The Witch of Shadowdale made the little hopping motion in midair that meant she'd shrugged but forgotten she currently had no shoulders. "One has one's reputation to maintain. Besides, I'm used to being able to drift about, now-and my body's perfectly safe where it is."

"Reputation? My shapely behind!" Storm snorted, as wood clunked and flew again. "More like you didn't feel like helping to chop wood this morn, eh?"

Sylune smiled. "Now, would I admit that?" She slid around to hover by Storm's other shoulder as the first bright rays of the rising sun stabbed down into the hollow, over the tall stacks of split firewood. "And what would the wood-chopping Chosen of Mystra desire for morningfeast this fair day?"

"Fresh milk, dove eggs and sage, sharp cheese topped with hot nutmeg sauce, fried mushrooms and bacon slabs, a handful of radishes and another of grapes, and a mince tart or two, with a little mint wine to wash it down," Storm rattled off without hesitation or any pauses for breath.

Sylune gave her a withering look.

Storm said cheerily, "You asked. Did you leave your body in the kitchen, as usual? Well, then-you can have it all ready by the time I'm finished here."

"I can?"

"Nothing's too much for the free-floating Chosen of Mystra," Storm replied grandly, bowing like a court noble.

"That gesture looks a little grander if you're wearing clothes," the Witch of Shadowdale observed.

"Such criticism is more kindly received from folk who're wearing bodies," Storm told her. "Now get out of here. There're two shadowtops crowning that pile over there, and I want to try a little axe-throwing without a clever-mouthed flying head in the way!"

Sylune thrust out her own tongue, and then flew idly away across the raspberry patch in the brightening morning.