Sacrifice of the Widow

CHAPTER TWELVE

So this is it, Q'arlynd thought.

He floated in a featureless gray void that was neither hot nor cold, damp nor dry, soft nor hard. It just… was. Endless. Eternal. Still.

"I'm dead."

The sound of his own voice startled him. So did something that materialized, suddenly, under his feet. Ground. Gray as the void he'd been floating in, and smooth as glass, it neither gave under his feet nor resisted them. Like the void, it just… was. Something to stand on.

He could sense his arms and hands, even though he couldn't see or feel them. He moved them against himself, trying to touch his body. They passed through where it should have been. It was like trying to grasp smoke, except that his hands, too, were made of smoke, gray smoke, without a ripple or an end point.

His body was gone. He was dead.

Panic nibbled at the corners of his mind like a ravenous mouse. If he allowed it to, it would consume his awareness, what little of him there was. He steeled himself, forcing himself to remain calm. He was dead, but he still was. His soul continued.

His mind, such as it was, held the logical facts that explained his situation. His soul, like those of all who died, had entered the Fugue Plain. He could see it starting to take shape around him. There: a distant horizon, a line of gray on gray. And there: the jagged spires of the City of Judgment. Restless forms-mere dots, from a vast distance-surrounded its soaring walls. Demons herded the shapeless gray forms before them, driving unclaimed souls into the city where they would be consumed.

Other presences hovered closer to Q'arlynd-the souls of others who, like him, had just died.

"Can you hear me?" he asked as one drifted by.

It made no reply, just sighed past him, leaving a sheen of tears in its wake.

Q'arlynd realized then that he was slowly drifting toward the city. The thought sent a chill through him, colder than any he had ever experienced. He looked wildly around for the moonbeam that Rowaan had described, listened intently for a scrap of song.

Nothing.

"Eilistraee!" he called. "Aren't you going to claim me? I took the sword oath. I'm one of yours, now. You're my patron deity!"

No reply.

Something prickled where Q'arlynd's forehead should have been. If he'd still had a body, he would have sworn it was nervous sweat. He drifted more rapidly toward the city, and already it was half again as close as it had been.

"Eilistraee!" he screamed.

Nothing.

The city walls drew nearer. He could make out individual demons, scourges in hand, arms raising and snapping forward as they drove the dead. Souls wailed as they streamed in through the gates of the City of Judgment.

Q'arlynd shuddered-a ripple that passed through him like an icy wind. Panic once again crowded in at his awareness. He looked wildly around for the servant of a deity-any deity-to claim him.

"Mystra?" he pleaded, desperately hoping that Qilue's other deity might have taken notice of him, even though he hadn't pledged himself to her.

Nothing.

The walls had drawn close enough that he could see the individual stones in them writhing against one another. Each stone a soul trapped for all eternity.

A demon turned to stare at him. It crooked a cracked red finger, beckoning him closer.

"Lolth?" Q'arlynd croaked, desperate. "Anyone?"

Come.

Q'arlynd whirled. He saw nothing, but the voice came again. A male voice.

Return. To the land of the living. Will you return?

He recognized the voice: Malvag's. Probably the last person he wanted to call him back from the dead, but anything was better than-

"Yes!" Q'arlynd screamed.

The Fugue Plain disappeared.

His body returned.

He lay on his back on a sharp, lumpy surface, his arms underneath him. His fingers were tightly pinched. It felt as though they'd been lashed together with wire. His throat ached and there was a faint taste of blood in his mouth. He spat.

Then he saw the two Nightshadows staring down at him, framed by the crystal-lined cavern, and realized where he was and what had just happened. He tried to hurl himself erect but only managed to flop over on his side.

His mouth froze. He was aware of a second presence inside his skull, the mind of the Nightshadow closest to him-Malvag, the cleric he had nearly killed with lightning bolts. Malvag's eyes gleamed as he stared mercilessly down at Q'arlynd. The Nightshadow shook his head slightly and raised a warning finger. Q'arlynd's master ring was on it. Malvag spoke directly to him, mind to mind.

