A/N: I got all reviews & now I'm posting. (To all who reviewed): THANKS!! Since you where kind enough to write (at least) just a sentence in the little box at the bottom of the screen you and all those unappreciative dolts who found writing a sentence beyond their mental capability will get to read chapter 3 in....White Clerics, Black Magic!!!! (You lucky ducks, you!) I want ten more reviews to keep going. (Prove your intellectual capacity beyond that of my brother and write just a sentence in the li'll box!)


N/T/X/&/A/O/W/H/&/O/D/V: (Note to Xenogias2001 & all others who hate & or despise Valin): I shall try mightily to have Raistlin *swoons* give Valin *goes and washes hands vigorously* an arse whooping but you must keep in mind that the Raistlin we all know & love is 1. above such trivial matters & 2. at the moment has no reason to do so, for the time being *snicker* he hasn't admitted even to himself that he loves Crysania (Calling it 'lust'! Seriously, in some things that mage is as dense as his brother! *In a good and entirely lovable way of course*! (or is that a 'bad and entirely lovable way'?))


Killing Valin by means of slow and or fast torture would mean admitting he is even in the slightest bit jealous of the vvvvvvery short almost one sided haphazardly now non-existent relationship that went on between the desert mage and Crysania. And he wouldn't want to do that...just yet (smirks evilly). After awhile though, an event might, *cough*WILL*cough* transpire that changes the situation slightly (I solemnly swear it shall not become one of those ninny stories in which Raistlin becomes a sentimental soft brained freak who bears no resemblance to the mage in the books whatsoever.)


Disclaimer: The characters used to produce this narrative belong to Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. The plotline, idea, and rest of the story belong to me, and if you try to steal from my clutches, pass it off as yours, and/or make money by selling it in mass production (ha, ha, ha) I'll lock you in a extraordinarily boring dungeon, secured by magic, with one extremely bored kender who has taken a liking to whatever items you have on your personal. As for your house, I shall let a thousand kender have leave of it, and whatever is left I shall give to gnomes and their department of
Ourstudyinthedwellingsofotherracesfarlesssuperiorthanourselvesandourstudysonhowtoinproveandrenovatethemwithlittletimemoneyorspacewithonlytheusageofsmallhousholditemsthathaveallbeenslightytamperedwithbyourselvesandoursuperiors(thegreatgnomishconsil)andweassureyouthatyouareperfectlyandcompleatlysafeforusandoursponcershavetestedthemmanytimeswithonlya68%fatalityrateandtheexplosionsyoumightormightnotofheardecoingfromourbuildinsareall(weasureyou)afigmentofyourimagination....ext...ext...ext....

And now on with the story...


~Lady Crysania Majere



White Clerics, Black Magic

Chapter three: Falling, a Conversation and Immortality

By Lady Crysania Majere



**** Still Flashback****


The tempest raged around the Reverend Daughters' slim figure, beating with intense fury at her white garments, making them to lash out behind her, giving the disquieting appearance of an avenging angle. The small girl ran ahead, miniature hand dragging Crysania forward, awkward and about in a grasp surprisingly strong for one so young and small.


They waded through the rainstorm for what seemed hours, hours of the endless pain that came from the lashing sting of the rain and the numbing cold of it. Finally she felt the girl stop her incessant pulling of Crysania's right arm and stand quiet, waiting for the one-time Reverend Daughter to act. With some effort Crysania pried her hand free of the child's vice strong grip and extended it before her, coarse bark met inquisitive fingertips. Her probing hand felt gingerly along the tree's rough surface and then pulled back, satisfied. From the curves and knots in the wood her mind had linked her hands findings to the large maple at the far side of the courtyard. A fine tree, possessed of long thick branches, if her memory served her correctly. She called forth another picture from that dormant part of her mind and nudged the blurry image to her. The illustration was of a large brown maple, its' leaves decked out in the vibrant cherry reds, sunset oranges, and lemony yellows that festooned most trees in autumn. Years it had been since she'd actually seen the maple- seen anything for that matter - but occasionally she might be able to conjure up a picture in her mind, forming it from bit and pieces of fuzzy memories, now was one of the occasions. Taking aid from both the memories of past and touch of present she made her way to a large knot at the far side of the tree, its' placement about at her knees' height. Gingerly she placed a booted foot upon the disfigured spot, and stared at it, or rather fixed it with her blind gaze. The biting rain and a stinging chill where slowly sapping at her strength, leaving her cold and depressed. Suddenly her boot, or the spot where her senses told her, her boot was, looked oddly funny, the world seemed funny and even thoughts of him seemed strangely amusing. A laugh of hysteria bubbled inside her, coursing up her lunges, through her mouth and across- she caught it before it could escape her lips, which were slightly parted, as if anticipating the sound. She closed, and then tightened them resolutely. To give way to the laugh would be opening the floodgates of her panic, and in doing so she would lose what little determination she had left...which would result in her not climbing the maple...which would result in the child not being rescued...which might result in the child's death...which would be her fault. She had come to rescue, not murder. Heaving a sigh and checking her resolution she started up the tree.


