Next to Barjin's bloodstain, the brick wall had been knocked open by a furious dwarf, and the crossbeam supporting the ceiling hung by a single peg perpendicular to the floor. In the middle of the room, beneath dozens of scorch marks, lay a black weapon handle, all that remained of the Screaming Maiden, Barjin's enchanted mace, and behind that were the remains of the priest's unholy altar.
Beyond that...
Druzil's bulbous black eyes widened when he looked past the altar to the small cabinet wrapped in white cloth emblazoned with the runes and sigils of both Deneir and Oghma, the brother gods of the library. The mere presence of the cloth told Druzil that his search was at an end.
A flap of his bat wings brought the imp to the top of the altar, and he heard Rufo shuffling to catch up. Druzil dared not approach any closer, though, knowing that the priests had warded the cabinet with powerful enchantments.
"Glyphs," Rufo agreed, recognizing Druzil's hesitation. "If we go near it, we shall be burned away!"
"No," Druzil reasoned, speaking quickly, frantically. Tuanta Quiro Miancay was close enough for the desperate imp to smell it, and he would not be denied. "Not you," he went on. "You are not of my weal. You were a priest of this order. Surely you can approach ..."
"Fool!" Rufo snapped at him. It was as volatile a response as the imp had ever heard from the broken* man.
"I wear the brand of Deneir! The wards on that cloth and cabinet would seek my flesh hungrily."
Druzil hopped on the altar, tried to speak, but his rasping voice came out as only indecipherable sputtering. Then the imp calmed and called on his innate magic. The imp could see and measure all magic, be it the dweomer of a wizard or a priest. If the glyphs were not so powerful, Druzil would go to the cabinet himself. Any wounds he received would heal - faster still when he clutched the precious Tuanta Quiro Miancay in his greedy hands. The name translated into "the Most Fatal Horror," a title that sounded delicious indeed to the beleaguered imp.
The aura emanating from the cabinet nearly overwhelmed him, and at first, Druzil's heart fell in despair. But as he continued his scan, the imp came to know the truth, and a great gout of wicked laughter burst from between his pointed teeth.
Rufo, curious, looked at him.
"Go to the cabinet," Druzit instructed.
Rufo continued to stare, and made no move.
"Go," Druzil said again. "The meager wards of the foolish priests have been overwhelmed by the chaos curse! Their magic has unraveled!"
It was only partly true. Tuanta Quiro Miancay was more than a simple potion; it was magic driven to destroy. Tuanta Quiro Miancay wanted to be found, wanted to be out of the prison the priests had wrapped about it. And to that end, the concoction's magic had attacked the glyphs, had worked against them for many months, weakening their integrity.
Rufo didn't trust Druzil (and rightly so), but he could not ignore the pull on his heart. He felt his forehead's brand keenly in this place and suffered a severe headache merely from being near a structure dedicated to
Deneir. He found himself wanting to believe Druzil's words; he moved inevitably toward the cabinet and reached for the cloth.
There came a blinding electric flash, then a second, then a tremendous burst of fire. Fortunately for Rufo, the first explosion had launched him across the room, clear over the altar and into an overturned bookcase near the door.
Druzil shrieked as the flames engulfed the cabinet, its wood flaring brightly - obviously it had been soaked with oil or enchanted by some incendiary magic. Druzil did not fear for Tuanta Quiro Miancay, for that concoction was everlasting, but if the flask holding it melted, the liquid would be lost!
Flames never bothered Druzil, a creature of the fiery lower planes. His bat wings sent him rushing into the conflagration, eager hands pulling the cabinet's contents free. Druzil shrieked from a sudden burst of pain, and nearly hurled the bowl across the room. He caught himself, though, and gingerly placed the item on the altar, then he backed away and rubbed his blistered hands together.
The bottle holding the chaos curse had been placed in a bowl and immersed in the clearest of waters, made holy by the plea of a dead druid and the symbol of Syl-vanus, the god of nature, of natural order. Perhaps no god in the Realms evoked more