No spells, slave.

Get out! Q'arlynd raged. The second ring must have been on one of his own fingers under the wire that bound them. Get out of my mind!

Malvag's eyes crinkled in a mirthless smile. Get up.

When Q'arlynd hesitated, Malvag's awareness shoved its rough way into his torso and legs. Q'arlynd found himself drawing his legs up against his body. He rolled onto his stomach, rose to his knees, and finally lurched to his feet. He swayed and nearly fell before Malvag found his balance. All the while, Q'arlynd raged. He was a Melarn, damn it. His House might be gone, but he was still of noble birth. Never-never-a slave.

He might as well have been shouting against a howling wind. Malvag's laughter reverberated through his mind, overpowering Q'arlynd's inner voice.

This, Q'arlynd realized suddenly, is what Flinderspeld must have felt like.

But Flinderspeld was a deep gnome, a race that was used to such indignities and bore them stoically. Q'arlynd was a drow. He was forced to suffer Malvag's torments for the time being, but dark anger smoldered in his heart. The Nightshadow was going to pay for every moment. Pay dearly.

I doubt it, Malvag said.

Q'arlynd fell silent, not wanting to give the other male any further satisfaction.

Malvag walked him over to the drift disc that held the prayer scroll, and made him stand there, rigid. The second Nightshadow-the slender one-cocked an eyebrow and watched Q'arlynd, his eyes bright with fascination.

"Welcome back," he said. "I guess, since you're here, Eilistraee had no use for you." He laughed. "But we do."

Malvag pointed at the body of the Nightshadow Q'arlynd had turned to stone and spoke to the other male. "Get his mask."

Q'arlynd tried to swallow but couldn't. They knew. Everything. That he was Eilistraee's-or would have been, if only the goddess had bothered to claim him, yet they'd brought him back from the dead. Something he'd agreed to. What had he been thinking?

Malvag must have been listening, but he made no comment.

Hands appeared from behind Q'arlynd, holding the dead man's mask. It was tied into place around Q'arlynd's face. Unlike the polymorphed gem, which had prickled Q'arlynd's skin with a heat like raw pepper, this mask felt smooth as silk, but it was restless, shivering, afraid.

Valdar moved back around where Q'arlynd could see it. A smirk was in his eye. He pointed at the mask. "One of your friends from the Misty Forest. Go on-kiss her good-bye."

Q'arlynd blinked-a concession Malvag allowed him. That was Rowaan's soul in there. Q'arlynd felt a momentary twinge of guilt. He pushed it aside. Rowaan had been pleasant to him, but she'd been soft, he told himself. Weak. Gullible. If she'd fought harder against the assassin…

It was her own fault-but even so, Q'arlynd felt terrible.

The mask grew even colder against his face. A shudder passed through it. Then it stilled. It felt… calm, somehow. Resigned.

That was odd.

As Valdar took his place beside Malvag, the higher-ranking cleric raised his right hand. Darkfire burst into flaming life across Malvag's skin. "We will begin."

Malvag and Valdar bowed their heads, eyes firmly fixed on the prayer scroll. Q'arlynd's head, too, was wrenched down. As Malvag's darkfire-limned finger descended toward the scroll, Q'arlynd could feel the cleric peering out through his eyes. His mouth opened. He drew breath and began to read.

Q'arlynd listened as his mouth, under Malvag's control, spoke the words of the prayer scroll in time with the other two males. As they read it aloud, each word on the silver sheet flared bright then faded, that portion of the scroll crumbling in its wake. Streaks of silver spiraled up and off the page to circle above their heads. Slowly, the circle grew. It widened, and wisps of something gray and flowing, like vapor, streamed out of their masks. The souls, Q'arlynd realized. They were fueling the magic the clerics were weaving. The crystals in the cavern hummed softly, throbbing in time with the words the three males spoke.

