That night's shelter was both deplorable and sumptuous at once, in Raistlin's opinion. It was deplorable in almost every observable aspect, a jagged crevice in a forbidding rock formation, set in the middle of a howling wilderness of freezing winds and sifting snow; but it was sumptuous in one important – if somewhat subjective – regard: it was a shelter. The group had seen very little in the way of prospective shelters in the last few hours of trudging, and it was with the grudging joy of the desperate that they climbed through the ice-encrusted entrance to the small cave.

The kender darted rapidly to every corner of the interior, investigating with unseemly alacrity after the hours of unforgiving hiking. Coming up empty – at least seeming to – he grinned up at them toothily, folded into a compact ball on the floor and fell asleep. Raistlin watched the succession of events with a wearily wary eye, which he rolled at the kender's grand finale, in equal parts inspired by irritation and relief.

Tanis stood very straight, just inside the cave mouth, taking a deep breath and raking his gaze over the cave's rather sparse, expectedly rocky interior. Raistlin smirked slightly from his position leaning against a relatively smooth patch of the cave's wall – Tanis had perfected the art of looking calmly thoughtful and certain, as befit the leader of such a prestigious group as theirs, when he had everyone's eyes on him. Raistlin knew that if he were alone and unobserved, the half-elf would likely just grimace at the cave's non-existent charms and lay down, giving up on any hope of warmth, comfort or worthwhile rest and recuperation. But, being the leader, he donned his fa?ade and pretended to consider the potential of the hard, sterile lump of rock that they had stumbled into. He opened his mouth, preparing to speak; Raistlin leaned forward, lips twisted into a mocking smile – this would be good.

"Well, it certainly protects us from the wind." The half-elf's voice fell just short of confidence, settling somewhere in the realm of resigned. Not the fearless, miracle-working, unassailable leader the others were hoping for, Raistlin thought with satisfaction.

"But it's freezing in here!" Caramon was, as always, quick to point wide-eyed at the obvious. "There's no way to make a fire: how are we going to keep warm, or – or make food?"

Raistlin sighed at that: of course, in their current situation, Caramon's priorities would be with his stomach and a warm meal. He bit back a biting comment, certain that any acidity on his part would be rendered ineffective by the wet and cold of the weather. And then there was the stormy look on Sturm's face, his moustache dripping comically and his eyes flashing angrily, which was yet another discouragement from attempting any provocation. Raistlin wasn't sure he could deal with the outcome of such provocation, at this point. He could feel his right hand beginning to tremble, and quickly slipped it inside the sleeve of his robe.

"I am certain we can find a way to prepare some nourishment," Goldmoon spoke softly but with authority, picking up the thread of reassurance at Tanis' weary glance with Riverwind towering mute behind her. "We can look through the packs, there may be some dry rations remaining since our stop in the last town."

Gilthanas snorted humourlessly from where he was huddled, shivering, on the ground.

"I doubt, even if they remain in the packs, that the rations can still be described as dry." Raistlin felt his grin grow at that. Even the haughty elf stooped to contrariness when cold and uncomfortable – oh, how the mighty fall.

"You know what? You're not being at all helpful! Goldmoon is trying to make this bearable, and what are you doing? Sitting and sniping!" The knight had finally exploded, his pent-up frustration finding its outlet on the elf's unsuspecting head. Raistlin watched and silently thanked – the gods? himself? – that he had been observant enough to keep that rage from being directed at him. He had spent long enough as Sturm's favourite whipping post to know when to just keep out of his way. He was far too tired to cross tongues with the blockhead tonight.

Gilthanas was struggling to rise, whether to confront the knight or just to shift position was unclear, but Tanis decided to get in front of developments either way. He moved between Gilthanas and the fuming knight – Raistlin could almost see the snow on Sturm's shoulders going up in steam – but it was Flint who spoke.

"Sturm, this isn't best helpful either! We can't set to fighting between ourselves now, right when the going's getting rough again. We'll figure it out; and, if we can't, we'll get through it. Now sit down and shut up, the pair of you." Flint's eyes glinted as he tipped his head back to glare up at the knight, a weight of sense shoring up his words with a strength missing from Sturm's angry pronouncements and Gilthanas' bitter comment. Raistlin watched as the knight met Flint's eyes and quickly sat where he stood, lips pressed firmly shut. He always did take chastisement well, Raistlin thought with a lifted eyebrow and a supressed snort. Gilthanas looked slightly abashed in his corner as well, though Flint hadn't even turned to him. Interesting, that.

Tanis looked down at the elf, took a breath as if to say something, then seemed to change his mind. Laurana slid over to huddle next to her brother, moving away from Tika who sat near a wall with her head bent, her silence very likely only a product of her exhaustion. There was snow in Laurana's golden tresses, flecks of twinkling winter white tangled in a forest of summer yellow –

A vision of white-grey ash falling like snow on a field of golden grain flickered through Raistlin's thoughts; it was neither a figment of his imagination, nor a memory of his own – it came from some other source. Raistlin shivered and closed his eyes, bringing his now visibly trembling hand to his head. The vision had trailed pain through his mind in its wake, like the residual tail of a shooting star, and there were more pressing against the back of his mind. More visions, from whatever source. Raistlin could think of three possibilities, none of them benign, to himself or to the greater scheme, and he forced himself to gather his failing strength and shore up his defenses.

