The Realms of the Elves

THE GREATER TREASURE

Eleasias, the Year of the Helm (1362 DR)

Flames rose into the morning air, the sounds of clashing blades projected far and wide, and merchant wagons shied away from the gates. Even from a distance, it was clear that the city of Elversult rocked in dire turmoil.

"This is it?" the cloaked maid asked in her native tongue. Her harsh tone carried not a little disgust-something that sounded discordant and almost ugly in Elvish. "You believe those bearing the relic are here?"

The bronze-skinned elflord beside her did not bother to reply. Instead, he spurred his horse toward the city, intent on arriving in time to aid.

She followed, albeit much more slowly. As they rode closer, it was clear that only one building burned in Elversult-the great central tower. Battle raged in the air over the city, where a handful of black-robed mages wheeled, hurling spells at a flying lass in leathers, who swatted them like gnats, one by one, with bolts of lightning and flame. On the ground, a band of adventurers fought a dozen men-at-arms, gradually triumphing over impossible odds the way only adventurers can.

As the sun elves rode up to the gate, a great cheer sounded from within the walls. The last of the black robes dived to avoid a storm of animated blades but caught an amber ray full in the chest. He fell to earth, burning.

It was fortunate for the sages who predicted the weather that he had not been above the blade barrier, or it might have been raining that day in Elversult.

And so it was the Scarred Eagles adventuring band defeated the Cowled Skull dynasty of Elversult and Yanseldara-the flying lady with the slaying spells-was crowned in the Skulls' place. Some merchants cheered, some scowled, but by and large the people of Elversult took note of the radical change in government, shrugged, and went about business as usual.

It was, after all, the Dragon Coast.

And so it was that Yldar Nathalan, the disgraced, exiled son of a great Evermeetian family, was too late to participate in the glory-again.

As soon as the two elves had dispensed with their fine steeds at a not-so-fine bank of stables, Yldar stomped over to the fountain in the center of town and crossed his arms.

He looked around at the myriad faces, people going about their business. To all, he felt a sense of detachment, even more so than he felt with any of the foolish humans he had met in his travels. Life in Elversult had shifted so radically, so quickly, leaving his-a visitor's- head spinning, but no native seem to notice much.

"Humans," Yldar cursed in Elvish.

"Do not act thus," Cythara said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her full red robe hid her golden mane. "This was not your day."

"No day is my day," replied Yldar. He possessed a melodious voice, but one hardened by discontent and years of disappointment. "First the Tower, then the bladesingers, even the border guards… How long have we been traveling, sister, yet you do not know this?"

Similarly sharp of feature and lean of body, Cythara was Yldar's double in many ways, but one could never say that she suffered from his excess of pride-the flaw that ran through the Nathalan family like blood. Rather, her faults were subtler, more insidious, and altogether beyond her younger brother's ken.

"Yldar," she said. "What would Father say?"

"I might as well not exist." The elflord shrugged. "The feeling is mutual."

Cythara felt her hand tense, but thought better of striking the stubborn, almost petulant Yldar. It would only hurt her hand.

"Brother," she said. "Have you forgotten the relic?"

His eyes bright, Yldar jumped to his feet. "Yes!" he said. "I mean-no!"

Cythara smiled a little, but it was an irritated smile. "Let us search, then," she prompted.

Yldar was already off and away.

— Sunlight streamed through the window, mingled with a fair amount of flame, it seemed. With a mild oath, she rolled out from under the bedclothes.

She had slept again.

The Reverie came so infrequently to the moon elf these days. Perhaps she dealt with humans too much, or perhaps the elf gods truly had cursed her. The trick smacked greatly of the whims of her fickle patron.

While she considered that, a growling sound from her stomach convinced her that it was time to head down. She even managed clothes before obeying its command.

As she padded downstairs in her doeskin boots, the moon elf was pleased to see the gruff and stocky men who frequented the Splitskull stepping aside, giving her space. That was polite. Trying to weasel their way into her good graces, mayhap-and eventually her bed, likely. Then again, she thought with a smile, they might simply be justly wary.

She sat down at the bar, eschewing the tables that miraculously opened up when she entered and waved to the owner. "Keep," she called. She realized that she had never bothered to learn his name, but he seemed content with the moniker. Or perhaps that was his name, in which case it was irrelevant.

"What'll it be, 'Light, ye heartbreaker?"

"You're such a flatterer," she said, brushing a raven lock out of her pale eyes. "A morning meal? And drink?"

"On your tab, I s'pose."

Twilight inclined her head. Keep shouted a few words back to the kitchen, then pulled her an ale from a tapped keg.

"News o' the day? The Skulls're out." Keep's voice was nonplussed.

Dragon Coast indeed.

"Truly?" Twilight took an unladylike swig.

"Aye, indeed. Yanseldara an' her lover, Vaerana, done ousted the lot o' 'em."

Twilight shook her head. Little in the realms took her by surprise these days. "Costs will rise, eh?"

Keep shrugged. "Goods'll be safer, and competitors driven mostly underground." He wiped a tankard and grinned. "Better atmosphere, ye might say."

Twilight raised her ale to that.

Then the door to the dark tavern opened, letting in heinous light, and Twilight blinked in surprise. Faces of such hue were not to be seen everyday in Elversult- especially not one so handsome as the elflord who entered.

Delicious, she thought with a wry smile.

A gentle hush came over the Splitskull when the tall sun elf entered. His skin of polished bronze and the fine elven blade that hung from his belt seemed out of place in a smoky tavern filled with grizzled, dirty men. No one felt like taking the challenge in Yldar's eye.

When the delicate maiden in the red cloak followed him, even more eyebrows rose. She wore her cowl low, but the tip of her angular, bronze chin could be seen beneath a pair of thin lips. Cythara inflamed more than a few bodies that day, striding by, oblivious to all and above it.

Yldar guided Cythara to a table in the corner, where she sat haltingly. She did not possess the robust vitality of her brother.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" she asked in Elvish.

"We could have stayed at the Axe and Hammer, but dwarves staff the place," said Yldar with a scowl. "Nor did I like the price at the Wyvern's Pipe. I shall see to refreshments."

"Remember why we are here. No duels."

Yldar gave his sister a roguish smile. "I would not think of it."

They both knew the truth of that assertion.

Yldar left to get tea and mead. Cythara leaned back against the wood paneling and blew out a long sigh.

She did not resent her brother, but neither did she enjoy having to rely upon his strength. In body, Cythara was sickly and weak, but in mind and will… One look in her cold, strangely red eyes told anyone to think twice before crossing her.

Anyone, that is, except the burly Marthul, who apparently wasn't looking quite high enough to meet her gaze.

Marthul was an impressive man in the way a wild boar is impressive. Few would guess it, but a shrewd-enough mind lay behind his scarred and craggy visage, one that should have seen the danger inherent in his chosen course. But done in by rotgut as he was-Marthul being possessed of a strong consititution, but not a dwarfs stomach-the big man saw only a lithe body in desperate need of his brand of companionship. He flopped into the seat beside her.

All the while, a pair of glittery pale eyes watched from the smoky end of the bar, and it was this searching gaze that drew Cythara's attention. She could not make out the face.

"Well met, me pretty lass," Marthul slurred. "Ye here alone?"

"Six heartbeats," Cythara said without looking. "Wha-?"

"Six heartbeats to retract your offer and be gone." Dark magic flared behind her haunting eyes. "Four now." "Ay, is that any-"

"Two." Under the table, her fingers twitched in a spell.

"Now hold-"

"One."

He felt a chilling jolt as an unseen black ray struck his knee. "Ye little…"

Marthul's words trailed off and he grasped at his throat. His dusky skin turned gray and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. All eyes in the inn turned toward them, most looking out of faces rapt in horror.

Unable to breathe, Marthul waved vainly at the elf beside him. The life was slowly ebbing out of him as though some creature of the night leeched away his soul.

With her bronze hair and face, however, Cythara looked more like a creature of the day.

"This was your choice," she said, speaking in Elvish once more. Her voice was soft, as though the spell drained a bit of her vitality as well. She looked at Marthul for the first time, coldly. " hope 'tis all you expected."

Had Marthul been left in the grip of Cythara's slow, draining spell, he might well have stopped breathing and collapsed. However, to Cythara's chagrin-but not to her surprise-Yldar was there, seizing Marthul by the collar.

"Away from my sister, you damned, dirty ape-spawn," he growled.

Marthul wasn't about to argue. Neither did he resist- if indeed he could have-as Yldar twisted him over his shoulder and sent him tumbling into a game of cards at the next table. Marthul's bulk splintered the table and sent cards, coins, and players scattering.

Angry glares fell upon the sun elf then, but when Yldar drew his long sword with a flourish and sneered, those gazes passed by. Satisfied, the sun elf turned back to his sister.