As the spell slowly unfolded, Q'arlynd's apprehension gave way to a growing sense of wonder. Malvag's presence was a brutal fist inside his mind, but Q'arlynd could sense Valdar's awareness as well. Both men were excited, tense with anticipation. They were doing it! Working high magic. No drow had ever done it before, not since the time of the ssri Tel'Quessir, the original dark elves.

Their voices droned on.

Yes, Malvag whispered into Q'arlynd's mind. Together. We can. Do it.

Together, Q'arlynd whispered back. He saw it all, the brotherhood that was possible. His link with the two males next to him was as real as the connection between skin, muscle, and bone. Separate, the three were dead matter. Together, they moved, breathed and lived-and worked magic. Q'arlynd could see the Weave itself, could glimpse the hitherto invisible connections that linked the drow one to another. All his life, he'd been yearning for something like that, a bond, a true bond. He had thought he'd find it in his Ched Nasad once Halisstra was on the throne. He'd planned to forge it link by link by seeking out loyal Melarn who would work together to build and sustain their noble House, but he had come to see the futility of that dream. Only someone who had experienced the linking of minds, the oneness that was high magic, could understand what the word "bond" truly meant. Q'arlynd understood Malvag-understood what had driven the other male's nearly century-long quest to find that scroll. And Valdar, a male Q'arlynd had only just met-a male who had slashed open Q'arlynd's throat, just a short time ago-was like a brother to him. Valdar had grown up in Menzoberranzan, under the lash of Lolth's priestesses, before House Jaelre fled that city, but he had lived to be master of his own destiny.

Master.

Q'arlynd could no longer feel his fingers-the wire wrapped around them was that tight-but he no longer cared. He managed to glance off to the side to meet Malvag's eye. The Nightshadow inclined his head in the slightest of acknowledging nods, his own eyes still locked on the scroll.

Vhaeraun, Malvag managed, while somehow still reading the scroll himself and forcing Q'arlynd's mouth to do the same. The other male's self-control was amazing. Vhaeraun offers power. Seize it.

For just an instant, Qilue's face flashed through Q'arlynd's mind. The geas she'd cast on him took hold, and a near-crippling pain lanced through him, but a heartbeat later it was gone, that strand of the Weave slashed like a flimsy ribbon by Vhaeraun's sword. Q'arlynd saw eyes hanging in the air before him, eyes that were blue with delight.

Malvag and Valdar paused, drawing breath. Q'arlynd did the same. Together they watched as the three souls that had been swirling within the circle, like smoke, were suddenly sucked into its center in a flash of white light. That surprised Malvag-through his connection with the other male, Q'arlynd could sense it. Malvag had expected the souls to simply vanish, consumed by the gate, but then again, Malvag thought with a mental shrug, perhaps that was the way the spell was supposed to unfold.

They were almost done, and very little of the scroll remained. The link between Q'arlynd and the other two males was so strong that he could feel his heart beating in unison with theirs. The crystals, too, pulsed in time.

Ready? Malvag signed.

Valdar nodded.

So did Q'arlynd.

Q'arlynd started as he realized that Malvag had relinquished his hold, and Q'arlynd's body was his own again. His surprise deepened as he realized the Nightshadow was giving him a choice. Q'arlynd could ruin the spell then and there by the simple act of shutting his mouth, or he could continue reading the scroll.

A choice. Something Qilue had offered him in name only. She'd been all too quick to back up that "choice" with a geas.

The gate loomed over Q'arlynd's head, large enough, and clear enough, that he could see a dark forest within it one moment, a bleak and rocky pit the next. Eilistraee's domain, and Vhaeraun's, almost connected. Only two lines of the scroll remained.

Q'arlynd locked his eyes on it and continued to read, his voice in perfect cadence with the two Nightshadows.

