waters. She strode unconcernedly up the bank, stark naked. A wet bundle of muffled curses thrashed the waters in her wake. Torm's head and one of his arms were firmly tied up in the ranger's twisted, wet clothing, but his other arm was free and rapidly clawing the rest of him toward freedom.

Ignoring him, Sharantyr gave Lhaeo a gracious smile, and asked, "Yes?"

The scribe squinted up at that smile, sighed, and put something into her hand. Closing her fingers around it with his own, he said severely, "Don't drop that. Don't even look at it yet."

He dragged his robe over his head, revealing a hairy, amulet-behung chest and quite fetching silken undershorts, and said, "Here. Dry yourself. I'd tell you to wear it, but it won't come down much past your waist, and then-" he jerked his head back toward the snarling figure, lurching up out of the pond "-well have him to deal with again."

"Why, Lhaeo," Sharantyr said, looking down at him, "there's no need-"

"Oh, but there is. Get yourself dry. I bear an urgent spell-message from Tessaril Winter in Cormyr."