As soon as his back was turned, a dozen blades snickered quietly out of well-oiled belt, boot, wrist, chest, neck, back, and even bodice and codpiece sheaths. There was a reason the inn was called the Splitskull. Oblivious, Yldar smiled fondly at his sister. Cythara saw the attackers coming and sucked in a breath.

Then a lithe figure stepped between Yldar and the throng of attackers. All eyes snapped to the newcomer, and just as quickly the blades slid away. Before Yldar even sensed something happening behind him, the Splitskull had gone back to a comfortable tranquility.

It was, after all, the Dragon Coast.

"Quite the throw," the newcomer said.

The sun elf turned, hand on his sword hilt, to find a mischievous smile waiting. Despite his touted inability to be impressed, Yldar stood blinking.

Shifting her weight from one foot to the other sensuously, the moon elf was easily the most beautiful maid he had ever seen-on par with the high nobles of Evermeet, even.

Her laughing eyes were pale, of indeterminate color that seemed to shift with the light. Standing against her pale skin, the raven hair falling to her waist in a loose cascade gleamed like the sky at midnight. She wore tight black breeches, a white tunic, and a gray vest with a half cape of dark scarlet silk that covered her left arm. Only one hand-the right, in a scarlet glove-was visible, perched on a slim hip.

Most significantly, though, she wore certainty and strength of will about her like a cloak. Her gaze unnerved Yldar even as it sent thrills down his spine, and her body… Well.

"Aye?" she said again. Yldar realized he had been staring. "See something that pleases?"

The sun elf flushed with indignation. "My thanks, lady," he said, speaking Elvish without thinking. "For the-"

At that moment, Marthul-who had recovered in the pause and drawn a twisted knife-roared and leaped at the pair. Yldar cursed and reached for his blade, but the maid did not blink. Her left hand shot out from beneath the cape.

There was a click, and Marthul roared. His wavy dagger clattered to the ground as he clutched at his hand-and the quarrel sticking through it.

Only then, in the midst of Marthul's curses, did the maid look back, along the line of her previously concealed hand crossbow, and flashed a wry smile. Marthul's face went ashen and he dashed out the door of the Splitskull, cursing.

Yldar blinked. She had moved too fast for him to see, much less react. He was starting to see reason behind her self-assured carriage.

If only he knew.

"My thanks again, and well met," he said in Elvish. " am Yldar Nathalan and this is my sister, Cythara, of the House of the Crescent Bow."

Cythara hissed at Yldar, but he was too absorbed in the maid to pay attention.

"Impressive-really," the moon elf said in Common, shrugging. "I am called Fox-at-Twilight." She held out her left, ungloved hand. As he disdained human customs, Yldar did not take it. "You can call me 'Light, if you wish."

"I do not," Yldar said. "You insult us with the tongue of animals?"

"So that's how you're playing it," Twilight muttered under her breath.

"You give us disrespect?" Yldar sniffed superciliously. His hand went to his sword hilt.

Twilight raised one brow. "Quite the temper," she observed. A short rapier engraved with a weathered, asymmetrical star hung at her waist. "A duel? That's one way to catch a maid's eye."

Cythara reached out and caught Yldar's arm, but her eyes never left Twilight. "Your help was neither solicited nor desired," she said. "Begone."

"Well met to you as well, your Highnesses," came the reply in the common tongue, perking every ear in the room. Twilight smiled as Yldar and Cythara's eyes nearly popped. She added in Elvish, "And unless you'd like every cutpurse and cutthroat in the Splitskull visiting your table, I suggest you ease the censure."

Yldar balked. Cythara's eyes glittered dangerously.

"You know who we are?" Cythara hissed.

"The House of Nathalan is known to me," said Twilight. Her accent was odd-almost human in its sound, though Yldar heard a trace of Evermeet there. "Known for its wealth and prestige-enough to rival most dynasties ofFaerun, and to draw the attention of most of her sellswords-though I doubt anyone in Elversult has heard of you. Thus, 'Highness' it shall be-If it please you, Highness." Her last words were loud enough to carry through the room.

Cythara scowled and hunched down, shutting her mouth.

"What do you want?" Yldar asked.

Twilight grinned. "Just a friendly chat-in Common," she said. "And if it becomes something more, well then. May I?" She gestured to Yldar's seat, and the sun elf winced. Twilight sat heavily. "Both hands on the table, your Highness."

Cythara, suppressing a frown, drummed her fingers on the wooden surface to show that she was casting no spells.

Satisfied, Twilight turned to Yldar. "Buying a lass a drink? My lord, you're too kind."

Fuming, Yldar waved over the barmaid, who approached the table hesitantly.

"Your best feywine," Twilight said. They sat in silence until the drink came. Twilight downed it in one go and waved for another.

"What shall we talk about?" Yldar asked.

"Tell me why you're here," she said. "I don't see many of the People in the Splitskull, after all-Well, few enough cousins of Queen Amlauril, anyway."

"Yldar…" Cythara warned.

"No choice, Cyth." He turned back to Twilight. "We are looking for something."

Twilight accepted her second glass from the barmaid and teased the liquid close to her rosy lips. "We're most of us looking for something, and for those of us who aren't, it's someone," the rogue said. "Anything in particular? Anyone, mayhap?"

Yldar bit his lip, and Twilight rolled her eyes.

"Come now, Lord Nathalan-don't be coy. It's not like you suns."

"Very well," Yldar said. "What if I were to tell you we were searching for a certain powerful elven artifact, which we've traced from the ruins of Ascalhorn southeast along trade routes, through the hands of adventurers, and is now somewhere, we believe, along the Dragon Coast, if not in Elversult itself?"

Twilight shrugged in a "so-it-goes" way. "Why, is it something you're likely to say any time soon?"

Yldar bit his lip. "We seek… Ynloeth's Bracer."

Silence. Twilight's eyes flickered, like the glinting of coins. There it was.

Ynloeth was not a name known to many in Faerun, but most elf children knew the ancient story of Coronal Ynloeth of Shantel Othreier, a hero of the Crown Wars that had split the elf race asunder. And all who knew his name remembered the legend of his shattering swords, upon which he had called to slay a thousand foes in a heartbeat of destructive fury. Legendary, too, was that the power of the blades destroyed its wielder-unless he had the Bracer's protection.

"I see," Twilight finally said. From her blank expression, one would assume she cared little for legend or history- one would assume.

"The Bracer is a priceless relic of antiquity, just as are Ynloeth's shattering swords," Cythara said with a scowl, stubbornly holding to Elvish.

Tve always been intrigued by the concept of'priceless'," Twilight said. "Well, mayhap we can be of some use to one another."

"What possible use can you serve?" Yldar scoffed. He wished his arrogant words held more of the heat he intended. They were more of a defense, a front for uncertainty. "A nameless, landless rogue, who speaks with the tongue of apes? Ha!"

If his pride rankled Twilight, she made no sign. "Two uses," she said, brushing a raven lock out of her eyes. "For the first, I'm good at acquiring things."

"You are a thief" Cythara whispered.

"In a word, and not that of men, it seems." Twilight inclined her head. "Though I am more a thief in the Common sense, my lady, than in the Elvish."

"No," said Cythara, finally relenting. "You have taken my bracelet."

"Oh, yes." Twilight grinned sheepishly and put a gold bracelet with twin rubies on the table. Cythara snatched it back.

"My apologies," Twilight said. " 'Tis a poor practice to steal from one's associates."

"Associates?" Yldar asked.

"Oh, aye-number two," Twilight said. "You're looking for the Bracer. I know who has it." She met his gaze demurely, but her eyes flickered with something more. "You and I are meant for each other, Prince."

Yldar wasn't certain whether he should be outraged or excited, indignant or accepting, but one thing was sure: his heart had definitely started beating faster.

"Now, if your Highnesses will excuse me," Twilight said.

She rose, and Yldar's heart leaped. "Wherefore do you go?" he asked.

Twilight gave him a little sly smile. "Why, to talk to the shadowy, mysterious man sitting in the corner, who will either harm or help," she said. "Meet me here for evening meal. I shall have a plan for you then."

"How do you know there is such a man," asked Cythara, "without looking?"

"In a place like this? There always is." And with that, she was gone, leaving Cythara and Yldar to stare at one another, then after her, wordless.

And sure enough, there was a man skulking in the shadows they had not noticed before-one who saw Twilight coming, stifled a curse, and rose to flee. Not to be deterred, Twilight angled to follow him into a backroom hidden behind a tapestry of a boar hunt.

None of the three elves realized that a certain scowling, pained face-this man not so shadowy or mysterious, merely prudent-was listening at the window and had heard every word.

Cursing and clutching his hand, Marthul left the window of the Splitskull and made his way up Temple Hill. His spying mission complete, even if it had suffered a setback, he extricated himself from the elves' proximity as quickly as possible, elbowing his way through the streets, heedless of anyone who might be trailing him.

He would get his revenge, and he knew right where to go.

Upon arriving at the gates of the struggling House of Coins-the temple of Waukeen, Lady of Merchants- Marthul detoured down a dark alley and paused beside a pile of refuse. Services had ended within-turnout was low with the goddess's strange absence, which had lasted since the Godswar-and the place seemed empty.

