10 – Aftermath by Asprin, Robert

Star’s mother had immersed herself in arts that had ultimately killed her-or had led her to need to die. Her child had terrifying powers when necessity and circumstances combined to bring them out.

But Samlor hil Samt had no need of magic to frighten anyone who knew him as well as the child did. He would not cuff her across the room; not here, not ever. His rage was as real as the rock glowing white in the bowels of a volcano. The Cirdonian’s anger bubbled beneath -a crust of control that split only when he chose that it should, and he would never release its destruction on his kin, blood of his blood … his seed.

Star was old enough to recognize the fury, and wise enough to avoid it even when she was fatigued. She patted her protector’s hip.

The coin Samlor held between the middle and index finger of his left hand was physically small but minted from gold. It was an indication to the sharp-eyed tapster that his customer wanted more than drink, and a promise that he would pay well for the additional service. The man behind the bar nodded as he scooped clabbered milk from a stoneware jug under the bar.

There was no drink more refreshing than blue John to a dusty traveler, tired and hungry but too dry to bolt solid food. It was a caravaner’s drink -and Samlor was a caravaner, obvious to anyone, even before he or- dered. He shouldn’t have been surprised at the way a stranger had ad- dressed him.

Samlor wore a cloak, pinned up now to half-length as he would wear it for riding. When he slept or stood in a chili breeze, it could cover him head to toe. The fleece from which it was tightly woven had a natural blue-black color, but it had never been washed or dyed. Lanolin remain- ing in the wool made the garment almost waterproof.