It is nourishing, and harmless to
you. It is the night season, and you may share my pad. Though
you may think me forward, ask nought of me, for I am pledged.
Only my company can I grant thee."
He slept. The fire died, the fog shrouded the room.
Of early morning he woke to find her fast asleep beside him. He
reached out to tuck the blanket around her shoulders.
His eyes widened. Taking a deep breath he drew back his hand in
consternation and sudden dread.
The shoulder was without substance. His hand felt cold and
clammy air, nought else, passed through to touch the mat beneath.
She woke, looked at him with sad and pensive eyes. "Doth thee
understand. Thou are not as we. We are but shadows, and thou art
real. Waking, we can have semblance of reality. Sleeping, it
fades. But touch me once more, for now I am."
Reluctantly he reached out for the hand she extended. Though
cold, it was solid now as his own.
The sadness on her face disturbed him. Quietly he squeezed her
hand, smiled. "There is much I don't understand. You have been
kind to me. Still, I have a mission, and it must be done. I . .
. "
The rattling of the door interrupted him. It started suddenly,
grew in intensity. Mist moved to the far corner, dread on her
face.
Demo frowned, took up his bow and notched an arrow. Slowly he
drew the bow, waited.
The door held. In moments the rattling ceased. From without
they heard a growl, followed then only by silence.
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