Marthul knew better. He felt along the wall until he found it-a small hole, something that would seem little more than a nick to a curious street urchin.

He took off his gold coin necklace and twisted the ornament in two, revealing a jagged key. This he inserted in the hole, and a door appeared in the wall, surrounded by black light that only his initiated eyes could see. Marthul smiled and went through the yawning portal, which closed behind him like a mouth.

Appropriate that the missing goddess's ailing temple hid a thriving temple devoted to her captor.

As he descended the long tunnel, Marthul let delicious darkness enfold him and breathed deeply. The lingering scent of blood, sweat, incense, spoiled meat, and the rituals of their demon lord tainted the air. The steps led to an anteroom outside the altar chamber, where a ritual was being prepared for that very night.

In order to heighten his experience, Marthul had meant to consume quite a few drinks during his spying mission, but the gods had frowned. Perhaps he would enjoy it anyway-he hoped the victim would be a pretty lass again. Criminal, streetwalker, or barmaid, it mattered little to the cultists, but Marthul always preferred the innocent ones.

"Slaveling Marthul," came a chilling, feminine voice in the anteroom shadows.

A chill ran down his spine and he turned to see a voluptuous woman in a black cloak-and, clearly, nothing else-searching him with a pair of red eyes.

"Chosen Leis'anna," he murmured, bowing. "Blessings of our Prince be upon-"

"They already are," the woman said, flashing her long, daggerlike teeth. As always when he met her gaze, Marthul's head pounded and everything went blurry. "You are late."

"Trouble at the Splitskull," he said.

Something about his tone gave it away-or mayhap the feral-faced Chosen could indeed read minds. Leis'anna frowned, her face that of a displeased lioness. "I sent you to spy upon the seekers of the Bracer, not to spark a duel with them," she said.

"Well, me apologies," he spat.

Marthul moved to stomp off, but she seized his arm. Her great strength belied her soft frame, startling him. More surprising, though, her touch felt soft, comforting.

"There is more," she said. "Speak." The words carried a subtle compulsion.

Marthul realized he should have refused, but her touch… The seductive magic there, reaching into his soul and laying claim to it, made such a thing impossible. Her face seemed strangely feline then, and her eyes swam with black. He fell deep into those pools and sank as a man who does not realize he is drowning until darkness surrounds him.

Marthul could no longer control himself. He told her everything-about the elves who had come to town, about the black-haired elf, and about the Bracer of Ynloeth.

Leis'anna's eyes flashed at that, and she smiled. Marthul felt himself freed, though the muddiness in his head was still there.

"The Fox has once more involved herself," she said. "Interesting." She traced soft fingers down Marthul's cheek. "Our agreement with her still stands, I believe."

She fixed Marthul with her discerning stare again. He realized that a crowd of cultists had formed around them-faceless figures in black cloaks.

Leis'anna seemed to tower over him. "We are, though, displeased you introduced them all. Steps must be taken."

"That… that wasn't what I… I didn't mean…" He began feeling sleepy.

"Oh, I realize that, child," Leis'anna said. "I simply do not care. Nor does Lord Graz'zt, for that matter."

As darkness claimed him, Marthul grew aware of a noise issuing from deep within her throat-something like purring.

And when he woke again, he was on the altar of the demon lord.

— O The Splitskull kept a room hidden behind a tapestry for private meetings, business or pleasure-the kind of encounters the watch just didn't need to know about. At the moment, there were perhaps a dozen appropriately secluded individuals sitting around half as many tables, taking part in just those sorts of consultations.

The cloaked man ducked into the chamber, and shed his cloak, tossing it in a corner. Underneath, he was unwashed, pot-bellied, and anything but mysterious. A dozen eyes shifted his way, and moved away just as quickly.

The retreat had been prepared for him, with a tankard of small beer, a bowl of mutton stew, and a chunk of hard bread awaiting at a table. He slid into the chair across from the wall and fell to eating as though he had long been there.

"Well met," Twilight said out of the shadows.

When he looked up, she was sitting there, leaning against the wall, one leg up on the bench. A dozen gazes turned to her, a touch more unsettled, but a tiny shrug turned them away.

"Gods," the man growled in a mixture of shock and disgust. "What are ye about-giving me heartstop?"

"And be deprived of such witty repartee with so handsome a swain?" asked Twilight. "Surely you jest."

With the scar that twisted his lip and the deep pock-marks across his forehead and cheeks, he was more of a handsome swine. Looks deceived, though, as they usually do, for this was Macognac Whisperweb, expert fence, dealer in controlled substances and fleshmonger, and the best informed spy in Elversult-in the Dragon Coast entire, he said. He was, of course, wrong, as they both knew, but that didn't get his ego down any.

"Muck, I need a favor," said Twilight.

Macognac winced. "I wish you wouldn't call me that," he groaned. He was undoubtedly recalling their long and uncomfortable-mostly on his end-history.

"Very well." Twilight shrugged. "Mucky, I need information for some people I'm… doing business with."

"No."

"I'll pay."

"No."

"You need the coin."

"No-I mean, yes, but no. I won't do it."

Twilight gave him a petulant pout. "Oh, Mucky," she said sweetly. "You know what they say. The friend you feed is a friend in-"

"I don't want to have anything to do with your deeds, 'Light," Macognac said. "This isn't Westgate."

"What about the robbery of Arfiel's a tenday past?"

"Mucky" couldn't stop a nicker of recognition. "Don't know nothing about that."

"What about usury with the dwarves of Steel Hollow?" pressed Twilight.

Another wince. "Didn't have nothin' to do with-"

"How about those necklaces back in Mirtul? I heard the countess lost a pretty-"

"All right, all right," Macognac spat. "What do ye want to know?"

Twilight gave him a little wry smile of victory. "A group of cultists-I need to know where their temple is."

"Which cultists? They're a silver a dozen in Elversult." "The Deep Coven."

Macognac blinked and his face went pale. "Ay, lass, ye don't want to be dealin' with that pack. Devil worshipers, they be."

"Demon worshipers, actually," said Twilight. "Speaking of which, I seem to remember something about you and the coven-what was it? Lotus shipments, perhaps?"

Macognac grimaced." 'Gainst me better judgment, but aye, I'll do it." He eyed her with suspicion. "Ye'U be taking something from 'em. How do ye know they 'ave it?"

Twilight's eyes nickered. "Call it feminine intuition," she said. "The thiefly kind."

It was his turn to light up. "Ye're playing both sides," he said. "Again."

Twilight flashed him a winsome smile. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mucky." She got up to leave, but he caught her by one loose white sleeve.

"Now, what's say ye and me go up to my room and play some Lafat together," Macognac offered, citing a strategy card game where players set down cards like units of soldiers. "I'll go easy on yer flanks this time-just charge up the middle." As he spoke, his hand drifted from her arm to her side and over to her firm belly.

Twilight gave the hint of a smile. "Now my dear Goodman Macognac, what would your blushing wife say if she heard this kind of talk?"

"She's a modern sort of woman," he reassured her, drawing Twilight into his lap. "She'd join us, I think."

"And if she heard about the Sunite celebrants on Midsummer?"

"Very open minded, me wife be," Muck said. His fingers played with the fringe of her vest and moved upward.

"And the Loviatans later that night? With the whips?"

The color drained from Macognac's face. "How did ye know… about the…" Then anger flared. "Ye saucy wench!"

Standing, Twilight glided out of reach.

"That's me," she said with a smile.

"I suggest you get a good night's rest before tomorrow," said Twilight that evening over wine in the common room of the Splitskull. She had played more gently with Yldar's coin pouch this eve, insisting on a glass of the house's second best feywine, rather than the first.

"You know where we must go?" Yldar said.

Cythara cast her brother a dangerous glance. "We do not go at night?" she asked. "You mean to steal the Bracer, yes? Is such a thing not done best at night- thief?"

"Not with these clients," Twilight said to Yldar. "Clients?" asked Yldar.

"Our unwilling business associates," said Twilight. "Who until the very near future, have been in possession of a certain relic, of which they shall, in that very same near future, find themselves bereft." She grinned. "And they are the kind who live for the night hours-day shall be much to their dislike and our advantage."

"As you say," said Yldar. Cythara looked askance at him, shocked that he would so readily trust this rogue, but the treasure hunter did not return her gaze.

Twilight continued, "We leave at dawn, when Selune sets and the sun first warms the horizon. Be ready." Finally she glanced at Cythara. "And prepare your spells. They may prove useful."

Cythara glared. — "I find it very convenient," Cythara was saying in imperious Elvish, "that she seems to know exactly who has the Bracer and where to go. Neither did she question us as to the Bracer's nature."

She did not shout, but Yldar knew her fury knew no bounds.

They spoke in the room they shared, Cythara poring over her grimoire and Yldar pacing back and forth, looking up as though carrying on a conversation with the ceiling.

