in a rich voice. "Twice in three days servants of the Spider Queen have called upon my home and asked for me by name. I begin to wonder if Lolth wishes me to reconsider my devotion to the Masked Lord."
"You are Tzirik?" Halisstra asked.
"I am he," the priest said, folding his arms and studying her. "And you must be Halisstra."
"I am Halisstra Melarn, First Daughter of House Melarn, Second House of Ched Nasad. I understand that my companions are here."
"Indeed they are," Tzirik said. He offered a cold smile. "One thing ata time, though. I see you wear the arms of a priestess of Eilistraee. How did you come by them?"
"As I told your warriors, my company was attacked by surface elves some distance away from here five days ago. My companions escaped the attack, but I was captured and taken to a place called Elventree. There, a female who called herself Seyll Auzkovyn called on me in my cell, and sought to indoctrinate me in the ways of Eilistraee."
"A rather simpleminded notion," Tzirik observed. "Continue, please."
"I allowed her to believe I might be swayed," Halisstra said. "She of-fered to take me to a rite they were to hold two nights ago out in the forest. I found an opportunity to escape as we traveled to their ceremony."
She glanced down at the mail and weapons she wore. The naivete of the female still surprised Halisstra. Seyll had not seemed like a stupid drow, not by any stretch of the imagination, and yet she had fatally mis-judged Halisstra.
"In any event," she finished, "I took the liberty of borrowing some things Seyll had no more use for, since the good people of Elventree con-fiscated my own weapons and armor."
"And now you would like to be reunited with your comrades?"
"Provided they're not dead or imprisoned, yes," she replied.
"Nothing like that," said the priest. "They asked me to provide an unusual service for them, so I thought of something they could do for me by way of compensation for my time and trouble. If they succeed, they should return in a day or two. The question is, will you be here to greet them?"
Halisstra narrowed her eyes and remained silent. The high priest paced over by the fire and took a poker from a stand by the hearth. He prodded at the crackling logs.
"The comrades who abandoned you to captivity among the surface folk told me a very unusual story," said the priest. "Doubtless you're think-ing to yourself, 'How can I know how much they told Tzirik?' You can't, of course, so the wisest thing to do would be to tell me everything."
"My companions may not appreciate that when they return," Halis-stra said.
"Your companions will never know you were here if you fail to sat-isfy my curiosity, Mistress Melarn," Tzirik said. He set down the poker, and lowered himself into a seat by the fire. "Now, why don't you start at the beginning?"
Ryld crouched in the thick embrace of a deadly, acidic fog, trying hard not to draw breath despite the fact that he panted for air. His skin burned as if liquid fire had been poured over his body, and ugly welts were already rising wherever his ebon skin was exposed to the air. To stay where he was invited nothing less than a slow, agonizing death, but the vapors clung to his limbs like soft white hands, impeding his every movement. The cursed beholder lurked somewhere in the chamber, but where?
A brilliant bolt of lightning illuminated the white murk, lashing out with a dozen crackling arcs as it plowed through the mist. The weapons master threw himself aside and fell slowly to the floor, cushioned by the clinging mists, as a mighty thunderclap shook the stones of the chamber and rattled his teeth in his head.
"Pharaun!" he shouted. "Where is the damned - ?"
He instantly regretted speaking, as needles of hot pain filled his nose and throat.
"Against the east wall!" the wizard replied from some distance away.
The Master of Sorcere fell at once into another spell, rushing his words as he tried to cast as quickly as possible. Meanwhile the beholder mage droned its horrid spell-song, muttering the black words of half a dozen in-cantations at once. Lightning flashed again, followed by the whining shrieks of conjured missiles arrowing for their targets, and the cries, shouts, and curses of his companions.
Ryld finally reached the floor, where he found himself fetched up against one curving stone wall - the only landmark he could