"No!" Shandril said, shaking her head violently. "That's not it at all!" She raised blazing eyes to glare into his own. "How can you know what I feel?"

The dwarf shrugged. "I've seen your face when you're hurling spellfire. One look is enough."

Shandril stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed, and then buried her face in her hands. The small, twisted sound of a despairing sob escaped between her fingers, and they saw her shoulders shake.

Then Narm's arms were around her. "Shan, love," he said soothingly, trying to calm her. "Shan-easy, now. Easy. We both love you. Delg's telling truth, as he sees it… and truth's never an easy thing to hear. Shan?"

His lady said nothing, but her sobs had died away, and Narm knew she was listening. He kissed the top of her head, stroked her shoulders soothingly, and said, "I know how you feel. We both do… and we… know well how hard it is for you to use spellfire. But our lives depend on it. We'll both die if you refuse to wield it — or hang back from using it until too late. Our foes won't wait for you to wrestle with any decisions." He stroked the hair back from her temples, and then added quietly, "And I'd hate to die because you chose a Zhentarim over me."

Shandril stiffened in his embrace. Narm caught Delg's eyes, saw the dwarf's expressionless nod of approval, and went on firmly, "That's what you'll be doing, you see, if you don't use spellfire as fast as Delg draws his axe or I work a spell — you'll be choosing the life of a Zhent wizard over ours." He smoothed her hair, and added softly, "And then you'll be alone before you die."

"Which won't be long after, if I know Zhents," the dwarf grunted. He lumbered forward and dealt Shandril's rear a gentle blow. "Come on, lovejays. You can cry while you walk, lass; we haven't time for you to stand here and find all the wrinkles in your soul. Zhents are after us — and the gods alone know who else — so we must be on our way. Unless, of course, you're really fond of this particular spot… as the site of your grave."