Eventually, inch by inch, the pain receded and the press of impending visions lessened. They lurked still, but Raistlin felt certain that he could keep them out now, whatever flare of strength that had fueled them seeming to have died. Distantly, he could feel warm hands on his shoulders and a cold solidity at his back – the cave wall. The wall propped him up, and the hands – the hands were quite reassuring, warm as they were and unafraid of him, as so many were –

Raistlin stopped his thoughts, shoring up defenses against yet another threat inside his head, and forced his eyes open. Unnervingly, it took a few minutes for his eyes to focus, the world an infinite blue blur. When the fog did dissipate, it was Caramon's worried face that he first made out, blinking rapidly. It was odd – not Caramon's concerned face, which he had expected – but the desperation in Caramon's eyes. Raistlin had seen concern for himself so often plastered across his twin's features, that he was certain that he knew every detail and nuance of the expression. This time, it was different. There was an edge to the worry, a kind of urgent sense of danger that Raistlin had only ever seen on Caramon's face when they were preparing for a battle, the odds wildly in their opponents' favour. He didn't want to admit it, even to himself, but the look disturbed him. It took a lot to tear his eyes away and survey the rest of their company, alerted by the sound, or lack thereof: the cave had fallen completely silent, even the roar of the growing gale outside seeming muted.

They were all staring at him. Even the kender, who had apparently awoken, but who remained uncharacteristically silent, seemingly unable or unwilling to break the heavy, deathly silence of the others. Raistlin didn't like it in the least. His eyes flicked from person to person, searching for some clue that would explain their behaviour. The kender looked curious – as always – but also vaguely worried; Riverwind wore the habitual look of revulsion that stole over his face whenever he looked at or even fleetingly recalled Raistlin's existence, but it seemed more hostile than usual and tinted with an unmistakable hint of fear; Goldmoon stood slightly ahead of him, as if she had taken a step closer to Raistlin before faltering to a halt, a look of concern and compassion gracing the healer's features; Tika looked distressed, more likely a reaction to Caramon's evident concern than any concern of her own; Gilthanas looked intrigued, as if trying to puzzle out some vague suspicion, and Laurana was obviously confused and not a little distressed by the silence; Sturm was staring unblinking at him, his face a mask, indecipherable but obviously concealing a storm of strong, and likely conflicting, emotions; Flint's face had taken on the soft, paternal expression he had trotted out a few times when Raistlin, Caramon and Sturm had been young, all of them friendly and together in Solace, and which Raistlin had thought never to see again. But it was Tanis' face that carved a sigil of fear deep in the caverns of his heart: the half-elf's fine features were stricken with fear and concern, but, worst of all, his face was stained with pity. Raistlin didn't want the pity, didn't want to consider what it might mean, so he gave himself over to the constant mainstay of his – sometimes questionable – sanity: irritation.

"What?" Raistlin tried to infuse the single word with as much annoyance and sneering cruelty as possible, but what came out was a hoarse, almost plaintive whisper. The world decided at that moment to take up the ballet, spinning around him with such alacrity that he had to close his eyes once more and sink against the wall for support. Caramon's grip tightened on his shoulders and Raistlin used the pain as an anchor, fixing the battered boat of his mind firmly in the waters of consciousness.

"Raist - " Caramon's voice seemed just as hoarse as his own and the fear in his eyes was translating itself into tears, the emotion's intensity such that it needed to be expelled into the realm of the physical. At the sound, Raistlin opened his eyes, timidly, and found the world settled once more. Tanis had advanced a step towards them, gathering up the force of the concern and fear echoing silently in the cave, becoming the focal point of the group's attention on him, and giving it all voice. Raistlin felt like laughing at him all of the sudden.

"Raistlin," the half-elf cleared his throat and raised his voice from the hush it had assumed. "Raistlin, you looked just like your mother."

Raistlin felt his eyes widen at that before his mind clamped down. Everything just shut down, his emotional reaction, his ability to process the statement, the memories – all shunted off to the side in favour of his immediate survival instincts. It was exactly how he felt in the moments before stepping into an engagement, everything evaporating that wasn't his spells, his magic, his instincts. And he let it happen, knowing it was the way to get through this. Maybe not the best way, maybe not the easiest way, maybe not the preferable way – but it was his way, and his mind had launched his counter-attack before he had time to really consider it.

