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. . . .
And in the black, eyes of flame.
The eyes were in front of Nikol, staring at her from
across the stream. She had risen to her feet, the waterskin in
her hand, water dripping from it.
"This is how I know you," came a deep and terrible
voice.
Michael tried to call to her, but his own voice was a
strangled scream. He tried to move, to run to her side, but
his legs were useless, as if they'd been cut off at the knees.
Nikol did not retreat, did not flee. She stood unmoving,
staring with set, pale face at the apparition emerging from
the shadows.
He was - or once had been - a Knight of Solamnia. He
was mounted on a steed that, like himself, seemed to spring
from a terrible dream. A strange and eerie light, perhaps
that cast by the black moon, Nuitari, shone on armor that
bore the symbol of the rose, but the armor did not gleam. It
was charred, scorched, as if the man had passed through a
ravaging fire. He wore a helm, its visor lowered. No face
was visible within, however. Only a terrible darkness
lighted by the hideous flame of those burning eyes.
He came to a halt near Nikol, reached down a gloved
hand, as if for the waterskin. In that motion, Michael knew
him.
"You gave me water," said the knight, and his voice
seemed to come from below the ground, from the grave.
"You eased my burning thirst. I wish you could do so
again."
The knight's voice was sad, burdened with a sorrow
that brought tears to Michael's eyes, though they froze
there.
The knight's words jolted Nikol, drove her to action
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