"The bridge between realms is Woven," he intoned. "The crossing is complete."

As they completed the conjuration, the gate, fully formed, opened. Their masks flew from their faces and fluttered into it. A figure sprang through in their wake and vanished into the woods of Eilistraee's domain: Vhaeraun, swords in hand, eyes gleaming gold above his black mask.

Hungry for Eilistraee's blood.

Qilue landed in the cavern that was all that remained of the former temple of Ghaunadaur and looked around. The cavern was empty. The floor was a jagged field of rubble that had tumbled from the walls and ceiling to seal the deep pit into which Ghaunadaur's avatar had been driven. Smaller fragments of stone hung above the floor, suspended by magic to form a mosaic-like statue of Eilistraee-the seal that capped the pit. The statue was posed as if dancing, balanced with the toes of one foot touching the floor and the other leg extended, arms sweeping up and out. Almost imperceptibly, the mosaic-statue's pose was changing as the magic that animated the chips of stone went through a cycle that began anew with each full moon.

With a thought, Qilue shifted her awareness, enabling herself to see magic. The statue's aura was a pure, sweet silver. The seal was untouched.

An instant later, Iljrene materialized beside her. The tiny battle-mistress was fully armored, a singing sword in her hand. Her doll-like face was set in a frown of determination as she took up a position beside Qilue. She held a hand to one delicately pointed ear and listened. "Here they come."

Qilue, intent upon her prayer, merely nodded. She pointed a finger at the cavern's only intact entrance, the foot of the staircase that twisted down from above. The sound of running footsteps echoed down it.

Jasmir, Qilue sent. Have any of our priestesses entered the staircase that leads to the Pit?

None, came the confident reply.

Qilue smiled. Silver fire danced in her hair and on her skin. Focusing it within her hand, she let it build to a ravening white flame. The silver fire roared, filling the cavern with a sudden, brilliant light. As the first of the Selvetargtlin burst into the room, Qilue hurled it at him. A streak of silver shot toward the base of the stairs, rippling the rubble floor below it as it went. It smashed into Selvetarm's cleric, burning away his scarlet robe and turning the chain link lining below it red-hot. Qilue expected him to collapse, incinerated, but the Selvetarm kept coming, his flesh burning from his bones even as he ran. He charged the two priestesses, screaming his god's name and hurling a spell. Three of the stones that made up the floor between Qilue and Iljrene grew in the blink of an eye, becoming monstrous spiders that loomed over the two priestesses.

Spiders of stone.

He collapsed, dead.

Iljrene was busy with a prayer of her own as a second Selvetargtlin burst into the cavern, also screaming his deity's name. Singing loudly, her magical sword whistling over her head in whirling counterpoint, Iljrene flicked her hand in his direction then squeezed. The second cleric's eyes widened, and he took a staggering step, another-and his body collapsed into a bloody ball of mangled flesh pierced by protruding splinters of bone. Carried forward by the aborted charge, what remained of the cleric fell to the ground, a wet, bloody ball inside a suddenly loose robe.

It had been a brutal spell, but there was no time for Qilue to mourn yet another drow soul forever beyond redemption. The stone spiders were on them, even as four more Selvetargtlin came running into the room screaming their god's name. The second of the four held a black rod in his hand-the rod capable of breaking the seal on the Pit.

The judicator who had been leading them was nowhere to be seen.

The stone spiders were quite large-their backs level with Qilue's head-but they were a distraction only. The one closest to Qilue clamped its fangs onto her shoulder, piercing her flesh and driving in venom, but Mystra's silver fire instantly purged the poison from Qilue's body and sealed the wound. With a flick of her fingers-never once taking her eyes off the clerics who were charging toward her-Qilue touched the creature and spoke an arcane word, instantly slaying it. She stepped out from beneath the spider as it toppled over, letting it crash to the floor behind her. A snap of her fingers summoned her singing sword to her hand. She swept it over her head and listened to its gleeful song.

