The young widow kneeled in front of Lander, then took his face in her hands and drew his lips to hers. When she kissed him, a wave of fire coursed through his body. The Bedine's superstition, tomorrow's battle, even the Zhentarim, no longer seemed important. All that mattered was the burning thirst that racked his body. Nothing could quench it except Ruha.

Lander felt the young widow slip the keffiyeh from his head, and then his own hands were clutching at her aba. In an instant, he had pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. Ruha let him run his callused hands over her soft sienna skin, then she unclasped his dagger belt and dropped it at his side. Her hands slipped beneath his robes, soft and caressing and igniting him with desire wherever they touched.

The widow moved closer, and the frankincense odor of her body filled his breath. Lander found her lips, and they kissed again, their desire raging hotter than the rocks of At'ar's Looking Glass. Ruha tugged the Harper's aba over his head, plunging him into darkness.

As they drank from each other's lips, the scorched world outside the tent faded to a mirage, and Ruha became Lander's cool well. He quenched his thirst with the sweetness of her love, and she took from him the comfort of his strength. Together, they made an oasis in the parched sea and, if only for a time, they held at bay the troubled sands of Anauroch.

Later, Lander lay with Ruha pressed against his side, one of her arms and one of her legs thrown protectively across his body. Like a leopard on the stalk, tomorrow's battle was creeping back into his thoughts. Instead of being anxious or worried, though, he felt strangely at peace.

Tomorrow there would be a battle, and his task would be completed. If the Bedine won, he and Ruha would depart Anauroch together. They would return to his father's house in Archenbridge, probably with Ruha still insisting upon wearing her veil in the streets. Behind them they would leave all of the witch's years of loneliness and, Lander hoped, the shame of his mother's secret life and the anger caused by her betrayal of his father. He and Ruha would start a new life together.

Unfortunately, there was still one more battle between them and their newfound serenity. If the Bedine were going to win, it was time for him to join the sheikhs and to leave Ruha to study the few spells she needed to learn before morning.

When Lander stirred, Ruha opened her eyes. "What's wrong? You're not sorry-"

The Harper put his fingers to the young witch's lips. "I'm not sorry at all," he said. "I'm looking forward to spending my life making love to you." He gently moved her arm off his chest and sat up. "But we both have things to do before morning."

Lander reached for his aba and slipped it over his head.

"Yes, and I'm still enough of a Bedine that winning this battle is important to me," Ruha said, reaching for her own aba. "I just pray to Eldath that the sheikhs have made a good plan."

Lander smiled, then leaned down to kiss Ruha. "I'll make sure of it."

Ruha pulled away. "You are very confident of yourself," she laughed, slipping her robe over her head. "How can you-"

The widow suddenly gasped. "Lander!" she cried, pointing toward the entrance of the tent.

The Harper spun around, expecting the angry face of Sa'ar or Utaiba. Instead, he saw a slight figure wrapped head-to-foot in the black burnoose of a Zhentarim. The yellow eyes of a D'tarig gleamed out from the folds of the black cloth swaddling his head, and he held a gleaming jambiya in his hand.

"Bhadla?" Lander gasped. "How'd you get here?"

"The Zhentarim have ways of bypassing your sentries," he said. "And the rest of your warriors are either sleeping or staring into their campfires and singing their death songs. Perhaps you have one you would like to sing?"

The Harper laughed, instinctively reaching for his dagger. When he did not find it, he remembered that he had not yet put his belt back on.

"I don't have much of a voice," Lander said, unconcerned. If Bhadla was foolish enough to attack, he did not think being weaponless would cause him much trouble. "Surely, you didn't come here to listen to me sing. Have you come to beg for your-"

Behind him, Lander heard the sound of fabric being cut, and he knew the D'tarig had not come to beg for anything. Realizing that Bhadla was a distraction, the Harper spun around, stooping to reach for his dagger belt.

A black-robed figure, his sabre drawn, was just stepping through a slit in the khreima. Behind the first man, Lander could see another blade gleaming in the moonlight. The Harper did not pause to wonder how the invaders had managed to sneak past the sentries and into the camp. From what he had seen of Yhekal, the Zhentarim leader was a powerful spellcaster. There was little doubt that he could call upon his powers for the necessary spells to help a small band of assassins sneak into the Bedine camp.

Lander pulled his dagger from its scabbard, then started to move toward his scimitar.

"Step back, Lander!" Ruha ordered.

The Harper heard her chant the words to an incantation and did as instructed, realizing that the beautiful witch was better equipped than he to deal with a group of assassins. No sooner had he stepped aside than a fiery blast of air crackled past him, engulfing the intruders in a white blaze.

The Harper took an involuntary step backward, raising his arm to shield his face.

"Now you die!" Bhadla rasped, already directly behind him.

Lander sidestepped quickly, then felt the D'tarig's blade run along his ribs. The cut began to sting immediately. Groaning, the Harper dropped his raised arm down to clamp the D'tarig's knife hand.

With his free hand, the Harper grasped Bhadla's leathery wrist, then brought his knee up against the D'tarig's forearm and broke it with a loud snap. Bhadla screamed and dropped the dagger. Without setting his leg back down, Lander swept the would-be assassin's feet from beneath him, at the same time pulling forward on the broken arm. The D'tarig landed flat on his back directly in front of Lander.

Before the Harper could do anything else, Ruha stepped around him. Her jambiya flashed once, opening a six-inch gash across Bhadla's throat. Blood began pouring onto the same carpet that the Harper and the witch had been lying upon moments before.

"Are there any more?" Lander asked, scanning the sides of the tent.

"Wasn't that enough?" Ruha responded. "How badly are you hurt?"

Lander felt warm blood running over his fingers and realized that he was holding his wound. He pulled his hand away and looked at the cut. "Not bad," he said. "It's not-"

His rib cage erupted into agony, sending fiery fingers of pain shooting through his torso. He let out an involuntary groan, then stumbled backward and dropped into a seated position. The blaze was spreading through his body like a wildfire, and he could feel himself beginning to sweat.

Ruha rushed to his side. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Poison," the Harper croaked. Already, his mind seemed lost in hot vapors, and the roar of an immense blaze filled his ears. He could think well enough, though, to remember something Florin Falconhand had once told him: Zhentarim assassins often carried counteragents to their own toxins, for they were afraid of accidentally poisoning themselves.

Lander rolled onto his side and pulled himself toward the D'tarig. Ruha's hands were on his back, and she screamed something at him, but the firestorm in his head muffled her words.

"Antidote!" he gasped, finally latching onto Bhadla's lifeless arm. His vision had narrowed to a tunnel, and he could see nothing but the D'tarig's body at the end of his own long arm. He ran his fingers through Bhadla's robes, searching for a vial or a tin of powder.