by Ed Greenwood
Still watching the distant sphere dwindle into the night, Sharantyr drew back her arm and punched him enthusiastically.
Shaerl and Storm hooted with laughter.
The moonlight of another night washed down over the ruined pillars and walls of Irythkeep. Itharr looked up at Selune, yawned, and said, "High time for slumber."
A slim lady rose from banking the fire beside him, took his chin in her hands, and kissed him fondly. "The watch is mine, of course, O King of Snorers," the Witch of Shadowdale told him, and patted his arm. "Go on."
"Are you sure?" Belkram asked sleepily, coming out of the tent with Sharantyr's leathers and his own, to drape them over a line for the night.
"I don't need to sleep, remember?" Sylune told him.
Both Harpers nodded, more asleep than awake, and said, more or less in chorus, "May the night be good, then." They turned together to go into the tent where Shar was already lost in slumber-and bumped together.
"Ugliness first," Belkram said, indicating the tent mouth.
"Stupidity first," Itharr countered, waving his friend toward the sleeping furs.
"Pigheaded Harpers first," a smiling Sylune said in both their ears, and shoved at their backs. They fell into the tent in a chuckling heap, and the Witch of Shadowdale turned away to look out over Daggerdale, a smile on her face.
"Sharantyr's first child, at least," Azuth said softly as the two gods stood together by the fire, magically hidden from mortals and Chosen, "will be thine."
Midnight nodded. "She'll need to be strong, and soon… magic may be biddable again, and the gods back in their places."
The goddess sighed then, and added almost in a whisper, "More than that: Elminster cannot last forever."
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