The Towers Of the Sunset by L.E. Modesitt Jr.

with his pack half on his shoulder, slips around the two sheep-reeking individuals, brushing the shoulder of the nearer with the edge of the pack.
    “Hey…” The man, with a scraggly black beard, looks at Creslin as if to stand.
    “I beg your pardon,” Creslin offers flatly.
    The man takes in Creslin’s face and the short sword on the pack and sits down. “Sorry, ser.”
    Creslin nods and continues toward the doorway.
    “Polite… like one of the prefect’s killers.”
    “Still say he’s a witch.”
    Once outside the Common Room, Creslin turns left and down the stone-walled corridor that leads to his room. A single oil lamp flickers halfway down the hall. Before he enters his room, he pauses, listening, trying to sense whether someone might be within, although he cannot fathom why anyone would take the trouble. The room is empty, and he eases open the door. From what he can tell, no one has been there since he left, and his parka remains on the hook, his gloves protruding from the pockets.
    He closes the door.
    The bar in place, he sets his pack on the far side of the bed, where he can reach the sword instantly if need be. Then he sits down on the bed, which sags but does not creak, and eases off his boots, followed by the leathers. He folds the leathers on the table.
    With the warm coverlet, underclothes are enough, and Creslin still does not like sleeping in his clothes. As an afterthought, he walks to the foot of the bed and checks the underclothes spread out there. They are only damp now. Likely they will be dry in the morning, at least dry enough to put in his too-empty pack. The stone is not as chill under his bare feet as he would have thought, perhaps because of the thermal springs underneath the inn.
    His eyes are heavy by the time he slips under the coverlet and blows out the candle.
    The room is still dark, pitch dark, when he wakes. He does not move, for someone is in the room. He knows this even though there has not been a sound. Through slitted eyes, and with his other methods of sensing objects, he studies the room as well as he can. The bar on the door remains undisturbed.
    Finally he rolls over, as if turning in his sleep, not sure that he is really awake.
    “That is unnecessary.” The voice is low and husky, feminine. “You know that I am here, and I know that you know.”
    Creslin sees a woman in a pale garment seated on the end of the bed. In the darkness, he cannot tell the color of her hair, except that it is not blond or pale. That darkish hair glitters with the tiniest of red sparks.
    He struggles to a sitting position, not sure but whether he isn’t dreaming. “Who are you?”
    “You can call me Megaera.”
    “That’s an odd name.”
    “Only if you do not know the legend behind the Legend.” She moves closer to him. “Unfortunately, I am yours, and you do not even know me.”
    The huskiness of the voice causes him to shiver even as he reaches for her, not knowing whether she is real.
    “But…”
    His hands part the pale garment. Her body is warm against his, and her lips burn…
    But Creslin awakens alone in the middle of a rumpled bed, the predawn light as bright as any sun to his night sight. He squints and turns.
    The shadowy lady is gone. Creslin frowns, looking from the rumpled coverlet beside him to the barred door and the narrow window. The dark-haired beauty has vanished, yet no human frame could fit through the hand-span clearance of the window, even were it full open. And how could she have barred the door from the outside?
    Yet the bar remains in place across the door, and the dust on the floor by the window and on the window ledge remains unmoved. Though the fragrance of ryall had seared his nostrils as he had crushed her to him, no fragrance remains on the coverlet where he thought she had lain. Had it been a dream?
    He flushes as he recalls the details.
    Megaera-is that her name? What is it that she had said? The words that had seemed so portentous in the evening