"Mayhap her contact told her where to look," said Yldar. "And as to knowing of the Bracer, she is an elf, is she not? Coronal Ynloeth's fame is legendary. I would look with suspicion upon a mere human who knows the name, but is it so surprising that an elf would?"

Cythara grimaced and chanted the words to a spell.

He looked up again. "Flower of the starless night, or dusk's perfect lily?" he asked. "Which is more fitting?"

The rafters did not deign to show a preference.

"What are you doing, anyway?" Yldar asked his sister.

Ignoring him, the gold-skinned wizardess completed the chant and stared sightlessly into the air for a breath. Then she blinked, scowled, and fell back to reading.

"Attempting to scry youF thiefly friend," Cythara said. "And failing, as though she does not exist." "She is a ghost, then?"

"No, dwarf-beard. She cloaks her movements in magic, or something else does so."

She flung away the lingering scrying magic and turned another rasping page in her grimoire, giving up. "I swear on Corellon's blade, something is amiss here." Another page creaked. "She manipulates us to her advantage, and you-fool that you are-allow her."

"Don't be ridiculous, sister. She's one of the People- surely she wouldn't-"

"Now you speak like her." Cythara went pale with fury, and Yldar realized that he had lapsed into the common tongue without realizing it. "Seldarine, brother! Ever an idiot for a pretty maid."

"So you think she's pretty," Yldar said.

Cythara slammed the spellbook closed. "Good rest, brother," she said as she rose.

"But where do you go? I thought we were making plans for the morrow."

"I see you are not in the necessary state," said Cythara. "And so I go- shall see if this hovel has another room to offer. Sweet water and light laughter."

And with that, she slammed the door shut.

"Thank the Maid, I thought she'd never go," said a dark figure, stepping from the shadows behind the door.

Yldar whirled, sword out, but it was only the beautiful Twilight.

"Aillesel seldarie," he gasped. "Do you always startle folk this way?"

"Only those who amuse me so," she said.

Yldar did not know why he felt so stung. "Upon whom do you swear? Is 'the Maid' our Lady Moonbow, or Hanali Celanil, mayhap?"

"The Maid of Misfortune." When Yldar stared, she smiled crookedly. "Beshaba and I have an understanding." Then her ears perked up, like a feline's might.

"Besh…?" Yldar let it trail off. He knew better than to try to decipher this strange and confusing maid. He would discern her business and insist she leave him in peace.

"Why, ah-" he started, but then Twilight leaped across the room and kissed him.

Yldar was so shocked, he did not even protest for a breath. Then confusion took over.

"What?" asked Yldar as he fought off her mouth-her sweet mouth. "What?"

"We're about to be rudely interrupted," Twilight informed him. She kissed him again, hard. "Just hold me, eh?" She positioned his hands on her backside. "Like this."

Yldar stammered, shocked, but didn't resist. It provided Twilight an easy target for her lips.

As they kissed and ran their hands over each other- or, rather, as Twilight did so and Yldar stood rather woodenly-portals of crackling darkness opened behind them. There was an awkward silence as the two elves simply stood, exploring one another's mouths rather fully, and the intruders looked at one another, trying to decide what to do.

"Oh, put your back into it, golden boy," Twilight said between kisses.

Yldar stiffened uncomfortably. "Truly maid, you-"

"Ahem," said one of the intruders.

Twilight smiled. "That shall do."

Without turning, she sent a crossbow bolt streaking for the head of the cougher.

There were three of them-two men in dark mail with wavy, zigzagging blades held in both hands, and one in tattered, black robes who stood behind, staff in hand. One of the former leaped into the path of the quarrel-or, rather, was forced there by magic-and caught it with his face. The staff wielder scowled.

"You!" he barked at Twilight. He pointed. "Zsa'kai!" Yldar didn't understand the foul tongue, but the meaning was clear enough, as the remaining swordsman ran at them.

"Goldie," snapped Twilight, "get the mage!"

Twilight drew her rapier just in time to block the advancing swordsman. Her dusky blade sparked as it struck his fiendishly serrated sword and turned it low. Out of the corner of his eye, Yldar thought he saw flames lick down Twilight's blade and electricity crackle down its length.

He had other concerns, though.

"Get the mage?" he asked, confused.

Then the gnarled, darkwood staff glowed with abyssal power, and Yldar gulped. He desperately wove a spellshield.

The next thing he knew, he was pulling himself out of the shattered wall, batting at the black flames that licked at his tunic. His defense had not been enough, it seemed.

"Yldar!" Twilight hissed. "What did I say?" "You sa-" he began, but he saw the necromancer looming over him, chanting darkly.

"In Graz'zt's name," the man hissed, and laid a burning black hand upon Yldar's chest.

Vile magic ripped its way into the sun elf, burning through his blood and seeking his heart. He sensed its purpose-to still that beating organ forever-and fought it with every bit of his strength, every fiber of his vitality. He willed his heart to pump on, resisting the foul magic.

And resist it he did, for the corrupting spell faltered, undone by his robust body. Yldar fell back to the ground, coughing and retching the foul magic out.

"What's this?" the necromancer growled. "Not a mage?"

Yldar smiled despite himself. Without the physical training in his swordsmanship classes-if he had studied only magic, say-he would never have fought off that spell.

"Wrong sun," came a voice from above.

Drawn by the magic thrown about, Cythara floated through the ceiling as though it were mist. The necromancer whirled, calmly intoning the words to a spell, but Cythara was the faster. She threw a beam of shimmering gold at his chest, meaning to reduce the necromancer to dust.

Her power struck a shield of shimmering black and dissipated as though it had never been.

"Imposs-" she managed just before the necromancer's dark bolt struck her. Searing, profane blackness scourged her body and her soul, and while her will kept her life-force intact, her body was weak. She fell and slumped to the ground, still burning with freezing, black flames.

"Such power," Cythara whispered. A glaze that was not unlike lust passed over her eyes, and she succumbed to the demonist's spell.

The necromancer grinned and turned back to Yldar- who promptly stabbed his sword into the man's guts. The mage screamed and twisted, black eating away at the blade as though his blood were acid. Yldar let go in disgust and hurried to his sister, who groaned.

"In Graz'zt's name, I shall slay-!"

The necromancer never finished the threat, for Twilight leaped across the room and plunged her rapier through his side. The man's acid blood didn't harm the ancient steel, however, and he died without protest.

The door slammed open and the burly innkeeper shoved his way into the room, stout club in hand, along with two equally wide bouncers, one holding a thick length of chain and the other a long knife. They looked at the battlefield with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Then Keep found Twilight, spattered with blood, and rolled his eyes.

"Better clear out my room, Keep," Twilight said brightly. "I shall be on my way in the morning."

The burly innkeeper turned the stout club in his hands. "And what about thy tab, pretty lady? I am owed a fair amount of gold."

Twilight shrugged, stood up on her toes, and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "Oh, Keep," she said. "You know better than to doubt me, don't you?"

"Ahem," said Keep. "Something like that."

Fox-at-Twilight gave him a smile and danced past him, out into the corridor.

The innkeeper and the two sun elves were left in the room then, where silence reigned for a long breath. Then Keep shrugged.

"Quite the fox, that 'Light," he said.

"Indeed," said Yldar, thinking Keep meant her name.

From his slightly raised brow, it was clear he hadn't.

Over "fresh" bread-only two days old! — cheese, and hen's eggs the following dawn, Twilight's face seemed tired, the lines deepened and stretched in a way that did not diminish her beauty but only caught Yldar's notice and concern.

"Are you well this morn, maid?" he asked.

"As well as to be expected," she said, "with so little rest."

Yldar furrowed his brow. "Four bells rang in Elver-suit's square since the attack. Cythara and I found it to be more than enough time for Reverie. Did you not rest well?"

She offered a crooked smile and said, "Something like that."

Twilight spent much of the rest of the meal trading wry repartee with Yldar, even making some lewd comments that made the treasure hunter blush and Cythara scowl. She never declined an opportunity to cast a mistrusting glance in Twilight's direction.

After a particularly witty exchange that left Twilight smiling sensuously and Yldar absolutely confused, the wizardess threw up her hands.

"Can we not simply get to business?" she asked in Elvish. "I grow weary of your child's games."

Twilight rolled her eyes and shrugged. "Very well, Highness" she replied in kind. "You're probably wondering where you have to go to find the Bracer."

" 'Tis the theme," Cythara muttered.

Yldar gave his sister a scolding look and said, "Go on.

"Well-it's in the hands of the Deep Coven." "Who?" Yldar asked.

"A cult of a demon lord named Graz'zt," said Twilight. "Our friends from yestereve."

There was silence, because it was time for Cythara's angry interjection, which didn't happen. Yldar glanced at her. The sun elf wizardess had leaned back in her seat, eyes far away. Yldar wasn't about to guess what she might have been thinking, but he was glad of the respite from her tongue. He liked hearing Twilight's voice rather more, for some reason.

