"Let's go look at the others," the one called Xera suggested. "They're building fires, and we'll want to stop that."

"Fires?" several of the others gasped, and they all glared at Garion accusingly.

"Only a small one," Garion said quickly.

"Bring it along," Xera ordered and started off through the Wood toward the tents. Far overhead the trees murmured to each other. Aunt Pol was waiting calmly when they reached the clearing where the tents were. She looked at the Dryads clustered around Garion without changing expression. "Welcome, ladies," she said.

The Dryads began whispering to each other.

"Ce'Nedra!" the one called Xera exclaimed.

"Cousin Xera," Ce'Nedra replied, and the two ran to embrace each other. The other Dryads came out a little farther into the clearing, looking nervously at the fire.

Ce'Nedra spoke quickly with Xera, explaining to her cousin who they were, and Xera motioned for the others to come closer. "It seems that these are friends," she said. "We'll take them to my mother, Queen Xantha."

"Does that mean that I won't get to kill this one?" The tawny-haired Dryad demanded petulantly, pointing a small finger at Garion.

"I'm afraid not," Xera answered.

The tawny one stamped away, pouting. Garion breathed a sigh of relief.

Then Mister Wolf came out of one of the tents and looked at the cluster of Dryads with a broad smile.

"It's Belgarath!" one of the Dryads squealed and ran to him happily. She threw her arms around his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him soundly. "Did you bring us any sweets?" she demanded.

The old man put on a sober expression and began rummaging through his many pockets. Bits of sweetmeats began to appear just as quickly disappeared as the Dryads gathered about him, snatching them as fast as he took them from his pockets.

"Have you got any new stories for us?" one of the Dryads asked.

"Many stories," Wolf told her, touching one finger to the side of his nose slyly. "But we ought to wait so your sisters can hear them too, shouldn't we?"

"We want one just for ourselves," the Dryad said.

"And what would you give me for this special story?"

"Kisses," the Dryad offered promptly. "Five kisses from each of us."

"I've got a very good story," Wolf bargained. "It's worth more than five. Let's say ten."

"Eight," the Tittle Dryad countered.

"All right," Wolf agreed. "Eight sounds about right."

"I see you've been here before, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol remarked dryly.

"I visit from time to time," he admitted with a bland expression.

"Those sweets aren't good for them, you know," she chided.

"A little bit won't hurt them, Pol," he said, "and they like them very much. A Dryad will do almost anything for sweets."

"You're disgusting," she told him.