No, an attack would come. She kept to the shadows as Loth Shentle strolled past, a little unsteadily, singing an old familiar ballad about ladies fair and fey. He startled her a few steps farther on when he paused on one of the bridges, announced, "Gods, but she's beautiful!" and proceeded to vomit his evenfeast helplessly into the pond.
Someone else was walking among the far fern beds, impossible to identify in the gloom. Storm sat down on a bench in the lee of a spiky bush, only then discerning the seneschal, Burldon Hawklan, who strode softly past, hand on sword, eyes sober and alert, taking care to make little sound.
Storm rose thoughtfully and watched him vanish into the night. In one hand, she hid the small thing she'd taken out in the garderobe.
"Out takin'-takeeng-air, pretty lady?" said a loud voice by her elbow. The drunken priest of Tymora tried to lean against the tree, missed, and went for a short stagger before finding his balance again. Storm brought her hand to her mouth to cover her smile as he grinned loosely at her, sketched a shaky salute, and said, "Doan-doant-don't you worship the Lady Tymora, e'en as I do? C'mere!"
He was upon her, and the smell of wine was strong, and triumph blazed up in his eyes as he embraced her. His arms tightened… and seemed to be changing shape.
This was it. Their lips brushed together, and Storm worked her small magic in careful haste.
An instant later cruel claws raked her back, tearing away her gown and the flesh beneath in ribbons. Storm gasped and stiffened at the raw pain-but instead of trying to pull away from the Malaugrym, she leaned into his embrace, deepening their kiss. His savaging of her back slowed in astonishment, but Storm clung to him with all her own great strength, holding him firmly as her tongue thrust her saliva into his mouth. With it went the powdered silver from the coin she'd dissolved with her spell.
The shapeshifter spasmed in sudden agony, fear, and desperation. The silver was as poisonous to him as the liquid he'd been feeding Storm all night. Had she not been one of Mystra's Chosen, she'd have died hours ago, after the first sip Lord Thael offered her. She kept that in mind as she drew her mouth away from his and watched him closely. The creature who was not Dathtor Vaeldeir shuddered in her arms, convulsed, and died.
When she was sure he was dead, Storm swung his body over one shoulder, letting the claws that still dripped her blood dangle, and carried it grimly toward Lord Thael's kitchen wing, where there should be firewood enough to burn it.
She was most of the way there, crossing the great flagstone terrace, when many doors opened in the manor walls and a score of servants rushed out with lit torches, enclosing her in a wide ring.
Lord Thael stepped out last and faced her, sword in his hand. "What have you done, witch?" he bellowed, monocle dangling. He peered at her, and asked, "Or… is that you, Lunquar?"
Storm met his eyes coldly. "You know what I've done, Malaugrym. And what I must do." She lifted one side of her mouth in a mirthless smile, and asked, "Just to save time, tell me-how many more are there of you in this house?"
"I need no aid to deal with the likes of you, mortal woman," was the cold response. "With your precious Elminster dead, there's no one to watch us… and no one to stop us!" His teeth glinted in the torchlight as they lengthened into fangs, and he added with soft smile, "Faerun will be ours!"
One of the servants screamed. Lord Thael was turning slowly into a thing with a tail and hunched shoulders of corded muscle. He came forward in a slow, careful crouch, eyes gleaming.
Storm let the body fall from her shoulder, kicked off her high sandals, and walked barefoot to meet him in the bloody tatters of her gown.
When she was only two paces away, the Malaugrym sprang and brought his blade around in a vicious arc. Storm strode right at him. His blade whistled through her as if she were smoke, and she grappled with him.
The Malaugrym ducked away and hacked at her again, saw that the blade really could not touch her, and flung it away with a snarl. It was still clanging across the flagstones amid sparks when he flung himself on her.
They strained together in the torchlight, two sets of rippling muscles gleaming. The shapeshifter seized her shoulder and wrist and pulled, roaring triumphantly.
He'd intended to tear her limb from limb, slapping her awake and making her scream for mercy-but he strained and pulled with all his might… and she resisted him easily, smiling all the while, and whispered the words of an enchantment.
The Malaugrym grunted in amazement at her strength, then felt his mouth and tongue moving of their own accord-no, her will! — to utter the single word "Ahorga."
Her magic had forced him to name himself! Enraged, Ahorga grew his neck to eel-like length and his fangs into snapping jaws, and he bit savagely at the smiling face of his foe. She turned her head away and forced his own arm up into the way of his jaws-such strength! He darted his head down and sank his fangs deep into her left shoulder and breast.
Now the screaming would start, and she'd plead for mercy… but no. This Storm woman hissed in pain but did not shriek or collapse. He bit deeply again, and twisted his head to tear a great gobbet of flesh free. Her blood fountained over them both, running freely to the flagstones, and he raised his head to roar exultantly at the high, glittering stars.
Then he felt pain such as he'd never felt before, greater than the fire spells that had scarred him in his youth. He writhed helplessly in his torment. Silver flames licked along her spilled blood, fire the same hue as her silvery hair, blazing up into a pillar now-and he was burning with it!
It was in pain and despair that Ahorga of the Malaugrym roared, struggling to break free of her grip, and failing. He stared once into her face, and saw that her eyes were two silver flames, too.
"Nooo!" he screamed. "Mercy!"
"I shall give you, Ahorga, the same mercy you gave to Lord Thael Sembergelt," was the calm response. "The same mercy Malaugrym always afford mere mortals… none. This is a cleaner death than you deserve." The silver flames roared up to claim him.
When the body was a burnt husk, Storm cast it down atop the body of the Malaugrym Lunquar, and watched them both blaze. The flagstones beneath them cracked and shivered with the heat, and more than one of the servants fainted away, torches toppling to the terrace to gutter out. Storm stood motionless above the pyre until ashes were all that remained of the two shapeshifters.
She looked up, half-naked, front and back in bleeding ruin. Oburglan and the seneschal, Hawklan, gazed white-faced at her, swords in their hands.
"Lady," Hawklan asked, "what are you?"
"One of Mystra's Chosen," Storm answered him wearily. "These were two fell shapeshifters; the real Thael Sembergelt and Dathtor Vaeldeir are dead."
The seneschal licked his lips and asked, "Was that, then, Mystra's silver fire?"
Storm smiled wanly. "It was… pray that you never see its like again."
"Lady," Oburglan asked, his voice husky with fear, "are you… will you be all right?"
"I will be fine soon enough, Lord Sembergelt," Storm said to him. "I grieve for your uncle. I would have liked to come to know him well."
Tears spilled from both their eyes, then, but Oburglan's trembling lips shaped the wondering words, "Lord Sembergelt? You called me…"
One bloody hand came up to trace his chin. He did not raise his blade or flinch away. "You are Lord Sembergelt now," Storm said to him, "and if ever you need comfort or guidance or the aid of Those Who Harp, come to me-or tell any Harper." A trace of a smile came to her lips. "We even help spoiled Sembian lords." She stepped forward and kissed him.
His face was covered with her blood as she drew back, but his eyes shone with a new light through the tears.