Speaking of Twilight speaking, she did so, explaining a fair amount about the Deep Coven over tea. It seemed they operated from beneath the House of Coins, which wouldn't be holding services this day. From her calm reassurance, it was almost as though she had already planned to steal the Bracer before she'd ever met the sun elves.

"Are you sure about going there by day?" Yldar asked, reiterating Cythara's concern of the previous day. He looked out the window, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

"The cultists are probably sleeping off a ritual as we speak," Twilight said. "Light's always on your side, as a rule, when dealing with demons."

Yldar recognized that she could mean herself by "'Light," but kept his witticism to himself. He looked at his sister. "Cyth, you've been rather quiet. Are you well?"

Cythara stared straight ahead, as though she had not heard him. When he touched her arm, she flinched. Yldar felt far from her.

"Oh yes," she said in Elvish. She concealed her smile. "Yes. I was merely… thinking." She looked at Twilight. "When do we begin?"

"Right now," Twilight said. She took another sip of her tea and smiled through the steam. "Well, soon enough."

When they had finished their meal, paid, and left, Twilight and Yldar's flirtation only continued, much to Cythara's extreme consternation and Yldar's frustrated enjoyment. The moon elf had led them on a twisting route through the streets-to avoid any trails, she had explained-that seemed hopelessly complex and time consuming. From her glower, Cythara suspected that it was only for the sake of continuing her repartee with Yldar, which the latter found himself hoping was indeed the case.

As the midday sun rose overhead, Twilight led them down a dark alleyway beside the House of Coins on

Temple Hill. As Yldar shifted uncomfortably and Cythara flitted about in an unusual surplus of energy, Twilight examined the wall closely.

"Are you sure this is it?" Yldar asked for the eleventh time in about as many breaths.

"Silence, Shiny," Twilight hissed. "Let a lass work."

With a little growl, the treasure hunter fidgeted, unhappy to be standing in such a filthy place, doing nothing. It made him terribly self-conscious.

Yldar had never liked standing still-he had a fundamental lack of patience that had interfered with his myriad studies. According to his masters on Evermeet, he lacked the attention and focus wizardry demands, and could learn only paltry spells. For someone who-in his own mind, at least-had been destined to wield high magic, it had been quite a blow. Then, when he hadn't been admitted to the bladesinger order for the same reason, Yldar had abandoned his elf teachers. Not that humans-or any other race, for that matter-were any better, he had found.

Cythara was no help. She paced back and forth, cast spells-divinations, he guessed-and Yldar had the presence of mind to realize that she only did so when it was least likely Twilight would notice.

After a moment, he asked again. "Are you sure-?"

"Yes, Brother," Cythara said softly. She spoke in Common, which Yldar marked as unusual. "Magic abounds from that wall. There is almost assuredly a door."

Twilight narrowed her eyes at Cythara distrustfully. Then she shrugged. "My thanks, Your Highness. Almost there…" Her fingers found a groove, then an indentation, and she clicked her tongue in victory. "Got it." Her right hand dipped down to her belt and obtained a pair of wire lockpicks from a hidden pocket. "Now…"

In a breath or three, the door gave a shudder and the stones began to shift. Twilight leaned back, admiring her handiwork. The bricks rippled and spun and a portal yawned in the wall, like a demonic maw lit from within by strange, dull flames-torches, Ylar hoped. The scent of rotting flesh and congealed blood came from below.

How appropriate, Yldar thought, fighting the nausea.

"Now remember," Twilight warned. "These cultists worship a demon who stands for seduction, betrayal, and perversion for the sake of dark power. Quite the vilest people you can conceive. If they catch you, it'll be worse than death-much worse, I would imagine."

The hairs on the back of Yldar's neck rose. "Cheerful. What precautions do we take?"

Twilight shrugged. "Don't get caught."

They descended into the darkness, Twilight leading the way and searching for pitfalls and guards, then Cythara with her spells of detection, followed by Yldar with a hand on his sword hilt.

The temperature slowly increased as they descended, so much that, even with the elves' resistance to extremes of temperature, a thin sheen of sweat broke out on their foreheads. Twilight made her way down the steps slowly, cautiously, searching the walls with sensitive eyes and the tips of her fingers.

Several times, she motioned to Cythara and Yldar to avoid a certain step, or move away from the wall at a certain point. Sometimes she fiddled with a mechanism Yldar hadn't noticed, disarming a trap or removing a ward he could hardly sense even with seven decades of magical training. She had a remarkable facility with magical traps, which often eluded his largely self-taught thieving skills. He made a mental note to ask about her technique later.

After fifty steps, the stairs ended in a rounded anteroom with half a dozen identical sets of reinforced oak double doors. Yldar immediately began the overwhelming task of deciding which one to investigate first, but Twilight did not hesitate.

"No lead on these doors," she murmured. "Unlocked, too. I should lodge a complaint."

She went immediately to the door that was second from the right and listened at it. After a breath, she nodded and motioned Cythara and Yldar forward.

"How do you know where to go?" Yldar arched an eyebrow.

Cythara studied Twilight silently.

"I… well… it would take some explaining. Suffice to say-I can sense this Bracer. Call it a gift. Shows me exactly where to go. Like magic." She snapped her fingers. When the others did not join in her smile, she laughed nervously. "Only not."

"I'm familiar with that spell," Cythara said. "As is my brother. In order to find something unique, as Ynloeth's Bracer is, you must know it firsthand. Is this not true?"

"I didn't knowyow knew any Art," Twilight said shortly to Yldar, ignoring his sister.

"We're elves," he said quickly, trying to deflect her accusatory tone. "It comes second nature to us."

"Well, not to me," said Twilight coldly. "Never been comfortable around mages."

Yldar's face flushed and he cursed his sister for including him in those ranks, which lowered him in Twilight's eyes. He didn't know why that upset him so, but it did.

"So, answer my question," Cythara said. "How do you know where the Bracer is?"

"I'll explain later," said Twilight. "Let's make haste. I don't know if you find this place comfortable, but I really don't. Reminds me of the Abyss-but I guess that's appropriate, since it is Graz'zt's temple…"

"Agreed," Yldar said. He glanced at Cythara, who bit her lip, and let the matter go for the moment. He stepped to the door and opened it slowly.

Within was the altar chamber of Graz'zt. Torches smoldered in wall sconces about the place and put off a hazy purplish light, producing a strange, surreal atmosphere. Musk and blood mingled in the air. Crude murals defaced the walls, depicting disgusting, horrifying demons and acts of violence and lust. A huge obsidian altar dominated the room, piled all around with skulls and bones. Something metallic glinted from it, and Yldar's eyes lit up.

"The Bracer!" he exclaimed despite himself. He would have continued had not Twilight slapped a hand over his mouth to silence him.

"Easy there, Goldie," she said, gesturing around the room with her sharp nose.

Indeed, though they had not seen them before in the dim haze, black-robed bodies lay scattered about the chamber, all breathing shallowly. Most of them were half-unclad and entwined with one another. Cowls and shadows obscured the faces, but the elves were certain they were sleeping. Yldar could only imagine what their ritual had involved, and his gorge rose.

"Let's just get it and go," Yldar whispered.

They moved slowly into the room, ever alert. Cythara cast a spell to make their movements silent, and they picked their way carefully over sleeping bodies.

It was not until they were halfway into the room that Twilight perked up and furrowed her brow. She stopped and reached for Yldar's shoulder, but he was already a step out of reach. She caught Cythara instead.

"What, thief?" Cythara asked.

"That's not it," Twilight replied.

Yldar had not paused. He had just reached the dais and gazed upon the silver Bracer, plain of ornamentation but engraved through with delicate strands of three pointed leaves. It was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful works of craftsmanship he had ever seen.

He traced his fingers through a detection spell, searching for traps or wards. There seemed to be none, but he detected an aura about the Bracer-one of illusion. Perhaps that was its own magic, meant to shield the wearer. Just to be sure, he decided to dispel it; he doubted his minor talent with the Art would permanently damage such a powerful relic. Yldar began the spell.

"The Bracer," Twilight said. "That's not-Yldar! Stop!" turn to catch her by the arm.

"Oh, let him." There was newfound self-confidence in her voice. "Have you not done enough?"

"But-but it's not real," Twilight said, confused.

Cythara leaned in close and whispered something in Twilight's ear. The moon elfs eyes widened and she drew her rapier.

"Yldar!" Twilight shouted the same instant Cythara cried, "It's a trap!" and began a spell.

As one, all the cultists in the room surged to their feet, wavy daggers or swords in their hands. The elves were surrounded.

In the same breath, Yldar's dispelling did more than suppress the Bracer's magic: it twisted and warped the false relic. The silver armguard dimmed, shriveled, and became a disembodied human hand, one that leaped up and clamped down on his wrist as though alive. Yldar shouted and shook his arm furiously to dislodge the fiendish claw, but it was in vain. The blackened, filthy nails drove into his flesh, through the mail hauberk he wore.

