"Sister, we must go," said Adramis.

"I know," Aenell replied. "I have what I need, right here."

He looked at her and saw that her thin cotton sleeping gown now gleamed with the brightness of Solinari. It had become a full robe, warmly enfolding the elf woman's slender body. When Adramis looked down, he saw that he, too, was wearing the garb of their order; his simple sleeping tunic had likewise been transformed.

"I had thought never to feel this white cloth against my skin again," he said, reverently. "It is a blessing."

"A blessing, yes. But I know that it does not come without cost. We are needed, my brother-let us depart."

The two elves, still hand in hand, walked past the sprawling camp, the makeshift city forming a crude shelter for thousands of their Qualinesti cousins, all driven from their homeland, now come here in poverty and ruin to the Plains of Dust. As Adramis and Aenell passed, many of those elves came forth from the tents and huts and lean-tos, and gathered at the edge of the camp, watching in silence as the twins walked past. Solinari shone bright upon them, and their white robes gleamed like a flare, the reflection casting shadows through the camp.

Before them loomed mountains, the massive barrier of the High Kharolis. They would cross those mountains, for their destination was the forest beyond.

The old woodcutter emerged from the thicket, his bow and arrows slung easily across his shoulders as he entered the yard around his little hut. The three dogs came out to greet him, tails wagging, ears flapping, all of them barking delightedly. They frolicked around him as he pushed open the unlocked front door. The man raised a hand and pointed, and the wick of his oil lamp immediately flickered into life.

What a simple pleasure that spell was, and the next one was, too-he snapped his fingers and a fire blazed in the stove, heating the water for his tea as he sat down in his solitary chair, idly scratching the head of his favorite hound as he pondered. It was the Night of the Eye, he knew, the first since the gods had returned to Krynn.

He had been using his magic, quietly, privately, here in the woods ever since the gods returned, but in those months he had never viewed the renewal of magic as having any significant impact on the remaining course of his life.

It had been such a fleeting joy, for, as a teenager, he had first learned the ways of magic; then the gods had vanished from the world-taking their powers with them-just as he was beginning to master the ways of his new craft. The pain of that loss had been so great, that he might easily have perished; certainly he knew of other young wizards who had died chiefly from grief or madness. At length he had grown used to a life barren of that joy. Still, his early dalliance with magic explained why he had never taken a wife. No woman, no relationship with anyone could replace that thrill.

When the magic had gone, he had moved here, and for forty years had lived his life in the forest; he had grown used to solitude, so much so than now he craved it, disdaining the company of fellow human beings. For the greater portion of his life, he had made a simple life in the woods, with only his dogs for company. When the gods had returned, he had seen no reason to move. The few years that were left to him would be eased, slightly, by his magic. But he had had no desire, not the slightest wish, to mingle again with the rest of the world.

Until tonight.

He had heard the summons while he had been night-hunting in a glade a mile from his home. The spell had come from far away, in the east. His reaction had been instant and instinctive: He had hurried home as fast as his old legs could carry him. Now he rose from his chair and pulled open his wardrobe. There it was, tucked in. the back, where it had lain folded for more than forty years.

With loving hands he removed the red robe, dusted it off, and put it on. It still fit him. Perfectly.

"Come on, dogs," he said, throwing a few possessions into a small knapsack and pulling the door shut behind him as he left. "We've got a long walk ahead of us."

The crowd was cheering wildly, now, and Sirene could tell from the noise that the steel coins were piling up in her little dish. She danced around, taking stock of the marks, deciding which deserved an extra smile or shimmy-and which she could afford to ignore. A few draconians in the near corner fell into the latter group. They weren't tipping, and one of them had pawed her leg so aggressively he left a mark. With a bump of her hip and a sneer, she knocked their table over on her next pass around the room.

"Make way for some paying customers, you louts," she said over her shoulder as she danced past.

The reptilian warriors leaped to their feet, ready to fight, but they were quickly pushed out of the way by a number of customers eager to claim their coveted spot so close to the stage. Two ships from Ergoth had docked that very afternoon and their crews had spilled ashore, eager for an evening's entertainment. They hadn't seen a woman in months, and their pockets bulged with money.

Sirene was pleased to see a band of these sailors claim the newly righted table, elbowing aside the outnumbered draconians. Sullenly, the reptilian warriors skulked to the bar in the back of the room.

Sirene slithered back up onto the stage, undulating, dropping yet another of the silky veils that barely served to conceal her charms. She knew that the males found her exotic looks attractive. The slender half-elf wondered how they would feel if they knew that this nubile wench they were drooling over was more than a hundred years old! For decades she had been dancing here at the Barnacle Bar, and she knew that her appearance hadn't aged more than a few years-to human eyes-during that whole stint.

Dancing was all she had, now, but it hadn't always been like this. Decades ago she had studied magic, worked hard over spell books and laboratory tables, developing an art that she intended to guide her toward a great future. That dream, like so many others, had been shattered in the wake of the Chaos War, with the departure of the gods. She had heard the talk of the moons coming back, but she had paid little attention. The teeming city was her life, and she had no time for ancient games of magic.

Now the music was building, the drummer and flute player giving it all they had. Sirene dipped and swirled across the stage, dropping the last veil to a chorus of cheers A steady rain of coins poured into her cup. Another minute to let the frenzy run its course, and then she would be done for the night.

She was striking a final pose, peering enticingly at a happy drunk sitting behind her, when she felt the summons. It came through the air, from far beyond this bar, this city, this desolate realm, thrumming in her heart, awakening passions in her belly that she thought were gone forever.

And it brought tears to her eyes.

She was in such a hurry that she left her tips on the stage, drawing an amazed look from Fairie, who was due to go on next. Sirene went straight to the little cubby that served as her dressing room, glaring so fiercely at the protesting innkeeper that he had to step aside. In her tiny cubicle, she pulled out a gown of black fabric, all that was left of her ancient robe. It would have to do, she knew-she wasn't going to wait around for a tailor shop to open in the morning.

Putting on the black robe, she vanished into the night.

He smelled puke-his own vomit-but didn't have the strength to roll over. After all the whiskey he had drunk, he should have slept through till mid-morning, yet he could see a pale hint of dawn along the horizon. For a time he simply lay there, head pounding, nostrils and whiskers clogged with the stink of his own bile.

Groaning, he at last pushed himself to his hands and knees, feeling the usual trembling in his limbs. Where in the Abyss was that bottle? He groped around until his hand closed around the familiar, smooth neck. Shaking it, he felt the weight of just a small amount, a few precious sips of bitter rotgut, sloshing around in the bottom.