"And you look like a rusty spoke with that beard, half-elven. The rest of us can only pray that the snow melting on your head doesn't encourage the thing to grow further; or, worse, the snow might leak into your ears and rust the remnants of that pitiful hunk of steel rattling around your skull that you call a mind. I'm not quite sure whether I should pray to avoid that contingency, or encourage it – it might well put us all out of our misery." The silence adopted a ringing shock, as if it had just been slapped. It wasn't the best instance of ridicule Raistlin had ever come up with, but it was sharp enough to whet his tongue and startle the others out of their staring. Sturm looked livid and Raistlin – opportunistic to the core – fixed him with a malevolent grin. That got a reaction.

"Raistlin! What do you think you're - " Raistlin cut off his angry blustering with a haughty tilt of the head and turned his attention to Caramon. His brother seemed to have been dreading that and wilted immediately under his glare, looking down at his feet, mumbling something that sounded like his name. Raistlin ignored it.

"Now, my dear brother, might you please remove your hands before you crush the already pitiful excuses for lungs that I possess?" Raistlin couldn't keep the smile off his face even as he sneered the words out in his rasping malevolent tone. The smile worried him, setting off a whispered warning somewhere in the depths of his mind, evidence of how close he was coming to hysterics. But Caramon removed his hands and Raistlin could feel mounting anger and hostility heating the cave better than a bonfire – and it was all directed at him. Perfect. Things had gone better than he could have hoped.

With a silent prayer to no one in particular, Raistlin pushed himself away from the wall and steadied himself after a moment of difficulty and a flashing fear that he might not be able to catch himself after all. The action warmed him, sending a shot of adrenaline singing through his veins, and he felt a nervous energy thrumming through his limbs. He could do anything like this: anything.

"Now, have we figured out the food and fire situation yet?" Raistlin surveyed the faces fixed on him and smiled knowingly, as condescending as he could marshal himself to be. "No? Well, as I don't intend to sit here slowly turning into an ice block, we'll have to address the issue of the fire first."

Tanis seemed to rouse himself from his stunned stupor at that.

"Look, Raistlin, we can't have a fire! There's no fuel, no wood, nothing! The best we can hope for is some dried rations, if there are any left!" Tanis was flustered, and that was making him angry. Or was he angry, and that anger causing him to become flustered? Raistlin shoved the thought away, and focused on driving back the choking panic that he could feel blurring the edges of his consciousness. Hysteria was not something he was going to succumb to in front of this pack of fools. Raistlin allowed his smirk to take on a crooked smugness.

"Hm. It's a good thing you have me here with you, isn't it?" He left Tanis floundering like a fish and strode – such as he could – to the approximate centre of the cave. He nudged Gilthanas and Lauranna out of the way with a foot and worried a stub of chalk out of one of the pockets sewn into his right sleeve. He knelt and drew a circle on the rock, the stub rising and falling on the bumps and cracks of the cave floor. When he was satisfied with the circle, he rose, took a step back and closed his eyes. He didn't have a spell in mind, hadn't managed to study his spell books in two days at least and he wasn't certain there was an appropriate spell in the books in his possession anyway. It wasn't a spell he was conjuring up in his mind, it was the whisper of a presence. He prodded it, roused it from its semi-slumberous state and faced it, energy roiling in his stomach and tumbling from his skin in waves. It regarded him slowly, measuring him, before speaking.

"What is it you want of me, young mage?" The voice, thin and cold like frozen pins dragged across skin, should have brought Raistlin up short, inspiring him with a leaden dread and a remembered fear, just as it always had before. But this time it did not. Raistlin stood before it, eyes dripping challenge, and answered:

"Help me direct some of my power to light a fire of rock."

The presence regarded him for a moment, seeming to consider, beyond the request, the hundreds of twisting implications attached to it and strewn out behind it like the legs of an insect. Whatever it found, it was sufficient. Raistlin had known it would be. The presence nodded and came to stand next to Raistlin, within his mind. Together, they delved deep into a well of magic Raistlin had never completely sounded before, a mine of reserves that he had never called upon, not even on the threshold of death's door. Raistlin shaped his magic into an arrow, gold fingers wrapped around gold energy, before handing it to the presence, knowing himself nowhere near adept enough to fine tune the magic to the manipulation of nature to the extent he wished.

The presence ran its black fingers in a sketching motion over the bolt of magic, humming to itself in a language Raistlin recognized but couldn't quite make out. With a surge of certainty, the golden energy burst into blue flame and the presence handed it back to Raistlin. They stood regarding each other for a moment longer, something nascent and indescribable passing between them, before the presence bowed and retreated.

Raistlin turned to his task.

Without saying a word, without calling a memorized spell to mind, Raistlin aimed the magic with his mind and shot it into the very centre of the chalk target he had drawn himself. The bolt buried itself in the rock of the cave floor and, hesitantly at first but with growing strength, fingers of flame flickered up from the rock, growing taller and spreading wider until the flame filled the circle, not passing the chalk bounds that had been set for it.

Ignoring the wave of exhaustion that seemed to emanate from the very marrow of his bones, Raistlin turned to the awe-struck, gaping fools that he had for an audience. The smile had never left his face.

"So," he said, a rush of satisfaction sweeping through him as every face turned to him immediately. "Shall we pass on to the issue of food?"