Raistlin struggles awake from dreams that don't make any sense. Faeries and magic swords, smoke-monsters and women with faces like white bone, monsters made of porcelain, metal, and hate. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, breathing the cool pre-dawn air, feelings the realness of the grass crushed under his body, the dew dampening his robes.

It's freezing. Damn that Caramon. He's let the fire die.

"Caramon!" he calls, and opens his eyes. "You've let the fire die, you great oaf - "

But the first person he sees isn't his brother. And last night wasn't a dream.