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. "Here she is, Raist! Standing outside in the hall.
Eavesdropping!"
"Is she?" The golden-eyed, golden-skinned mage
looked up curiously from where he sat huddled by the fire
as his brother half-dragged, half-led Amberyl into the room.
"What were you doing out there?" he asked, his eyes
narrowing.
For a moment, Amberyl could say nothing. She just stood
staring at the mage, twisting the bottom of her scarf in her
hands.
"Hold on, Raist," Caramon said gently. "Don't yell at
her. The poor thing's freezing. Her hands are like a ghoul's.
Here, my lady," the big man said awkwardly, leading her
closer to the fire and drawing up a chair for her. "Sit down.
You'll catch your death." He put his hand on her scarf. "This
is wet from the snow. Let me take - "
"No!" Amberyl cried in a choked voice, her hands
going to the scarf. "No," she repeated more softly, flushing
to see Raistlin look at her with a grim smile. "I - I'm fine. I
... never . . . catch cold. Please. . . ."
"Leave us, Caramon," Raistlin said coldly.
"What?" The big man looked startled.
"I said leave us. Go back to your pitcher of ale and the
barmaid. She appeared not insensible to your attractions."
"Uh, sure, Raist
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