Merlin's Mirror by Andre Norton Page B

for his kiss.
    “Merlin . . .” Her voice faded to a whisper, a promise of things he only dimly understood.
    It was the sword which saved him. Its cold length brushed against his leg as he nearly dropped it. From that touch came a kind of shock which alerted him to her enchantment. He spoke only one word:
    “Witch!”
    Once more her eyes glittered. The flower wreath disappeared and she was again covered by her rough green robe. Now she stamped her foot and the hands she had reached out to him became claw-like, extended to rip the flesh from his bones.
    “Fool!” she cried loudly. “You have made your choice and you must abide by it from this hour forth. Between us there is only war, and do not think that I will be a weaklingas a foe! At each triumph you shall find me waiting, and if my strength does not prevail tonight, there will be other days . . . and nights. Remember that, Merlin!”
    As she had come out of the night, so did she mesh back into it, mingling so quickly with the shadows that he could not truly have said where she went. And with her went that feeling of being watched. Now he knew that he was free, for a while at least, so he drew a deep breath of relief.
    But he waited for a long moment, listening, testing with that other sense the mirror had taught him to use. No, she was gone. There was nothing here but that sensation of long-ago Power which was the nature of the Place of the Sun. For where men have worshipped with their whole hearts—where they have wrought things that are unseen, unheard and cannot be grasped in hand, only in mind and heart—there remains forever the breath of that Power, diminished perhaps by the long passing of time, yet nonetheless abiding.
    Holding the sword with both hands, Myrddin entered the hut, set about building up the fire. He kept the weapon ever by his side as he sought out food, put some of the coarse porridge which was Lugaid’s principal food in the pot to boil. As he worked he listened for the coming of the Druid, eager not to be left alone.
    Not that he feared Nimue. He did not believe she could call up any strength to outweigh what he himself could summon. But her first attack was one he had not foreseen. He fought resolutely now against the picture which memory kept presenting of Nimue ivory pale in the night, of that slumberous, beguiling voice. Not for him was any woman, that he understood. He must have no ties such as were the right of his human heritage, lest those ties blind him to the purpose which was meant to fill all his days.
    “Who has been here?”
    Myrddin was startled out of his inner turmoil by that sharp demand. Lugaid had looped back the door curtain, stood tall and frowning within the opening.
    “How did you . . . ?” the boy began.
    “How did I know? By what Power I have learned! There is a hostile force awake this night. Yet it is not any guardian aprowl.” The Druid’s nostrils expanded as he turned his head slightly, half looking over his shoulder.The skirts of his robe were heavily plastered with earth, his hands battered and bruised, soil caked under the nails.
    “She was here, Nimue,” Myrddin said.
    “Ah, that is evil hearing! Did she see the sword?”
    “Aye. She—she strove to bind me to her.” Myrddin felt ill at ease, yet to share this with the Druid was to lighten somehow the burden of that memory, help to banish it from his mind.
    “Like that, was it?” Lugaid nodded. “Aye, that would be the beginning with her. Perhaps if you had been older . . . No, I do not think she could reach you so. But be warned, now that she is on your trail you will not find her easy to put aside. The Dark Ones have their own Power and the beguiling of men is a large part of it. Yet I do not think she can come nigh or weave her spells too well when you have a hand on that.” He pointed to the sword.
    “But as you have said, time may be growing short. I had not realized it. Thus I shall do as you have asked of me—I shall go to