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. Rennard tensed. Around him,
the fog gathered thicker.
"Why do you wait?" he shouted. "Why now?" They made
no answer. Even their whispers were preferable to the
silence, he realized.
The sound of sword striking shield came from behind
him. Rennard turned and stepped into the stream. Water
splashed. His boot struck the surface and sank in. Rennard
stared at the water. He dropped his sword and fell to his
knees. Fearfully, the ghostly knight reached down.
Small ripples spread out from his fingers. The tips of
his fingers TOUCHED the stream. Rennard thrust his hands
into the water. He cupped his hands together.
His own words came back to him. WHAT MUST I DO
TO EARN EVEN A SIP OF WATER?
Rennard brought the liquid to his parched lips and
drank. For the first time since his death, the eternal fever
that burned within him cooled.
Rennard lowered his hands into the stream again.
Another sip. He needed another sip.
This time, however, all was as it had been. The stream
flowed through his fingers as if they were not there . . .
which they were not.
The shadows moved. He had been granted his drink of
water. Now, it was time to return to the Abyss.
Krynn faded completely then. The stream disappeared
before his eyes. In its place lay the familiar plain of death.
Rennard grabbed his sword and began to back away
from the oncoming knights. Oddly, he did not feel as afraid
as before, even knowing that this flight, like so many others,
would end with his downfall
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