Fafhrd took a long pull from the bottle and swallowed noisily. "Only three words mean more," he said, passing the bottle to the Mouser.
Sheelba folded his hands inside his sleeves. "And they are?"
"I love you," the Mouser answered somberly. Closing his eyes, he conjured the face of his one true love and drank a deep, final toast to her. "At least I had the chance to apologize and ask Ivrian's forgiveness for not being at her side when she died."
Fafhrd nodded gravely. "And I had the same chance with Vlana. Perhaps I can at last let go of that guilt and pain."
Sheelba took the bottle back from the Mouser and stoppered it. "There is another price you'll have to pay for that pain-ease," the wizard said sadly. "Another day will come when you will face Death of Nehwon, and it must be as if for the first time. You'll see your women again and make your apologies."
Fafhrd scoffed. "No need to apologize twice to Vlana. We've made our peace." He put a hand on the Mouser's shoulder and gazed yet again at the dazzling aurora. In the distance, bells were pealing out from all the temples in Lankhmar. "We saved a city, Mouser," Fafhrd said. "Perhaps a world. Who knows how far Malygris's curse might eventually have reached. We've done good work."
The Mouser moved closer to Sheelba and rubbed a hand wearily over his eyes. "Fafhrd has a good heart," he whispered. "But he doesn't see. Malygris's curse was never out of control. It would have reached only as far as Death of Nehwon allowed it, or only as far as Death's master, Fate, would have allowed." He hugged himself against a cold that clung like a mist to his spirit and knew that he would never feel warm again. "But I see," he said. "I see."
"You see too much," Sheelba murmured softly, his voice hypnotic. "And though Fafhrd hides it, he sees as well and shares your resentment."
The Mouser rubbed his eyes again. His lids felt so heavy, and a growing numbness was spreading through his limbs. He turned to look at his partner. Fafhrd slowly slumped to the ground as he watched.
"I didn't see you drink," the Mouser said thickly. He groped for his sword, but couldn't seem to grasp Scalpel's oddly elusive hilt. "You bastard. What was in the bottle?"
"A draught of forgetfulness," Sheelba answered. His voice seemed to roll from some distant valley. It echoed and reverberated in the Mouser's ears as he felt himself sink to the ground. The grass felt so soft beneath him, so warm, so comfortable.
"Sleep," Sheelba intoned, "and wake again in the Elder Mountains, with Lord Hristo at your heels and saddlebags of treasure by your campfire."
"Don't," Fafhrd protested sleepily. "Don't make me forget Vlana."
"It's not fair," the Mouser said. "To have an adventure, and then forget it. What will we have learned from all this?"
"You've ended a plague, my heroes," Sheelba said. "No one but you two could have done that. If Fate has chosen you for her champions, it's because your skills and passions have made you worthy of her attention."
The Mouser's eyes closed. Still he heard Sheelbas voice in his ears, or perhaps in his mind. He tried to shut it out, but failed. He filled his thoughts with Ivrian's face, the memory of her touch. And more—he thought of Malygris, of Koh-Vombi, of a small gray cat on the rooftops of Lankhmar. All precious to him, every memory and detail. He clung to them ferociously, though they melted away one by one.
And through it all came Sheelbas voice, Sheelba, who he knew somehow he would meet again.