"I wonder," he said at last, aloud, "if every mage who strives with Art to change the world were swept away tomorrow, if it would make one breath of difference to the Realms."

"I know not," came a quiet reply from out of the night, "but it's never stopped any of us from trying."

Elminster nearly jumped right into the air. Heart racing, beard bristling, he contented himself with jerking around toward the voice as he flung away pipe and wineglass.

Delicate eyebrows arched. "I know I haven't done anything to my hair since this morning," Jhessail Silvertree asked calmly, "but do I really look that bad?"

"Mystra's mercies, lass! Must ye creep up on an old, enfeebled man like that?" Elminster sputtered, peering at his onetime pupil. Instead of her customary man's tunic and breeches, the Knight of Myth Drannor wore a dark, splendid gown. Her long hair, unbound, curled about her shoulders. Her eyes were very dark.

The lady Knight leaned close enough in the dimness for him to see her smile. "It certainly seemed effective," she agreed. "How are you tonight, Old Mage?"

Elminster sat very still. Then he said simply, "Not good."

"I know," Jhessail said softly, sitting down and wrapping smooth, strong arms around him. "It's why I've come."

"Ye know?" Elminster asked dully. Realizing how very much he needed the friendly warmth of arms about him just now, he slowly relaxed in her embrace.

Jhessail nodded, her hair brushing his cheek. "Storm sent me. Worry not; no others in this dale know." She snuggled closer. "Storm has two guests-Harpers-this night and thought you needed someone to hold you."

"Well," Elminster said dryly, "there's always Lhaeo."

"He's busy," Jhessail said, "getting out all your old clothes and wands and traveling boots, and cooking up a storm just in case."