Brian Thomsen - Realms of Magic

"Don't fret, Mr. Quaid," she said silkily. "You'll find this job has more than enough… fringe benefits. And don't even think about making off with my jewel. If the snows don't get you, my winged wolves will. Now, come along."

I followed her. It wasn't hard; I just let my eyes lead. Yeah, ever since I'd stepped down from that winged stallion, shoulders iced from our flight through the gale, I'd not been able to take my eyes off this Olivia. She was grace personified: young, svelte, clean-edged like a well-turned stiletto. In fact, she was too young and beautiful for this kip, this pleasure dome built beneath a constant sleet ceiling atop the Thunder Peaks. Where could a chit like her, with legs like those, who could get anything she needed and more with a mere pout of her perfect lips, have gotten the grit and moxie and power to build such a place?

Her sculpted arms deftly worked the lock on the iron door of the inner vault, and I struggled to memorize the combination, a rhyme of my dad's forcing its way into my head:

A worm too soft and juicy Is a worm that hides a hook.

You can't think that way, Bolt. This is your new boss; this is her kip, your new home-a far cry from the alleys and scamps and tramps of Waterdeep's Dock Ward.

However she'd acquired it, the Stranded Tern was hers. It could have belonged to no one else. It had her lines.

The stairs we walked took us up and out to a vast great room. The white walls of the place shone like mother-of-pearl, arching smooth and high like the inside of Olivia's leg. I'd've felt blinded by the whiteness but for the red rugs that hung on the walls and the thick carpet on the floor-more carpet in one room than in all the hovels in the Dock Ward.

Dead center rose a stairway with treads of glass. It snaked upward through empty air, held up by nothing but magic. On the second floor, it gave onto a wide arch of red iron filigree, which led in turn to four floors of guest rooms. Beneath the coil of treads was a long desk and a little man in tight black satin.

He wasn't the only liveried lackey. The place crawled with maids and "hops in similar getups, and swarmed with guests:

There were hairless women wrapped in rare furs. There were men in tailored silk suits with such sharp edges they looked like tents tacked down to hard soil. There were kids, too, brash and savage in their pressed collars.

We moved out among the guests, my homespun snow-sodden shirt rough and ridiculous on my shoulders. I felt like a hairy bear.

Bolton Quaid, what've you gotten yourself into?

"This way," said the lady.

One benefit of perfect hips was that she couldn't be easily lost in a crowd. The lines of the place were hers, all right, but they lacked something of the warm dance she had…

What are you getting into, indeed?

As we approached the stair, I saw a woman of equal swank to my boss, only that instead of demure silk, this lady wore scant furs that clung to her with all the impossible suspension of the stairs.

"Keep your eyes on me, Mr. Quaid, and you'll do better," – Olivia said without turning – "Yes, ma'am," I said, coughing to show myself chastened.

We mounted the stairs. The cold beneath my shoe leather made me think the steps weren't glass, but pure, clean ice. I almost blurted my surprise, but had dealt the lady a strong enough hand already.

She led me through the red iron arch and up three floors, then out along a gaslit hallway with guest rooms. Like the rest of the palace, this hall had elegant, rounded lines-more a ribbed windpipe than a door-lined corridor. I knew the rooms would be the same, organ-shaped chambers where lurked Faerun's beautiful and wealthy and powerful, sleeping and eating and defecating like flies inside a corpse.

Beautiful and wealthy and powerful… I'd been riding in midblizzard above the seventeen onion-shaped domes of the palace before I'd realized just how far out of my league I'd be. Still, flies usually don't mind an ant pulling off his own hunk of flesh.

"Voila!" said she, halting. Her pronouncement seemed to swing wide the silver-edged door before her. The room beyond was incredible.

Unlike the great room, cold and stark, this place was as warm and soft and red as a dragon's heart. The door gave onto a railed landing above a velvet-walled sunken parlor. A fireplace, complete with blaze, stood on one wall, and opposite it was a steaming, bubbling bath large enough to bathe two war-horses. Through an open door on the far side of the parlor, I saw a velvet-covered bed that could sleep the two mounts, and in another room, a table where their knights and squires and retainers and a few bards could play a game of poker while their steeds slept. The wide, lead-glazed window above the table showed the teeth of the storm outside.

"For me?" I asked innocently, though truthfully there wasn't much acting in my delight.

"For you, Bolton Quaid." She started down into the room, and I didn't know whether to look at the brocade chairs or the bright chandelier or the tasseled drapes or those swaying hips.

I stammered after her. "The Dock Ward's my usual digs. A street rat like me is-"

She spun around and placed a finger on my lips to silence me. "If you're half the street rat I think you are, you'll be worth the room, and much more."

Those words, those eyes, that touch-suddenly the magic of the place seemed not so amazing, but a mere extension of her. She shone with power.

Her hand dropped from my lips, and like a schoolgirl, she clutched my fingers and drew me after her. "You must see this view."

I nodded, and after a few stumbling steps, did. Through the wide window, I saw her wintery palace, glowing cold and blue like a rock-stranded moon. The towers stood fearless and alien in the blizzard, and the curving curtain wall was draped in icicles; but the courtyard within was hot and bright and sandy.

Now I did blurt my amazement. In the midst of this waste of rock and snow, the lady had made a garden. From this height, the palm trees looked like ferns, the green bunches of Chultan flowers like field clover. And in the midst of the garden lay a winding, sandy lagoon, overarched here and there with footbridges, surrounded by paths and benches, peopled by folk so beautiful and powerful and rich that they seemed fey creatures, seemed to glide above the sand without leaving footprints.

I started to speak-what words, I do not know-and found I couldn't because I had not breathed in moments, perhaps minutes. But I needed no words; Olivia was speaking for us both now.

"You haven't even got the chill out of your poor Water-dhavian bones yet. Look how you shiver." She spoke like a doting mother to a child. Some part of me knew she was drawing the rough cloak from my shoulders, was running that small hot hand along my bare side. "There'll be plenty of time for Mr. Quaid to rig traps and alarms. First, though, a recuperative bath."

"I-I-I-" came my reply as she led me to the huge, steaming tub. With a tremble-whether of fear or cold or joy-I knew I was naked, stripped bare. I lowered myself into the foamy, hot, bubbling waters. Hmm. The seduced innocent was a new role for me.

She moved up next to me, and now it was not her hot hand that touched my lips, but her own lips. They seemed to scald, and the fresh warm breath of her puffed for a moment over my face as she drew back.

"This is moving a little too fast," I said, at last able to speak as I looked into those green eyes. Oh, yes, those green eyes. "You put a tailored suit on a street rat, and all you've got is a rat in a suit."

"Not if the suit is magic."

That night, I had the most peculiar dream. I rolled over on the silken sheets to enfold Olivia in my brawny arms, feel her heat against my bare chest, and instead felt the bristling mange of Xantrithicus the Greedy himself. I awoke, screaming.