Iljrene, meanwhile, had dealt equally swiftly with the other two spiders. Her song of prayer caused them to soften then sag. They melted away into mud that seeped into the rubble on the floor. The battle-mistress stepped forward beside Qilue, braced as her superior was to meet the four clerics who rushed toward them.

One of the Selvetargtlin chanted a prayer that caused his body to sprout dozens of blades, turning him into a living weapon as he ran. Another shouted a garbled prayer at Iljrene, but the battle-mistress whirled her sword around her head, and the magical confusion was dispelled.

Yet another of the Selvetargtlin shouted a prayer that caused a cloud of utter darkness, shot through with crackling white spiderwebs, to envelop Qilue. Flames raced along them as the web ignited. Qilue felt a brief flash of heat on her skin-heat that was absorbed by the scepter that hung from her belt. Silver fire flared around her and exploded, snuffing out the fire storm.

Then the clerics were on them, and they were fighting hand to hand. Iljrene squared off with the cleric whose body was studded with blades. Qilue fought two of the others, swiftly dispatching one with a thrust that caught him in the throat and trading a flurry of blows with the other. All the while, she kept an eye on the cleric who held the rod-the only one who had not yet closed in battle. When he drew back his arm, she realized he was going to hurl it at the statue in an attempt to disrupt the seal-an act of desperation, surely, since the throw was a long one and might miss. Parrying the cleric who slashed savagely at her with his sword while screaming Selvetarm's name, Qilue waited for the throw. When the rod passed above her, Qilue would release Mystra's silver fire in yet another form-one that would temporarily disrupt the Weave, preventing the rod from functioning. The cleric whipped his hand over his head, threw…

Before Qilue could release Mystra's fire, the rod had passed her-so quickly that Qilue could not even bring her head up to watch the black streak that it became. The cleric who threw the rod also moved in a streak, across the room to a spot beside Iljrene. His sword somehow wound up in her stomach, its bloody point protruding from her back. The battle-mistress gasped, stricken with surprise and shock.

Qilue realized what had just happened. The Selvetargtlin had temporarily halted time.

The metal rod should have landed with a clatter behind Qilue, but she'd heard nothing. She whirled and saw a fifth Selvetargtlin-the missing judicator-standing next to the statue. The rod was in his right hand, which was still raised from catching it. His head was shaved except for a braid at the back of his head that whipped around as he whirled to smash the rod against the statue.

"No!" Qilue cried.

Silver fire flashed throughout the cavern, momentarily blinding even her. She heard a smash as the metal rod struck the statue then a pattering sound: chips of stone, flying away. As her vision cleared, she saw, to her relief, that the magic of the seal held. Though a gaping hole had been smashed in the middle of the statue, nearly cutting it in two, it refused to collapse. The void-black ball at the head of the mace had vanished, temporarily snuffed out by Qilue's silver fire.

The judicator snarled. The lines of glowing white that criss-crossed his skin in a web pattern flared as he cast the depleted rod to one side.

Iljrene, meanwhile, sagged away from the cleric who had just stabbed her. The other two closed in, swords raised to deliver killing blows. Qilue turned away from the judicator to hurl silver fire at them. The roaring, swirling cone of silver-white caught all three clerics, sending them reeling with robes and hair smoking. One immediately collapsed, dead. The battle-mistress, too, was caught by the edge of the blast, but it simply spun her around like a wind-blown leaf, leaving her unharmed.

Gasping her thanks, Iljrene slapped a hand over her wound and croaked out a prayer, healing herself.

Dealing with the other three clerics had given the judicator time to close with Qilue. His enormous two-handed sword swept down, and she barely had time to raise her own weapon to parry it. The singing sword wailed in a minor key as the judicator's weapon crashed against it, smashing it to one side. The judicator followed with a hilt-punch that sent Qilue staggering back. Her face burned where the spider-shaped guard of the judicator's weapon had struck.