He chanted through clenched teeth a spell that would wrench it free, and barely managed to draw in time to defend himself against two burly cultists who hacked at him with flamberge swords. Letting his spell fizzle, Yldar sidestepped one slash and parried the other, but the strength of the blow sent him staggering. Combined with the lingering pain in his left arm, the ringing feeling in his right made Yldar dizzy.

Meanwhile, a cultist stepped out of the horde, pointing a zigzagging long sword in the direction of the two elf maids. "Surrender or die!" he rasped.

That one got Twilight's crossbow bolt between his cowled eyes. At the same time, the moon elf thrust at Cythara, but the mage's ruby-studded bracelet flashed and the dusky-bladed rapier sparked off a shield of golden magic that surrounded her.

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Cythara countered with a spell, bringing her hands- blurring with energy, bolts of electricity arcing between them-together and lashing them apart. Twilight's eyes widened and she dived aside, twisting in ways that seemed impossible.

Crimson lightning erupted from Cythara's hands and lashed over and around Twilight, cutting down three hapless cultists. The bolts sprang from the smoking bodies back toward the moon elf, but she dodged again with seemingly unnatural grace. As though it gave up, the lightning went for another of the demonists, who screamed and blackened.

Twilight landed and rolled over the fallen cultists, coming up just in time to parry a swinging axe and dance away. Cythara's lightning ripped and flew freely around the chamber until a spell from one of the chanting cultists caught it harmlessly in a patch of icy darkness.

Meanwhile, Yldar had managed to elude one attacker by skirting the other. With only one sword to face, his fencing lessons came back in a flash, and he shuffled back, varying the distance. When the two-handed sword whipped out, predictably short, Yldar leaped in with a thrust and slash that cut deeply into the cultist's black cloak. The man went down with a grunt. Apparently, the cultists wore little in the way of armor under those robes.

He had a breath before the second swordsman came lumbering over his fallen comrade, and he dared a glance around the chamber. What he saw widened his eyes.

There Cythara stood, surrounded by hacking blades that bounced off her magical shields, weaving and lashing out with the fearsome powers at her disposal. Yldar knew it would not be enough-not with a quarter of the cultists chanting counter spells. The chain lightning had been one of her most powerful spells, and that had failed to fell the primary target: Twilight.

Twilight, who even then dipped and dodged cultists' slow strikes and parried their quick ones. Her bladework was excellent, her slim sword circling around blocks and parries as though the point had a life of its own, but her dancing footwork was nothing short of amazing. Yldar did not envy her opponents the chore of landing a blow upon her.

In that breath, Yldar watched as Twilight spun her blade in circles around a wild, jerking parry, leaped to the side even as she feinted, and ran the cultist through.

Then Yldar had to turn back to his foe, sidestepped, and barely avoided having his head chopped in two like a cabbage.

"Yldar!" Twilight shouted as she parried and leaped away from a cultist with a short, jagged sword. "We have to get out of here!"

"No!" Cythara shouted, beads of sweat running down her bronze skin. "Don't listen to her, Yldar!" She cast another spell, and five spheres of energy burst into existence around her, each with a different color, like rainbow marbles. They whirled around her head like tiny orbiting worlds. "She's a traitor!"

Twilight growled and parried a blow high and sent in a low riposte that had her opponent scurrying back. "She's the traitor, Yldar! Don't-" She might have said more, but the clashing of steel cut off her words.

Yldar's head spun. Who did he believe? His sister, who had stayed with him loyally through all his adventures since Evermeet, or Twilight, a mysterious, caustic, and deceptive woman-a thief by her own admission?

On the surface, the choice seemed perfectly obvious, but something in Yldar rebelled against it. What was this feeling that surfaced within him?

Then Twilight made the choice for him. Near the exit a feral-faced acolyte raised a hand to call down a slaying spell upon Cythara's faltering shield, thus revealing the glint of silver on a very feminine arm.

"The Bracer!" Twilight shouted.

A sudden leaping lunge drove her opponent from his feet, but Twilight made no move to follow with a strike.

Instead, she broke away and made a mad dash for the lady acolyte. As she ran, the shadows coalesced around her like a gathering cloak.

"Stop her, Yldar!" Cythara'shouted between spells. A wand she had drawn from her hip flashed, sending an ochre beam streaking at Twilight, but it struck a demon thrall instead, dropping him, melting, to the floor. "She's getting away. Stop her!"

A cultist loomed in her path, but Twilight didn't slow. She leaped into the shadows a pace before him and reappeared, a heartbeat later and ten paces distant, near the exit.

A shadowdancer, Yldar thought. This maid is full of surprises.

Yldar parried his opponent into a stone pillar and ran after Twilight, heedless of any attack. He bore down on the demonist mage at the exit and a hulking cultist with a wicked spear.

Twilight leaped upon the lady acolyte like a pouncing fox, bearing her to the ground and going straight for the Bracer on the hooded woman's wrist. The acolyte's guard brought his spear back.

"No!" Yldar shouted as he charged, drawing a shocked glance from Cythara.

Then reality flickered, and Yldar thought he heard light laughter from somewhere, like that of an elf child who was entirely too amused by his own joke.

Twilight rose and caught the spear solidly beneath the left breast. Her eyes opened wide as the shaft carried her back and pinned her against the wall. Twilight convulsed and blood trickled from her mouth.

His eyes bleary, the world gone red, Yldar threw himself at the spear wielder with his sword slashing. His furious rush sent the bodyguard staggering down, and a great blow to the right shoulder made the arm flop uselessly at his side. The brute roared and spat at Yldar, but the sun elf did him one better. He rammed his sword through the hulking man's chest.

Yldar turned from the slumping body. The thief seemed dead upon the wall, her face even paler than normal, but Yldar clutched at the spear to pull it free anyway.

Twilight's eyes snapped open and she gave a cry of more discomfort than pain. "Careful with that!" she chided. "Hurts, you know."

Yldar was stunned. He had expected the moon elf to be dying, if she wasn't dead already, but talking? And calm?

He yanked the spear out of Twilight and she grunted. Blood trickled out. Somehow, it must have missed all her vital organs. Yldar wondered how such a thing was possible.

"Come!" she snapped. "Let's-"

"Traitors!" Cythara shouted. Deep in another spell, she sent her five orbiting spheres streaking after them with a flicker of will.

Yldar shouted a warning and shielded Twilight with his body. The spheres burst against his back, scorching him with fire, splashing him with acid, jolting him with electricity, and stunning him with a burst of discordant sound. One got through-the blue sphere, which exploded with chilling energy against Twilight's shoulder. But a ring on the thief s hand flashed and the deadly cold faded away. Teeth clenched, Yldar sagged.

"Come!" Twilight shouted again. Slinging the limp Yldar's arm over her shoulders, she made a break for the stairs. "Put your head down!"

They ran toward the door.

"Stop!" Cythara shouted.

She snapped off another spell and a sheet of flame fell across the exit, ringing the room, but Twilight and Yldar were already through, crashing through the oak doors.

"Yldar!" was Cythara's last, lingering shout.

The two elves lay stunned on the anteroom floor outside a wall of flame, struggling to think. It took a breath to recover the skill. Yldar looked back at the burning curtain that separated them from the cultists and mouthed a single word: "Cythara."

For Twilight, it was a different word.

"Up," she said, hauling him that direction. Yldar's injuries flared, and he staggered. He would have fallen had she not caught him.

"What happened back there?" Yldar asked. "I thought I'd lost you!"

"Erevan won't let me go that easily." Twilight gritted her teeth and hauled Yldar up the steps. She was obviously in pain, but at least she could walk-he could not make the same claim.

"Erevan…" Yldar gaped. "Erevan Ilesere? The Fey Jester?"

"By the black bow, goldie," Twilight cursed as she struggled to haul him away. "How much do you eat, anyway?"

Through the pain, Yldar managed to cast a strengthening spell on Twilight, such that she could lift him like a sack of feathers.

The sudden might caught her off guard, though, and when she kept pulling, she slammed him against the low ceiling. The world went dark, and Yldar knew no more.

Cythara dropped her hands with a look of anguish. As though it no longer mattered, she let her defenses fall, all except the wards that kept anyone from approaching within five paces. Standing in the center of the altar chamber, she felt very weak, very frail, and very alone.

But the cultists did not regard her thus. Instead, they eyed her warily and kept their weapons out. The instant any saw an opportunity, Cythara knew her blood would spill.

Then there was a strange sound, one that started off weak but grew in intensity until it echoed around the chamber: Cythara's laughter.

It only lasted for a breath, but it was quite enough to send a visible chill through every demonist present. There was nothing uncertain or mocking about the laugh-it was quite mad.

Then, stifling her giggle, Cythara assumed an imperious stance and lifted her chin. "Your leader," she said. "Who gives the orders in this coven?"

