Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [132]
"If I may ask," Sharantyr ventured as they turned into a rubble-strewn gallery and walked on over the fallen, dusty ruins of arched double doors into a darker chamber, "what did that look mean, Lady? Or is it something private between you?"
The archlich, who swept along like a silvery beacon in the gloom before her, looked back. "It was, once. This old rogue of yours had the temerity to break my defensive spells and walk in upon me one night. In time, we… came to be lovers."
One silvery hand, not quite all flesh yet, stroked Elminster's cheek. Itharr shivered despite himself as they strode on in the darkness, and his hand crept to the hilt of his sword.
"It seemed the best way to end our rivalry," Elminster murmured.
Saharel laughed. "So calculating, Old Spellhurler? You seemed rather… warmer, at the time."
Elminster came to a sudden halt. Three swords grated out of their scabbards in response, but Saharel scarce had time to look her reproach their way before Elminster swept her into a tight embrace and kissed her. The tensely watching Sharantyr reflected, with sudden rueful amazement, that this is what bards meant when they sang "kissed deep, and with passion." Their lips met and clung, and Saharel began to moan and murmur in Elminster's embrace, and move against him, her tall body swaying.
Itharr coughed loudly and said to Belkram, "Did you notice, back in the dale, that the price of potatoes was a full two coppers above what the merchants were selling them for in Shadowdale?"
"Aye," Belkram agreed brightly. "That I did, and commented on the fact to one shopkeeper. A bad harvest, he told me, and higher transportation costs. They ship entire wagonloads of manure up from Sembia, you know, to dress their fallow fields."
"Wagonloads? Sembia has that to spare?"
"Well, all those people, crowded together in the coastal cities. It can't all flow out to sea, you know. When the gratings and sewers and all back right up, they set to work with shovels, and start thinking of the High Dale. Then, of c-"
"Do you gentle sirs mind?" Elminster asked testily. "You're worse than Azoun's jesters! I'd like to kiss my old friend a time or two in dignified silence… if it's not too much trouble."
Three mouths opened to reply, but their chance was forever swept away from them in the tumult that abruptly followed.
The floor ahead of them erupted into a rising pillar of red, swirling flames-flames that wailed with the tortured voices of unseen men. The room shook, and dust and small stones fell from the unseen ceiling above.
Three swords flashed back reflected firelight before blue-white, blinding lightning spat out of the pillar and snaked three long, frighteningly fast fingers out to kiss the drawn steel.
Three swords blazed with cold fire, and three throats screamed in agony. Dazed and burned, scarcely clinging to life, Sharantyr and the two Harpers dropped their smoking weapons, staggered, and fell.
Deep laughter roared and echoed from the flames, and a voice that boomed around the chamber bellowed, "Ah, but it feels good indeed to fell those dear to you, Elminster of Shadowdale! I'll make you suffer before I steal the very wits from you!"
"Manshoon!" Elminster said in disgust to the archlich in his arms. "He'll never grow up, I fear. All this grand voice and needless cruelty… like a small child playing at being a wizard."
"A small child, Elminster, is what you'll be," the booming voice continued, an edge of anger in it now, "after I send a mindworm into your mouth to eat its way up into your brain and steal all your thoughts, to make them mine!"
Elminster made a rude sound and waggled his fingers in a certain old gesture much used by small children everywhere.