The rough bark remained only semi-slippery under her booted feet, even with the gallons upon gallons of water gushing over it, it retained enough of a course surface to give her boots something mildly safe to grip. Up and up she went branch after branch, ever going, never slipping, confidence building with every step. But, like pride, over confidence comes often before a fall, and as she neared the midway point, her foot slipped.


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She fell, and fell in darkness, everything was black, her hands were outstretched. Right, groping franticly at nothing, left...caught the branch, Palidine be praised she'd caught the branch! Tears of relief streamed from useless eyes mingling with the rain as she scrambled back on to the trees' limb. Bending down to the place she'd slipped she felt moss, slick and infinitely slippery from the rain. She had been idiot, in more ways than her simple foot slip, she now realized. In her over confidence she'd shut out the sounds of the tempest, and with it all other sounds as well. Had she perhaps passed the boy? How foolish she would of looked passing the branch that held him to go higher up the maple. Her cheeks became tinged with embarrassment as she cocked her head sideways, listening for the child's cries. Twenty, thirty, forty? branches up she heard the noise. No individual words as far as she could make out, but more an indistinct yowling, like a cats. Slowly and carefully she made her way up toward the sound, feeling the bark and occasionally moss under tediously careful steps.


It seemed as if she had been climbing forever, forever upward reaching, forever arm outstretched. She had done nothing else with her life, and nothing else mattered. So when the small, wet, furry, feline body hit her shoulder, she froze up. Another being...should she continue climbing? Why was she climbing? Why was there a cat up here? Where was here? She shook herself, and let her mind gear up again; she was looking for the boy, Raistlin, the cat was irrelevant. Again she cocked her head, listening for the pleas of help that would most likely emanate from the boy. Silence, save for the roaring of the storm. *Higher then* her mind suggested, and condescendingly her arm reached above her, met wood, grasped branch, pulled up... and the branch broke away in her hand. Her balance quivered, she teetered, and hit hard against the trunk part of the tree. A lancing pain in her back prophesied of bruises tomorrow, and the sharp pain of claws in flesh foretold many stinging ointments and scars, but to her weary body, it was worth it. Worth it because it meant she could begin descending, worth it because even a child could go no higher, worth it because the child would be on a lower branch, and worth it because soon her feet would touch dry (or rather swampy) ground.


The descent was infinitely effortless, compared to the climb. After a few short minuets the length, power, width, and circumference of the limbs beneath her told she was more than half way down. So far the only sign of life in the storm tossed tree was herself and the gods forsaken cat. She raised her head to an angle (she seemed to be doing it a lot lately) and strained for a noise above the storm. Finally she heard it, a seemingly high-pitched murmur coming from...the ground below. Her heart sank, still no sign of the Raistlin child, just his friend below. Then it rose bubbling in anticipation. Perhaps the little girl saw him? The boy? She strained her keen hearing to make out the words; "mzsuhoudimtankuwankuhohuch,oruleedingomory..." Grabbing hold of the branch beside her she leaned out of the foliage, her feet, now barely touching the bark beneath them. Head clear of the muffling foliage the words came as clear as a bell on a spring day.


