anxiously,

peering down at the coffin. "Did you hear her calling for me?" Caramon put his arm around his twin. "We have

to get you

home," he said firmly.

"We must hurry!" Raistlin gasped, shoving aside his brother's hand. He seemed intent on leaping into the

grave. "She's calling me."

But he couldn't walk properly. Something was wrong with the ground. It rolled like the back of a leviathan,

rolled and pitched him off.

He was sinking, sinking into the grave. The dirt was falling on him, and still he could hear her voice....

Raistlin collapsed, fell to the ground at the graveside. His eyes closed. He lay unmoving in the mud and fallen

leaves.

Caramon bent over him. "Raist!" he called, giving him a little shake.

His twin did not respond. Caramon glanced around. He was alone with his brother, except for the gravedigger,

who was shoveling as rapidly as he could to get in out of the wet. The other mourners had left as soon as

decently possible, heading for the warmth of their homes or the crackling fire in the Inn of the Last Home. They

had spoken their final condolences hurriedly, not really knowing what to say. No one had known Rosamun very

well, no one had liked her.

There was no one to help Caramon, no one to advise him. He was on his own. He bent down, prepared to lift

his brother in his arms and carry him home.

A pair of shining black boots and the hem of a brown cloak came into his view.

"Hello, Caramon."

He looked up, thrust back his hood to see better. The rain poured down, streamed from his hair into his eyes.

A woman stood in front of him. A woman around twenty years of age, maybe older. She was attractive,

though not beautiful. Her hair, beneath her hood, was black and curled damply around her face. Her eyes were

dark and bright, perhaps a little too bright, shining with a diamond's hardness. She wore brown leather armor,

molded to fit over her curvaceous figure, a green

loose-fitting blouse, green woolen hose, and the shining black boots that came to her knees. A sword hung from

her hip.

She seemed familiar. Caramon knew he knew her, but he didn't have time to sort through the lumberyard that

was his memory. He mumbled something about having to help his brother, but the woman was now down beside

him, kneeling over Raistlin.

"He's my brother, too, you know,"she said, and her mouth twisted in a crooked smile.

"Kit!" Caramon gasped, recognizing her at last. "What are you- Where did you- How did-"

"Here, we better get him somewhere warm and dry," Kitiara interrupted, taking charge of the situation, much

to Caramon's relief.

She was strong, as strong as a man. Between the two of them, they lifted Raistlin to his feet. He roused briefly,

stared around with unfocused eyes, muttered something. His eyes rolled back, his head lolled. He lost

consciousness again.

"He's ... he's never been this sick!" Caramon said, his fear something real and alive inside him, squeezing his

heart. "I've never seen him this bad!"

"Bah! I've seen worse," said Kitiara confidently. "Lots worse. I've treated worse, too. Arrow wounds in the

gut, legs cut off. Don't worry," she added, her smile softening in sympathy for Caramon's anguish. "I fought

Death before over my baby brother and I won. I can do it again if need be."

They carried Raistlin up the long flight of stairs to the boardwalk, made their way beneath the drippingtree

branches to the Majeres' small house. Once inside, Caramon built up the fire. Kit stripped off Raistlin's wet

clothes with swift, unblushing efficiency. When Caramon ventured a mild, embarrassed protest, Kitiara laughed.

"What's the matter, baby brother? Afraid this will shock my delicate feminine sensibilities? Don't worry," she

added with a grin and a wink, "I've seen men naked before."

His face extremely red, Caramon helped his sister lay Raistlin down in his bed. He was shivering so that it

seemed he might fall out. He spoke, but he made no sense and would occasionally cry out and stare at them with