Patricia Briggs: When Demons Walk

Pleased, the mage crouched beside her.

“How would you finish them?”

She frowned at the patterns before her and traced a rune below the last one, As she finished, magic flared and she snatched her fingers back. The opening solidified until she faced a wall where a cave had been.

“Good girl,” Maur laughed. Standing up, he ruffled her hair with one hand as he unworked the wardings with another.

“Who put them there, Master?” she asked.

“Now that’s a story,” he said, leading the way into the tunnel. “I first found this cave by chance when I was a young man. Have you ever heard the stories of Golden Jo?”

She tilted her head and grinned. “Who hasn’t? There aren’t many thieves with the—” she hastily dropped the word she’d picked up from her father’s men and substituted something less shocking, “er—rashness to rob the king in his own chambers.” She paused and thought about what she’d said. “ This is where you found the king’s lost crown?”

Maur smiled.

“I thought you did that with magic.” For a moment she was disappointed; finding the crown was touted as proof of Maur’s powers throughout Southwood.

“Magic,” replied Maur, tapping on the runes, “—wit, and a little luck are always more powerful than magic alone. Remember that. I also found the remains of Golden Jo next to the crown; not much left of him after all these years. It looked like he took too much time storing the crown and got trapped in the cave. From the scorch marks in the cave and on the bones. I’d say that he tried to teleport and drew more magic than he could handle—the Spirit Tide’s funny that way sometimes. All in all it’s a better way to go than dying of thirst.”

“He had luck and magic,” said Sham slowly, “but his wits were lacking if he trapped himself here.”

Maur nodded. “You remember that, child. Never trust to any one of the three: And don’t stay in the caves too long.”

Once through the mouth and several steps into the cave beyond, she called her magelight. By its illumination she worked her way upward through the damp tunnels until she passed the high-tide mark. The small grotto where she kept her treasures was well above the highest mark the water had made.

She stored the coins in the oiled-leather pouch with the considerable pile she had already amassed. There were other things in the cave, too. She knelt, and loosened one of the oilcloths that protected her treasures from dampness. When she was finished, she held a small footstool.

Large feet encased in neatly darned damp woollen socks rested on the battered footstool near the fire in her father’s office. The warmth caused a faint mist to rise from the wool as her father wiggled his toes and set aside the crumb-covered wooden platter.

His blond hair, the same shade as her own, was caught back by a red ribbon from her mother’s favorite gown. His chainmail shirt, which he had not taken off, was the best of its kind, as befitted the captain of the King’s Own Guards. Over the metal links he wore a wine-colored velvet surcoat, one arm torn where a sword had parted the cloth. Beneath the tear, she could see the stained edge of a bandage.

“Thank you, my dear, though I didn’t expect to see you. I thought the sorcerer had you tied up with his work.”

Shamera grinned. “Maur released me from my apprentice duties today at the king’s request as Mother is needed soothing and terrifying the ladies of the court into behaving.”

Her father laughed and shook his head. “If anyone can keep those hens in line it’s Talia. Nothing is worse during a siege than a bunch of helpless ladies twittering and—”

His words were interrupted by the call of a battle horn. Her father’s face paled, and his mouth turned grim.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and said hoarsely, “You find someplace—one of the tunnels the children play in—someplace safe and you go there now! Do you understand?”

Terrified by the fear in her father’s face. Shamera nodded. “What’s wrong?”

“Do as I ask,” he snapped, drawing on his boots and reaching for his weapons. “You go hide until I come for you.”

He never came.

Gently, Sham wrapped the oilcloth around the footstool and set it aside. The next bundle she unwrapped was considerably larger—a small, crudely made chest. She lifted the lid and revealed its contents. She set aside a faded scarlet ribbon, miscellaneous bits of jewelry, a palm-sized ball of glass the Old Man had used to keep his hands limber, and a pillow embroidered neatly with stars and moon—her last attempt at needlework.

Under the pillow was another wooden box. This she took in her lap and unworked the magic that kept the lid closed. Inside were several items that she’d found while thieving. They weren’t hers or the Old Man’s, but like the flute they were better stored well out of the reach of fools: a gold and porcelain bowl that would gradually poison any who ate from it, a worn silver bracelet that kept the wearer from sleeping, and several like items. She started to put the flute with them, then stopped.

The Old Man had nothing left from before—nothing but the flute she held in her hand. The farm would have to wait until she had the money, but the flute she would give to him now. She returned it to her hidden pocket. As she did so, she felt the surge of magic that preceded the return of the tide.

She forced herself to set the seal on the larger chest carefully, but once that was done she rewrapped the oilcloth with haste and left the grotto at a dead run. Slipping and sliding she sped through the tunnels to the beach outside. Far out on the sands she could see the white line of the returning sea.

The sand was soft with water and sucked at her fleeing feet, causing her to stumble and slow. The short distance to the ladder seemed to stretch forever and the sands began to vibrate. By the time she’d reached the cliff below the ladder she could hear the roar of the ocean.

The cliffside was slick with moisture and without the thread of magic that kept her fingers from slipping off the rocks she would never have reached the ladder.

“Magic,” she gasped as her fingers closed over the bottom rung of the ladder, “—and luck to make up for lack of wits—I hope.”

But there was no time to waste. If the wall of water hit while she was still on the ladder she would be crushed against the rocks. The ladder shook with the force of the returning water and she increased her efforts, ignoring the burning in the muscles of her arms and thighs.

The wind hit first, battering her against the hard rock cliff, and she spared a glance for the racing wall of water. As tall as the cliff she climbed, the foaming white mass covered the sands faster than a racing horse, the drumming of the surf echoing the beat of her heart. She couldn’t help the wide grin that twisted her mouth as she fought to climb beyond the waves reach. The exhilaration of her race for survival helped add speed to her ascent.

Heart pounding, she threw herself on the top of the low cliff where her ladder attached, then turned to watch the tremendous waves that swept across the last few yards of sand. The noise was incredible, so strong that she could feel it thrumming in her chest, and she breathed in deeply to savor the feeling.

She jumped back involuntarily as the ocean crashed into the cliff with a hollow boom that shook the ground and sent spray high into the air. Laughing, she ducked her head to protect her eyes, and the salt water showered harmlessly onto her hair and shoulders as the waves retreated and pounded back again.

Magic poured over her, making her heart sing with the joy of it. It was shaped and called by the ocean itself, and no human mage could use its power to weave spells—but she could feel it and revel in its glory.