She danced back, hurling herself out of range of his next blow. There was no time to cast a spell, no time to worry about Iljrene, who had plunged back into battle with the other two clerics, her sword singing furiously as she swung, parried, and swung. The judicator pressed Qilue with a flurry of blows, his eyes with their spider-shaped pupils glaring at her.

"Tonight," he announced in a funereal voice, "you all die, and Eilistraee with you."

Qilue fought back grimly, wondering if the Selvetargtlin were in league with Malvag. The fact that their attack had come on the night the Nightshadows planned to work their magic wasn't lost on her. Selvetarm was, after all, Vhaeraun's bastard child.

The judicator's sword whistled uncomfortably close to Qilue's face, reminding her of more immediate concerns. She returned with a slash that glanced off the judicator's breastplate, scoring a groove in the adamantine across the holy symbol that was embossed there. Her opponent paid the blow no heed. Unlike the other two clerics, who kept shouting their god's name, the judicator fought in silence, and not only with that massive sword. As his blade met Qilue's and they strained against each other, face to face, his mouth parted, revealing fangs. He bit her hand then whirled away, the blood-clotted end of his braid smacking her in the face for good measure.

Qilue, thanks to Mystra, was immune to poison. At her whisper, the punctures in her hand healed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Iljrene cut the legs out from under one of the Selvetargtlin she fought, then sweep her sword around, bloody and still singing, in an upward arc that caught the other just above the ear, slicing off the top of his head.

Qilue whispered a prayer of thanks. The seal held, the six lesser Selvetargtlin were down-only the judicator remained. He was outnumbered two to one, but the rod, she saw, was no longer disrupted. Its round head had reformed, a black blot against the floor where it lay. Thankfully, it was at least half a dozen paces from the statue.

She pressed home her attack, driving the judicator before her until his back was against the statue. Iljrene angled in from his left, her own sword singing a deadly counterpoint. Letting the battle-mistress take the initiative, Qilue stepped back, intending to cast a spell, but the judicator was unbelievably quick. His weapon flashed up, then down, catching Iljrene at the point where shoulder and neck met. It cleaved through her tiny body in an instant, cutting her torso in half from neck to hip. Blood rushed from the two halves as the pieces fell and sprayed into the judicator's face, momentarily blinding him.

Qilue screamed and hurled spellfire at him, hoping to kill him before he blinked the blood clear, but though the silver-white blaze made the judicator reel back, he remained on his feet. As the two halves of Iljrene's body crumbled in on themselves, reduced in an instant to a boiling mass of black spiders, he touched the point of his sword to it. The mass bulged upward, questing for the blade, then sizzled, dissolving into it. He held it there, his spider-pupiled eyes stared at Qilue. A challenge.

Furious, she hurled herself at him, knocking his sword away from the heap of tiny spiders. The sight of Iljrene, her steadfast companion and battle-mistress, reduced to a profane mass of spiders, rattled her badly. She swung wildly at the judicator, fury boiling out of her in waves of silver fire.

It was her undoing. The judicator's sword swept down, slicing off her right arm at the elbow. Qilue reeled back, nearly fainting from the pain. Her singing sword clattered to the floor with a wail, then fell mute. Qilue stumbled over a loose chunk of stone and nearly fell. Her left hand tightly clasped the stump of her right arm, and blood sprayed through clenched fingers.

"Eilistraee!" she gasped. "Heal me."

She felt flesh knit together under her fingertips, saw the spray of blood stop as the arm began to regenerate.

The judicator, however, gave her no quarter. He rushed Qilue, his terrible sword raised for a killing blow, and Qilue had nothing to parry it with. She could escape with just a word, but that would mean abandoning the Pit and its seal, and the rod was once again fully active.

"Mystra!" Qilue cried, desperately calling forth spellfire.

The judicator's sword swept down, even as moon-white fire blazed through the cavern.