A thickly muscled man stepped forward. "I do," he said. "And who might you…"

A ray of amber light shot from Cythara's fingers and struck him in the chest. A hole appeared through the cultist, which spread in a flash. He twisted in agony as more and more of his flesh melted and disintegrated before their eyes. In a heartbeat, only dust remained.

"Who truly leads?" Cythara asked.

The woman from near the exit, the one who had worn the Bracer, stepped forward then. She pulled back her hood, revealing sharp, almost feline features and a mop of burning red hair. Voluptuous and sensual in her movements, she was lovely, in a cruel way.

"I am Leis'anna, Chosen of Graz'zt. Who are you who so disturbs our peace?"

"One born to command, not to follow," Cythara replied. "Do you yield?"

Leis'anna laughed.

The sun elf launched a spell at her-a black, enervating ray-but Leis'anna batted it aside with defensive magic conjured from the amulet she wore.

"You wish to do battle, elf?"

Cythara just smiled.

"Very well," the demonist said. "Submit to me."

She felt Leis'anna's compulsion magic beat upon her mind. The words cut through her consciousness like a suggestion from a bandit who held his knife at her throat.

Cythara felt a tiny flicker of Leis'anna's mind, and she knew what she faced: the chosen servant of a powerful demon prince-a master of manipulation, who read and controlled minds with the blessing of the mightiest of dark powers.

Mighty dark powers. Cythara smiled.

Then Leis'anna gasped as she felt her own power turned back upon her. Not only had Cythara defeated the Chosen's will, but the sun elf had answered with a compulsion spell of her own.

Leis'anna writhed on the floor, snarling and scraping her claws across the stone as she shattered her own illusions. The alluring female body swelled into the powerful torso and legs of a great lion, and her hands became mighty paws. Her face grew darker, furry, and distinctly feline. Her illusions ruined, the lamia stared at Cythara in horror.

"Who truly leads?" Cythara asked again.

The lamia rose, but only to her knees. Around the room, the cultists dropped into obeisance. Cythara heard the whispers of Leis'anna's demon lord, and saw how badly Graz'zt wanted her darkening soul. She shivered at the power she felt through that mindlink.

How cleverly evil disguised itself, in the flesh of the brightest and most radiant.

"You do," Leis'anna said with a little curl of her lip.

When the sun elf awoke, it was to a sensation of lightness and warmth. He slowly realized that he lay nude in a wide, soft bed. A warm hand caressed his brow, and he looked up a pale arm to see a dark-haloed lady with pale eyes smiling down at him.

Yldar wondered if it had all been a dream, and whether he was not back in Evermeet.

Then he remembered the cultists, the lair, and Cythara's agonized scream, and he gasped. He realized that the elf maid was Twilight, clad in a simple white shift.

"Worry not," she said. "You're safe. I've taken a room at the Axe and Hammer. You're surrounded by a veritable army of battle-hardened dwarves even Elminster'd think twice about. No one shall find us here."

Yldar half-rose, wincing at the effort, and reached for his tunic on the edge of the bed. Twilight intercepted his arm, leaning between elf and garment. She held his hand between them for a long, quiet breath. Then she pushed him back to the pillows and kicked up out of his reach.

"Stand aside! I have to-"

"Shiny, really. In your delicate condition, you're in no shape to face stairs, much less a cabal of demon-cultists." Twilight's tone was almost chiding.

"But-"

"I didn't go to all that work to save that gleaming body of yours just to have you get it torn up again." She looked him up and down and smiled, that wry upturn of the edge of her lips that set Yldar's hairs standing on end with anticipation. "It's too pretty."

He elbowed the feeling aside. "Away from me, traitor!" he snapped. "You left Cythara to her death!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Twilight said. "She's the traitor. She told me enough in the temple: I said, 'The Bracer's not real,' and she leaned in to say, 'I know.' "

"Lies."

"Naturally, you don't believe me," said Twilight. "Fine. Ask me anything-I promise the truth. Nothing less. My word."

"The word of a thief?" Yldar's voice was sarcastic. "It will have to do."

"Very well, then," he replied. "For a beginning: what's your name?"

"Fox-at-Twilight, like I told-" "Your real name," Yldar corrected. Twilight bit her lip. "Ask me anything else." Yldar scowled. "Very well. Is it true?" "Is what true?"

"That you work with the demonists. That's why you

' knew they had the Bracer and where to go. Why you knew everything."

Twilight rolled her eyes. "I could tell you, but who would you believe? Me, a thief, or your precious sister, who you still think, despite all evidence to the contrary, is a friend?"

"Speak, and we'll see what I think," Yldar said.

"Fine," Twilight said. "Do I work with them? No-perish the thought! Too hung up on power, darkness, and manipulation-not a sense of humor among the whole lot. Bor-tng. Demons. Ever heard a demon lord tell a joke? No? Well, of course, you've never met one, but take my word for it. Graz'zt, Orcus-thoroughly unfunny. The only ones who're worse are the archfiends, Mephistopheles in particular-"

"You're babbling," Yldar said.

"What? Right," Twilight said. "No, I don't work for them. Hardly done anything for them." She shrugged dismissively. "Just a little minor work here and there… a theft-nothing serious… maybe something like… I don't know… this." She revealed the silver Bracer on her right arm. "Nothing big."

"You stole Coronal Ynloeth's Bracer in the first place?" Yldar asked. "From who?"

"Whom," Twilight corrected. "No one important… Coronal Ynloeth. Vaporized himself with his swords, you know. Wasn't that a surprise-'Whoop: no Bracer, no protection. Damnation.'"

Yldar's face went ashen and his mouth gaped open.

"I jest, I jest," Twilight said. "Should've seen your face, though-priceless." She laughed. "If such a thing is possible."

The sun elf swallowed. He sat again and pulled the covers back so he could rise. "But, but-" He scowled. "Doing the right thing has no price-your spirit has no price, or did you sell it so long ago for wit and beauty?"

In a flash of motion that would have made any duelist proud, Twilight slapped him. So much for worrying about his delicate condition.

"Easy for you to make judgments," she said. "Your black and white morality is a luxury that those of us who didn't grow up in the lap of Evermeet serenity can't quite afford."

Yldar was about to retort, but she kept on.

"The Realms aren't as simple as you suns think. Your precious Retreat-ha! Escape is more like it. You simply could not bear to see a race that lived more passionately, more fully than yourselves. And so you ran-in fear of the world."

"B-b-but-" said Yldar, but there was no stopping her.

"Life doesn't fit into your haughty, academic… arithmetic! Humans see farther than you elves, in ways you never imagined. Elves fear the humans because the humans are what elves fear to become-alive, vibrant! They see more to life than just good and evil, honor and duty. They know passion and beauty, real love- spontaneity. I bet you suns don't even-"

This time Yldar was the one to interrupt, and that with a kiss that shocked both of them. Uncharacteristically, Twilight hesitated-she was stunned.

Yldar broke the kiss. "Sorry," he said. "I… I didn't know what I was…"

Pouncing like a tigress, Twilight cut off his next words by locking his lips in a fierce, passionate kiss that left Yldar breathless even as she knocked him tumbling back. He didn't even think of protesting as she crushed him into the feather mattress. The pain of cuts and bruises faded into nothing, overcome by the heat that pulsed through him.

It was like nothing he had ever felt. Yldar had known the love of women before, but never had one pressed against him so hard, so fiercely…

Twilight pulled back, tugging on his lip as she did, and appraised him with lustful eyes. "After yestereve, I was wondering what it might feel like to do that when you «weren't complaining," she said in that ironic way of hers. "And I was right." She untied her bodice with a flick of the wrist and a single pull of the string.

Then Yldar blinked as rationality tried to return, and whispered half-heartedly, "But I thought I was in no shape-"

"Shape enough for this," she said. With a snap, she undid her raven hair, and it tumbled over bare shoulders. Words failed him.

– — Cythara awoke into a place of darkness.

Even her keen elf eyes could not penetrate a thumb's breadth in front of her face. From the rich, muggy air beating on her skin, she knew she was nude. Though she should have been cold, instead all was sweltering and heavy, bringing out a thick sweat that soaked every inch of her skin. She moved to brush her brow, but her hand would not move. She must be chained down, spread-eagled.

Cythara tried to call out, but she realized, with a start, where she was. Blood coursed through her like fire and her lungs pulsed rapidly, tearing air in and out of her body.

She lay upon the altar of Graz'zt.

She had thought all was silent but for the buzzing in her head, but she became aware of a dull beat that was not her heart pounding. It was the beat of a drum, and though she could not see it, somehow she knew the covering was the skin of a sentient creature. Her pulse quickened.

Through sheer will, she calmed herself. This was not a surprise-she had chosen this path, and now she had to walk it.

Then the chanting began.

Deep, low, and haunting, she could hear voices all around her, intoning words of darkness. The language was Abyssal, she knew, but twisted somehow, as though passing through the jet blackness distorted the words.

As though on an unspoken cue, the chant rose in volume, and she could discern the words. Horrible, depraved acts that defy names fell upon her ears like candied daggers. Despite herself, Cythara felt her stomach knot and her fingers shake.

