Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [111]
Or is he just wasting his teacher's time?"
All this time, as she shouted, Illistyl was rushing toward a frightened and dumbfounded Narm, until she was only inches away. Whereupon she smiled sweetly, and added in a normal voice, "Narm, how are you ever going to advance your art if you can't concentrate as well as any three-year-old playing in the mud?"
Narm looked as if he was about to cry, and then burst into helpless laughter. "I've never learned art like this before!" he said, when he managed to speak again.
"You must be used to a lot of ponderous dignity and mystical mumbling," Illistyl said. "Now look down at your book again… you can't read runes while you're looking at me."
Narm sighed loudly and feelingly, and bent to his books once more. "Mystra aid me," he muttered.
"She'll have to. But give her a little help in the task, eh?" Illistyl responded. She turned to Jhessail. "Well, it's nice to know I wasn't the only one to climb stone walls in my frustration at this stage of your teaching."
Jhessail raised an eyebrow. "You think I didn't, in my turn? Elminster continuously threatened to spank me with an unseen servant spell while I studied.
Then he threatened to force me to battle him with the spells I'd managed to memorize through all of that."
Illistyl chuckled. "You never told me that! Did he make it any more than a threat?"
"No. I learned to study through nearly anything, with astonishing speed."
"Think he'll do as well?" Illistyl asked quietly, nodding at Narm's bent head. Jhessail shrugged.
"For himself, aye. But as protector and mate to one who will be attacked day after day because she can wield spellfire-that's less certain. Are you listening again, Narm?"
Narm looked up. "Sorry, did you ask me something?"
"Much better!" Jhessail replied. "See that you apply yourself in this, Narm. Your life-and your lady's life-will certainly depend upon it."
Shandril looked around the cavern in awe. It was vast, and dark, and littered with rubble. Elminster saw her eyes moving about, and said, "An accident, long ago. Be ye ready, little one?"
"Aye," Shandril answered dryly. "What now?"
Elminster looked grave. "A few more tests. Things better learned before thy life depends upon it." He walked a few paces away from her. "My art shields this chamber against prying magic," he added.
"First-hold thy hand up, like so… now the other."
Shandril looked at him, a little afraid. "Do you want me to turn my spellfire upon myself?"
Elminster nodded slowly. "We must know," he said,
"but mind ye do it very gently. Stop at once if it affects thee."
Shandril nodded in her turn, and bent her will to the task. The thought of burning herself made her feel sick. She set her teeth, looked up at the mage, and then stared at the hand which would receive the flames. Spellfire blossomed from her other hand, and writhed out in a small, delicate tongue to lick at her unprotected hand.
No pain, but a tingling in her limbs that built in intensity as she continued to envelop her hand in flames. She withdrew it from the raging, blistering heat, found it unmarked, and plunged it in once more.
The flames roared; her uncontrollable shuddering grew.
Abruptly she felt something grasp her hand and draw it from the flames. Another hand took its place, and almost immediately she heard Elminster grunt,
"Urrrgh," and draw away. He touched her shoulder, and then, slowly and deliberately, her bare cheek. No flame erupted from that contact. He patted her on the shoulder. "Enough."
The flames died. Elminster stood facing her, working the fingers of one blackened hand with a frown of mingled interest and pain. "Well, then. It does not burn thee, but the force may harm thine innards, circling back in. It does burn another, regardless of defenses