"Miss's you found him! Oh thank you so very much! Thank you thank you! Oh, you're bleeding Miss's! Raistlin din' mean to, I swear, just lightning an thunder scar 'im so! Sorry Miss's...." The girls voice trailed off as Crysania's numb mind registered this. The cat. The thrice-blasted cat. Now that she thought of it, it made perfect sense. Which of the nimble Palanthas boys could not scramble his way down a tree, even if that tree happened to be in a lightning storm? Only a cat would get itself stuck at the top of a maple in a lightning storm...and not be able to get down. After these thoughts the actual shock hit her. She let go. Quavered. Toppled. Pin wheeled. And fell, and fell, and fell.


A/N: I was sooooo tempted to stop here.
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And as the Reverend daughter fell...
Elsewhere...


"Why?" A woman clad in blacks and dark-purple-almost-blacks from head to toe (or rather from perilously high upper hip to hazardously low upper torso) swirled the blood colored contence of a crystalline glass around with a single, perfectly manicured, milky white fingertip. Her voice came again, soft, silky, seductive, but carrying a dangerous undertone that made the word seem almost a hiss, "Why?"


The menace in the voice seemed not to disturb the other black clad figure in the room, nor did woman's apparel (or rather lack of it.) In fact, if anything they seemed to amuse him. "Because." The tone he used for the return and answer was rather flat. Monotone, yet laced with a cutting air of power. Pitched, so the word used clearly conveyed to the listener that that was all the explanation needed and the subject was closed, few would question.


The woman sneered, obviously not taking the hint, that or completely ignoring it. "Because?" she sneered, "Because you feel like sucking up to my brother? Because you're madly in the with that in love" she pronounced the last word with must distaste, "with that sucking-up, conniving bitch? Or is it you need her for some intimate one your experimental works and she was the best you could come up with in a short amount of time... that might comply to the task? Or perhaps..." She was cut off.


For a second, gold eyes flashed in anger, then the calm, cold mask fell of even that. "Love?" he questioned great distain edging his voice. "I am not capable." This time with the same distain, a touch of bitterness, and a dismissive wave of the hand. He raised disturbing golden eyes to meet midnight black ones and cunningly added, "As you should well know."


The lady across from him shrugged dismissively and changed course faster than a two-track train. Leaning forward she hissed, "Than you lust for the bitch! I would have thought..."


Smooth words cut her off, as if he were merely finishing the sentence for her instead of playing a dangerous game of words, "You believe me capable to lust her as well? My, my, what faith you have in our little Cleric! Hasn't it been written by every mortal scribe, your own brother even, that your 'charms'" he sneered on the word, "as you would call them, exceed beyond anything in 'mortal imagination'? I had not thought you would credit any mortal to powers greater then your own, and as I am obviously not infatuated with you at the moment," he allowed himself another sneer, "you are giving the Reverend Daughter undue credit." The pale woman across from him flushed in furry at being bested at the word game, (for she knew she was) clearly not used to being forced into the no-win situation she now resided in (admit a mortal servant of her brother more lustful than she, or allow herself defeated in the word game.) Oh well, he had bested her before at the same game, that and others, so now when revenge came, it would now be doubly sweet. She let the flush of anger recede restoring her cheeks to a normal, almost hectic, rosy pink, and remained silent.


The man across from her smirked knowingly, he'd won, again. Not that he'd doubted winning of course, but getting the better of the competitive immortal before him was sweet indeed. "So?" the question slid from his mouth calm, indifferent, with a slight shade of irritation.


The woman in front of him sighed resignedly, and then spoke. "She to far into death already." It came out snappish and cold. At his questioning stare she continued "If you can find a way to fish her back out, you can do what ever you like with her, no questions on my part" a bit of the old leer had come back into her voice at those words and she added crisply, "Not that you could get her out, she's far to deep now, I don't even think that thrice blasted brother of mine could drag her back." She ended with a haughty air. For even if she despised her goody-goody brother, a mortal was far worse.


