always just beyond his reach, Amberyl drew a deep breath,
said a silent prayer to her god, and crept swiftly through the
sparkling silver snow toward the cave.
Pushing aside the blanket Caramon had strung up in a
pathetic attempt to block out the elements, Amberyl entered
the cave. It was cold, damp, and dark, being lit only by a
fire that sputtered feebly near the doorway to allow for
ventilation. Glancing at it, Amberyl shook her head. What
firewood Caramon had been able to find was wet with snow
and ice. It was a tribute to the big man’s skill in woodslore
that he had been able to coax a flame from it at all. But it
wouldn’t last long and there was no wood to replace it when
it was gone.
Peering into the shadows, Amberyl couldn’t find the mage
at first, though she could hear his rattling breath and smell
the spicy fragrance of his spell com ponents. Then he
coughed. A bundle of clothes and blankets near the fire
moved, and Amberyl saw a thin hand snake out to clasp
hold of a steaming mug that stood near the blaze. The
fingers trembled, nearly dropping the mug. Hurriedly
kneeling by his side, Amberyl caught hold of it.
“Let me help you,” she said. Not waiting for an answer,
she lifted the mug in her hand, then assisted Raistlin to sit.
“Lean on me,” she offered, seeing the mage endeavoring
weakly to prop himself up.
“You’re not surprised to see me, are you?” she asked.
Raistlin regarded her for a few moments with his flat,
golden eyes, then – with a bitter smile – rested his frail body
against Amberyl’s as she settled down beside him. Chilled
as he was, Amberyl could feel that strange warmth emanate
from the thin body. He was tense and rigid, his breathing
labored. Raistlin lifted the mug to his lips but began to
cough again, a cough that Amberyl could feel tear at him.
Taking the mug from him, she set it down and held onto
him as he choked and gasped for breath, wrapping her arms
around him as though she would hold his body together.
Her own heart was torn, both in pity for him and his
suffering and with fear for herself. He was so weak! What if
he died?
But, finally, the spasm eased. Raistlin was able to draw
a shuddering breath and motioned for his drink. Amberyl
held it to his lips, her nose wrinkling at the foul smell.
Slowly, Raistlin sipped it. “I wondered if you would
find us here,” he whispered. “I wondered if the wizards
would allow you inside the forest.”
“I wondered the same myself,” Amberyl said softly. “As
for me finding you” – she sighed – “if I hadn’t, you would
have found me. You would have come back to me. You
couldn’t help yourself.”
“So that’s the way it is,” Raistlin said, his breathing
coming easier.
“That’s the way it is. . . .” Amberyl murmured.
“Help me lie down,” Raistlin ordered, sinking back
among his blankets. Amberyl made him as comfortable as
possible, her gaze going to the dying fire. A sudden gust of
wind blew the blanket aside. A flurry of snow hissed and
danced on the glowing embers.
“I feel myself growing strangely weak, as though my
life were being drained off,” the mage said, huddling into
the wet blankets. “Is that a result of the spell?”
“Yes … I feel it, too. And it isn’t a spell,” Amberyl said,
doing what she could to stir up the blaze. Coming around to
sit in front of the mage, she clasped her arms around her
legs, looking at him as intently as he stared at her.
“Take off your scarf,” he whispered.
Slowly, Amberyl unwound the scarf from her face,
letting it fall about her shoulders. She shook out her snow-
wet hair, feeling drops of water spatter on her hands.
“How beautiful you – ” He broke off. “What will happen
to me?” Raistlin asked abruptly. “Will I die?”
“I – I don’t know,” Amberyl answered reluctantly, her
gaze going to the fire. She couldn’t bear to look at him. The