Teri McLaren
"Well, the selkies have one that Drufalden once owned, and the elves-yes, the elves-have the fire-bane, but they got it through one of their own, who turned out to be a traitor. Riolia had made some kind of deal with him for monopolizing the ch'mina, and he used the stone to kill the fields that were promised to other traders and such. Shalikre, I believe, was his name, dead now, anyway, but the elves use the fire-bane only to heal.
"And… the Wyrvil overking has one, the ajada." Og grinned sheepishly. "We could go there and you could see it for yourself. The overking, Rotapan-his name means 'One-lip' in orcish, but never, never, call him that-has had it made into a staff. Never leaves his temple; quite a place, really, everyone should go there at least once. He can do one or two things with the ajada, nothing really of much import, though. Nothing that would hurt us. Oh, and seems I've heard that it even protects him from snake venom."
Claria combed at her hair with her fingers, drying it quickly in the brilliant sun. "Would it turn the poison on an orcish spear?" she asked flatly, her face rigid and white with fear.
"I don't know," replied Og.
"Why do you ask, Claria?" said Cheyne, angrily ducking under the water again to avoid the horsefly.
The answer missed his head and twanged into the striated trunk of a date palm on the other side of the pool, sending the parrots into frenzied flight and their cluster of dates raining down upon Og's unprotected head.
"Oh. Well, you could have just said," Cheyne sputtered, surfacing.