The man across from her made no statement. In fact he acted as if he couldn't hear a word she said, damn him! Instead he reached out a single, slender, golden, hand and made several odd signs and motions with it, all the time mumbling words under his breath, words which she strained to hear but failed to do so. The air around the supple fingers rippled, shimmered, shook, then parted, reveling a gaping hole where bare space should preside. The hole was black, infinity so. Not a single bit of light marred the expanse of darkness, save a tiny white dot right in the very center. A few more words, a symbol drawn in air and the picture moved closer in till the watchers could clearly see the shape of a woman. She was garbed in white from head to foot, a single gold band of cord across her middle the only color upon her. Her hair was a glossy snowy color, which fell down till her thighs in waves and ringlets, her face as pale as the proverbial death. She gave the appearance of a youth rather than one aged for her face was not blemished with the wrinkles time brings and the only sign of her years, her hair and the soft expression of sorrow the careful observer might spot upon her smooth pale features, an expression that even the most time tossed youth could not wear. Had one not known otherwise they might mistake her for marble, solemn, beautiful, and terribly, terribly, cold.


They watched for a while as she fell, perfectly upright, hands at her sides, gray eyes closed. In a single motion the man in the black robes jerked his eyes away and spoke, "You where correct," surprise tinged his voice, "She has fallen far," of course there was no way he would let her have even such a menial victory, so he persisted, "It is not beyond my powers, however, to bring her back." The woman across from him gave a mocking smile, and for the first time during their meeting she took a long slow draught from the crystalline flask, and the crimson, syrupy liquid. Looking over the top, eyes almost hidden beneath long, midnight lashes, she parted her mouth from the glass just long enough to breath a couple of words oozing in sarcasm, "If you say so." Black eyes flared, challengingly and where met by disturbing gold ones. She hadn't really voiced what she thought, or rather she had, but hadn't voiced the first and for most thing bubbling in her head. The damned girl was to far for anyone, perhaps save her father, to be brought back now. Glee coursed through her veins, the mage could and would try to save the Cleric, Chaos knows why, and she would get to see the mortal or rather one-time mortal, she thought with malice, wizard make a fool of himself. Yes, this was worth losing the word game. Putting down her wine glass, (Which contained something other than the former) she looked at the dark hole in space, and waited for the sorcerer to act.


Gold eyes with misshapen pupils narrowed, all their concentration focused on a single point. The owner of the strange eyes considering his options again. She had fallen beyond the reach of any binding or summoning spell, even one cast and twisted by him. His calculations (unerring as they where) came up with only a few suggestions to his predicament. Either he could back down and admit defeat, something that was eliminated immediately, or...yes that spell might do nicely, after all he had been meaning to try it, and who a better subject? He would need her to have that endurance any way for what was to come, and besides, it would do nicely to send the vain goddess before him into hysterics. An arcane symbol drawn in only the air, and he began the magic.


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She recognized the first mark (a symbol mostly for power and strength in the casting. Usually used by high-level mages, it could tear a wizard who had not the strength to hold it, to shreds.) It was typical of him to use the mark, for in the area of magic he enjoyed flaunting his power, as she occasionally flaunted...other things. The next series of words and arcane symbols traced in air where old, and powerful, they also seemed vaguely familiar, dancing at the back of her mind, yet just out of reach. In her ears she heard his voice rise, as the magic reached its crescendo. Power surged around the black mages body, lighting his golden skin with a burning fire and then go sweeping around the small white figure in the black chasm, till she glowed with an unearthly white radiance. And then... as soon as the fire had started it stopped, the black tear in space was gone, and the man shrouded in darkness was bent almost double over his ebony staff, his face wearing a strange look of triumph. And then it came to her, what the magic was, and a queer numb feeling crept over her.


"You..." The words where cold and dry in her mouth, tasteless, as her mind was numb.


She was cut off. And the mage gave the air where the hole had been one of his twisted smiles.


"I made her immortal." And with that he was gone.


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A/N/A: (Authors Note Again): So...Did ya like it? Hope so, I was going to make it longer but I decided against it. ): Ha! CLIFFHANGER!!! ^_^ . Anyway, my friend thinks it's below him to read my story. I think he's being an idiot. In your review tell my friend he's an idiot and to get his ass down on a computer chair and read my story which happens to be the best story you've ever read (Right???) and I'll post my next chapter with an extra 2 pages. That's right folks 2 pages.

Thanx,
Lady Crys

P.S. Thanx for the nickname LadyLupe. ^_^