Selvetarm loomed above Cavatina. Another dollop of acid dripped from his mace and landed with a bubbling hiss on the stone next to her, splattering and burning her skin. The god's mouth was enormous-wide as a doorway. Hot, foul-smelling breath washed over her as his fangs clamped hold of her torso. She gasped as she was lifted from the ground, the spiderwebs that had accumulated on her body hanging from her like limp hair. Dangling upside down from Selvetarm's fangs-which had yet to puncture her breastplate and deliver a final, poisoned bite-she saw the blur that was the traitor Halisstra sway through her field of view.

Halisstra waved one of her twisted, elongated arms. Behind her, a black dot that was the iron fortress of Lolth thundered toward them on its eight metal legs, its feet clashing like gongs against the ground.

Halisstra shouted something. Garbled words, to Cavatina's ears, which still rang from the unholy word Selvetarm had used to fell her. Cavatina could see more clearly. That flash of silver was the Crescent Blade, being waved overhead by a triumphant Halisstra, a creature that had only pretended to be seeking redemption, a demonic thing of Lolth.

Halisstra shouted something. It sounded like the word "slay."

Cavatina nearly laughed. Selvetarm needed no urging. In another moment his fangs would clamp down on her, and poison would be driven into her paralyzed body.

Selvetarm's fangs continued to squeeze Cavatina's chest, preventing her from drawing breath. Strangely, they had yet to pierce her armor. A miracle, that-but not exactly the one she'd pleaded with her goddess for. Even magically enhanced armor would only hold back the fangs of a demigod for so long.

Halisstra waved the sword over her head, still shouting-but at the same time looking nervously over her shoulder at the approaching fortress.

"Slay it!"

Selvetarm shifted his grip, still trying to bear down on Cavatina with his fangs. He'd yet to raise his head fully; Cavatina swung back and forth, just over Halisstra's head.

Cavatina realized what Halisstra was shouting. Not "slay," but "take." She held the sword by its point, blood dripping from her hand where she gripped the blade, offering the hilt to Cavatina.

Realizing that, Cavatina nearly cried. With an effort that took every bit of her will, she forced a numb arm to move. Leaden fingers spread. As she swung past Halisstra, she seized the hilt of the sword.

Selvetarm straightened, and Cavatina nearly dropped the sword. Slowly, with intense concentration, she forced her other hand to also close around the hilt. She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer with numbed lips…

And she could move again.

Selvetarm's eyes widened.

Now! the sword howled.

Twisting in Selvetarm's grip, she bent the upper half of her body forward, toward the god's head. At the same time, she swung the Crescent Blade.

"Eilistraee!" she screamed. "Do not fail me!"

The Crescent Blade flashed toward Selvetarm's neck, glinting red in the eerie light of the eight stars clustered above.

Selvetarm's eyes widened.

The breeze that blew incessantly across the Demonweb Pits stilled.

Spiders halted in mid-scurry as the blade bit into flesh-and cut clean through it, in a spray of dark blood.

The neck was severed.

The head fell, at last releasing Cavatina.

"Eilistraee be praised!" Cavatina cried, exultant. "Selvetarm is dead!"

She twisted in mid-air, halting her fall with her magical boots. The demigod's head slammed into the ground and shattered into bloody pieces, his body belatedly crumpling to a heap beside it. Cavatina threw back her head and laughed, tears streaming from her eyes. She'd done it! Slain Selvetarm.

Killed a demigod.

It felt incredible-a greater thrill than any she'd ever experienced. She raised the Crescent Blade above her head, triumph surging through her. For just an instant, her body flared with the moon-bright white of Eilistraee's holy moonfire. On the ground below, spiders scurried away in terror, seeking shadows.

This, Cavatina exulted wildly, must be what Qilue feels each time she calls on Mystra's silver fire.

It was incredible. Indescribable. Glorious.

Yes, the sword whispered. This is what it feels like to be a god.