"Sa'Graz'zt, sa'za, sa'za," was the chant. "Graz'zt, sa'za, rzal'za! Sa'lza, rzal'za!"

Lord Graz'zt, come, come, Cythara translated silently. Graz'zt come and slay us… Come into us, slay us…

Then there was a hush. Gradually, the darkness deepened and beat down harder upon her, heavier and denser, burning and sweltering. She became aware, with a start, of two glowing green-white eyes that peered down out of the darkness.

That was when Cythara's certainty faltered. She who had met no equal in a mageduel, she who had never suffered a genuine threat, she who had never known real fear-she recognized true terror in that moment.

If she had been afraid before, this sensation completely destroyed her resolve. It bore down upon her as relentlessly and as mercilessly as the headsman's axe fell upon the neck of the condemned. Her skin crawled, and her body inched away as far as it could. She could not think- all her power, all her security, all her will vanished from her in that moment.

Then she saw him, and breath left as well.

An ebony, muscular chest loomed over her, balanced on powerful, double-jointed goat legs. Powerful arms branched out, the hands spread wide, as though summoning forces of darkness to do the demon lord's will. And his face; it was beautiful, in the way that a perfect murder is beautiful, with strong, angular features like an elflord's might be. But this creature was so much more than an elf-any mortal-could ever be. Her mind roiled in horror even as her body twitched with desire-Cythara who had never known a lover, nor considered one.

Then he smiled, and her spirit melted away.

One six-fingered hand hovered up her body, and

Cythara shrank from its touch even as she longed for it. Graz'zt bent over her, and Cythara's body strained toward him.

One of his fingers found her forehead and traced its way down her face, lingering over the lips and dipping into her mouth-he tasted of honey, blood, and ashes- then down. The finger made its way down the hollow of her throat, down her chest, and over her belly.

Then the dark lord paused. And grinned.

He snapped two of his twelve fingers, and Cythara's restraints fell away.

She tingled to throw herself into his arms. Either that, or scurry away in terror. But no, she could not move, could not think beyond the burning desire in her body and spirit.

The demon lord waved his hand, and Cythara felt a hundred hands grasp her. Before Cythara knew what was happening, the thralls turned her onto her belly.

The dark lord renewed tracing his finger along her skin, flesh that tingled for him. His finger glided over her buttocks and came to the hollow at the base of her spine. He touched her there, and she felt with unholy ecstasy a mark burn itself into her skin. She gasped and rolled over to face him, eye to eye, but it was done and could not be undone.

"Now I claim you, Cythara Nathalan," said Graz'zt. "Wear my mark, and know that you are mine."

He pressed his lips to hers. Cythara could not think, could not react, could not flee. She had lost all control, and she loved it.

"Yes!" she gasped.

And Cythara knew an ecstasy she had never imagined: the ecstasy of darkness.

As he laced his hauberk of elven mail, the morning after taking in Reverie with Twilight, Yldar chanced a look at the rogue as she slipped into a pair of sleek black breeches. He marveled at her back and the gentle curves that defined her hips. Had he dreamed last night, or had it really occurred?

Then Yldar's eye caught a twinkle of gold against her creamy skin, at the base of her spine, as of a mark. He took a step closer, looked, and blinked. It had not been a trick of the light-truly, there was a star with eight asymmetrical rays snaking out like blades seemingly etched with gold into her back.

With the kind of boldness only a lover can know, Yldar moved to Twilight and embraced her from behind. The rogue smiled mischievously and swayed in his grasp, reaching around to his rump.

He would not let her change the subject, though. Yldar ran his hand down her spine and paused at the star.

"What's this?" he asked, placing his palm on the mark. Yldar felt a ripple of power like a jolt of electricity run through him, and he was stunned.

Twilight recoiled and spun away, sliding out of his arms as out of loose manacles. She turned on him with dangerous eyes and reached to her hip as though to draw steel.

When Yldar only stared, Twilight shivered and straightened once more.

"The mark of Erevan Ilesere," she said. "Borne by all his maidens."

"A birthmark?"

That same wry smile. "A gift," she said. "When his whim moved from me, Erevan sent me on my way, but he was not ungrateful for the nights we spent together."

Yldar blinked. "Y-you mean," he stammered. "You have lain with… with a god?"

"He always called me his little Moonbow," she said. "A fantasy, mayhap?"

Yldar gave a little strangled cry. "You can't-you can't be serious!"

Twilight smiled, walked up, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Make you feel special?" She patted him on the shoulder and glided on. "Oh." She turned back. "More skilled than you, of course."

Yldar blushed a fierce golden red. "Well, perhaps with practice," he said.

Her eyes smoldered. "I rather doubt that."

The elves made their way back to the stairs that led to the temple again that afternoon. Twilight had argued against it, but Yldar had insisted. They owed his sister at least an attempt.

The door they found open and the passage yawning. The darkness, reeking of the sacrifice of sentient beings, felt lighter, somehow empty. Yldar allowed himself a sudden flare of hope.

Had Cythara slain the cultists? Perhaps she had escaped!

They found no one in the lower levels. The acolytes' doors all hung open, the cells empty. The double doors to the altar chamber, charred and splintered from the events of the previous day, stood closed. Though Twilight tried to stay him, the determined Yldar crossed to the doors and shoved them open.

The altar chamber was empty, all its vileness cleaned away, all traces of sacrifices expunged. All except one figure who stood, facing them, in a robe of purest black. She pulled back her hood, revealing a familiar golden face.

"Sister!" Yldar shouted, moving to rush forward.

A gesture from Cythara stopped him, as surely as if he had run into an invisible wall. Yldar dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword.

"Brother," Cythara said. She spoke Common, he noted. "You still do not understand. All these years, and you have learned nothing."

She turned and let her sheer gown slip down her back.

There, nestled at the base of her spine: a demonic rune-a six-fingered hand. The mark of her new master.

"You-" Yldar breathed. "You've become one of them!"

"Be silent, and let me speak," Cythara said. Her voice stabbed him like a knife. Dark charisma dripped from her like sweat and passion. "Too long I have dwelt in your shadow, aiding in your quests, helping you reclaim your honor. I have tolerated enough, brother. I have chosen my path-that of darkness and power. Now you must choose."

"Choose?"

"The Bracer or me," Cythara said. She pointed at Twilight's wrist, where the silver armguard gleamed. "Which is the greater treasure? The dust of Ynloeth's legacy or Cythara's beating heart? That treacherous thief or your once-loved sister? Your duty and honor or your kin and blood. Choose."

Perhaps it was his pride. Perhaps it was his inability to change. Or perhaps it was Twilight.

Regardless, Yldar hesitated.

Cythara nodded and gave an almost imperceptible sigh. "You have chosen," she said. "There is no love in the hearts of brothers." "But-"

"Farewell, Yldar," Cythara said. "You have your path, and I have mine. I bear you no ill will, but I swear that if you follow me, I will forget that we were once siblings." With those words, she vanished into black smoke and heat.

"No!" Yldar cried, but Cythara was gone.

He searched the spot where she had stood, but there was no trace of the mage. He looked back at Twilight, but all she could do was shrug. Yldar slammed his fist against the empty altar and screamed once, a pained cry from the depths of his soul.

Yldar righted himself slowly, angrily. He lifted his chin and his eyes went cold. "What now?" he asked, once more the haughty elf prince.

There was a long silence.

Then Twilight threw her arms around him and kissed him passionately. "Come with me," she said. "We'll sell the Bracer-it's worth a fortune in coin. I could use a partner." Yldar looked away, and Twilight laid her head against his shoulder. "Let your sister go. She made her choice-you owe her nothing now."

"No," Yldar said. "No, I cannot."

Twilight opened her mouth to speak, but Yldar stopped her with a kiss.

"Come with me," Yldar asked. "I must go, but you can help me-help me save her."

Twilight did not answer for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, like the whisper of a breeze. "You do not have the right to ask this of me."

"But I love you," Yldar said. "Does that mean nothing?"

Twilight smiled, but her eyes seemed far away.

They lay together again that night, clinging to each other as though they would never see each other again, as if the dawn would never come.

But come it did, and when the sun kissed the eastern horizon, Yldar withdrew from Reverie and Twilight was gone.

Yldar lay alone, and despite the hollow feeling in his heart, he could not claim to be surprised. He rose and dressed, hardly interested in the rising sun, casting its rays down over another lonely road and an empty bed.

For Yldar, the next centuries looked lonely and empty indeed.

A sparkle of silver caught his attention from the floor. It was something under his mail shirt. He pushed the armor aside and his breath caught. It was the Bracer of Ynloeth, a marvelous fragment of a long-forgotten age.

There was a note. Three words, written on parchment.

Just three little words in Common, but for Yldar they carried a sea of meaning.

"Farewell," it said, "and remember."

Yldar shut his eyes, but he could not stop the tears.