himself exactly at the center of the cage, and tried again - a shorter hop. Once again, the cage came with him.
Valas frowned. The cage was obviously somehow enchanted to contain him no matter where he went. If his brooch had been more powerful, he might have used its magic to transport himself across the lake in a series of short hops - following the predominant cur-rent of the lake back to the waterfall that must be its source. But the brooch's magic was limited. After two more hops like the first one, it would fall dormant for a full cycle.
Meanwhile, the slime left by the tentacle was creeping across his face and up his left arm. He breathed in a deep lungful of water, then blew it out through his nose, clearing his nostrils. How much longer did he have? As least his mind was still his own, and he sus-pected that it was one thing he would probably retain. The drow-thing had exhibited free will. It had been able to warn Valas away from Zanhoriloch - for all the good that had done.
Time to try something else, the scout thought.
Valas plucked another of his magical-items from his shirt: a short mithral tube no longer than his finger. Sculling with his left hand - the webs had already grown up to the second knuckle - he tapped the tube against one of the bars of the cage. A bright, clear note car-ried through the water, but nothing happened. Whatever door there might be in the cage was not responding to the chime's magic.
Slipping the chime back to a pocket, Valas reached for his last hope, a brooch set with a dull gray stone that was surrounded by a dozen tiny, uncut gems. Made by the deep gnomes, the brooch had the power to wrap its wearer in illusion, giving him whatever appear-ance he could imagine. It didn't actually transform the wearer, nor did it have the power to manifest more complicated illusions - like making a drow appear to be an aboleth, for example - but it would allow Valas to create subtle changes inhis appearance.
He twisted the gem in its facing, and felt a warm shiver run through his body. Looking down, he "saw" webbed hands and feet and a fluked tail. The brooch's magic had worked, giving him the appearance of the drow-thing.
Everything depended on his guess: that the magic of the cage would be negated, once his transformation was complete. Kicking his legs, he propelled himself up toward the roof of the cage, praying that it would disappear.
His head struck bars with a crack that made sparks dance in front of his eyes. Grimacing, he drifted back toward the center of the cage.
That was it then. The brooch had been his final hope. Even the illusion magic of the deep gnomes was powerless against the cage that held him. He was trapped. All he could do was wait until his body caught up with the illusion he'd just created. Until he turned into a drow-thing himself.
I won't let it happen, he thought. I deserve a good clean death. A soldier's death. Not this.
He yanked out one of his kukris - the one that sent a jolt of magical energy through whatever it struck. The magic wouldn't affect him if he was holding the dagger - a precaution against ac-cidental wounds - but if he shoved the hilt into the ground, he would be able to impale himself on the upturned blade. Reaching down for one of the bars that made up the floor of the cage, he used the dagger to prod at the floor of the lake, but the ground was too hard. The cage had landed on a patch of stone. He'd have to move it somewhere else.
Sculling up to the top of the cage, he peered back toward the spot where the cage had rested a moment before, but saw only a gently waving expanse of kelp, not the flattened parch he'd expected. Had he somehow gotten turned around? No, he could see Zanhoriloch in the distance. His sense of direction hadn't failed him. Yet he couldn't see either the spot where the cage had just rested or the place where it had been when he first found himself inside it. That was strange; the weight of the cage should have crushed the kelp flat.
Ah . . . there.
He spotted a square patch of kelp about thirty paces away - which made