The words startled Cavatina, brought her back to the here and now, reminding her that she was in the Demonweb Pits. Lolth's domain. She saw the Spider Queen's fortress hurtling toward her at an impossible speed, hastened to fury by the flare of moonlight that was Eilistraee's sign.

Cavatina gripped the Crescent Blade firmly then decided against testing her luck a second time. Killing one deity had taken a miracle. Trying to kill a second would be demanding too much, especially if that god was Lolth, fully cognizant of what had just happened and protected within her fortress of iron.

Cavatina looked around. Halisstra was nowhere to be seen. Had she already escaped through the portal? Cavatina hoped so. She realized now that she'd been wrong about Halisstra. Even someone twisted into an evil caricature of her former self could, it seemed, be redeemed.

"Halisstra!" Cavatina shouted. The wind was rising, and spiderwebs snagged at the edges of her open mouth.

There was no reply.

Lolth's fortress drew nearer. Halisstra or no, Cavatina had to leave.

Shaking her head at the sheer wonder of what she'd just done, she sprinted for the portal and leaped into it.

Dhairn cried out in triumph as he brought his blade down in a killing blow. The light pouring from the priestess was blinding him, but he would cleave her in two, even with his eyes closed.

"Selvetarm!" he shouted.

Victory was his! The Promenade was his!

The blade struck the priestess's forehead-and crumbled in his hands. Instead of solid steel, Dhairn held nothing but a blade-thin line of spiders. The creatures scattered as though they'd burst from an egg sac when they met the priestess's forehead and showered like black soot onto her shoulders. Dhairn gaped at them then flexed a right hand that was empty for the first time in more than a century. He raised it, staring at it in disbelief. His sword? Gone?

"Selvetarm?" he whispered.

He felt nothing. Only… emptiness.

The priestess bent, scooping up her weapon with her off hand. Dhairn ducked instinctively as silver flashed within a hair's breadth of his face. He danced backward, weaving to avoid her sword. Something had happened to his weapon, something inexplicable, but he still had his spells. He raised a hand to cast one-and blinked in surprise at his skin, which had turned a clear, solid black.

The white lines-Selvetarm's holy web-were gone.

The priestess's sword flashed down. Too late, he jerked his hand back. The blade bit into it midway between the fingers, splitting the hand lengthwise. He howled in anguish-then turned the howl into a shout. "Selvetarm!" he cried, trying to summon up the battle fury that would carry him past the pain, but the cry rang hollow in his ears.

He would not faint from the pain. He could not. Forcing his body into a spin, he whirled, whipping the priestess's face with his braid. At the same time he furiously whispered a prayer. He thrust his wounded hand out, reaching for Selvetarm, but no healing came.

Worried, he tried another spell-one that would cover his body in venomous blades, turning it into a living weapon. Ducking and weaving all the while to avoid the priestess's furious but not quite coordinated slashes, he cried his deity's name.

"Selvetarm!" he shouted. "Make me your weapon!"

Nothing happened. The demigod refused to answer.

Nervous sweat prickled Dhairn's skin. Something had happened. Something terrible. Had Selvetarm turned his back on Dhairn and his followers-abandoned those who sought to worship Selvetarm as a deity unto himself? Had Lolth ordered her Champion to do it?

What… was… wrong?

Utterly unnerved by the sudden absence of his deity, Dhairn backed away from the high priestess, who pursued him with fury in her eyes. Behind him, he heard another of Eilistraee's priestesses hurrying down the stairs, shouting something about the Selvetargtlin being defeated.

He only realized how close to the exit he was when her blade skewered his back. He stared, uncomprehending, at the sword point that had mysteriously emerged from his chest. As the cavern began to vanish into a gray mist, he croaked out one final plea.

"Selvetarm," he gasped through lips suddenly gone ice-cold. "I commend… my soul… to… "

But the demigod was no longer there to claim it.