A bucket of water fell from Shandal's hand and soaked immediately into the thirsty and sunbaked sands near the lonely well.  She squinted to confirm what might simply be illusion across the shimmering salt-flat, and upon reaffirming her initial impulse, jogged the hundred yards between her and the very real figure of a man crawling along the dead white ground.

She knew better than to immediately trust the crippled man and instinctively drew her flint dagger as she swung the leather water skin into her other hand.  Life in the Endless Sands had taught her a caution that was warranted far more often than it was not.  But she was a healer by faith, one of the acolytes scattered after the fall of great Ukur, and the water was just as important an offer as the knife.

As she approached, the man pulled his gaunt and blood-encrusted face up into view.  An old wound crossed high on his forehead and notched his temple, and his brown eyes were wild with dehydration.  "Be still," said Shandal.  "I want to aid you, but if you leap at me I will have no choice but to bring my blade to bear."

He closed his eyes and nodded in assent, his lips too parched to make sound.

Shandal unslung the water skin from her shoulder and lowered it to his mouth.  His lips accepted the life-giving water passively at first, but after the first few sips, he raised his hand toward her wrist, desperate for every drop.  At this, Shandal brandished her knife.  "Slowly," she said.  "Slowly."  He nodded again, and again was speechless.  She allowed him to take a few more sips from the skin, then withdrew it.  "Too much water will hurt you as much as not enough.  Let's get you into the shade."

The pair began the journey back to the well.