The wolf stumbled from the cave, knowing that someone was searching for him and he couldn't protect himself this time. Feverish and ill, his head throbbing so hard that it hurt to move, he couldn't pull his thoughts together. After all this time, after all of his preparations, he was going to be brought down by an illness. The searcher's tendrils spread out again, brushing across him without recognition or pause. The Northlands were rife with wild magic - which is why other magic couldn't work correctly here. The searcher looked for a wizard and would never notice the wolf who concealed the man in its shape unless the fever betrayed him. He should lie low, it was the best defense ... but he was so afraid, and his illness clogged his thoughts. Death didn't frighten him; he sometimes thought he had come here seeking it. He was more afraid he wouldn't die, afraid of what he would become. Perhaps the one who looked for him was just idly hunting - but when he felt a third sweep, he knew it was unlikely. He must have given himself away somehow. He'd always known that he would be found one day. He'd just never thought it would be when he was so weak. He fought to blend better with the form he'd taken, to lose himself in the wolf. He succeeded. The fourth sizzle of magic, the searcher's magic, was too much for the