Storm put a hand on his arm. "I know. It's a long walk back from Harpers' Hill. That's why I came."

In silence one old, long-fingered hand closed over hers and squeezed his thanks, and together they went down the twisting trail through the trees.

"Ready? We'd best be off, then. Even with spellfire to fell our foes, it's a long way to Silverymoon, an' we're not out of the Zhents' reach yet." As he spoke, Delg hoisted a pack that bulged with food, pots, and pans onto his shoulders.

Shandril put on her own pack, but said softly as she came up beside the dwarf. "No… we haven't any spellfire to fell our foes. I'm not going to use it again."

Delg's head jerked around to look up at her, but it was Narm who spoke, astonished. "Shan? Are you crazed?"

"What — why?"

His lady's eyes were moist when she looked up at him, but her voice was flat with determination.

"I'm not going to go through my life killing people. Even Zhents and others who wish me ill. It's… not right. What would the Realms be like if Elminster walked around just blasting anyone he chose to?"

"Very much as it is now for you — if everyone he met tried to kill or capture him," Narm said with sudden heat. "Folk have more sense than to attack the mightiest archmage in all the Heartlands."

"But not enough to leave alone one maid who happens to have spellfire — "the gift of the gods.'" Shandril's tone made a cruel mockery of that quotation. She looked away into the distance — "I… hate all this. Having folk hate me… fear me… and always feeling the fire surging inside…"

"You're not the first maid who's been afraid of things, you know," Delg said.

Shandril's head snapped up. "Afraid?"

"Aye, afraid," the dwarf said softly. "You're afraid of what you wield. Afraid of how good it feels to use it, I should say… and of what you might do with it-and become in the doing."