Szass Tam hoped Malark would be all right. It was pleasant having a confidant again. At one time, Dmitra had played that part, but he hadn't been able to confide his grandest scheme to her. She wouldn't have reacted well, and he'd assumed that no one ever could. He didn't believe in fate, but even so, it almost seemed like destiny had brought a former monk of the Long Death into his orbit.

But Malark had served his purpose. He didn't actually matter anymore. Szass Tam had far more urgent matters to concern him, and it was time to address them. He summoned one of his favorite staves and raised it over his head.

"What's this?" Brightwing asked. Aoth looked where she was facing, then cried out in shock.

A prodigious mass of fog spilled down the cliffs like a slow waterfall. Anguished faces appeared-stretched, twisted, and dissolved amid the vapor. A chorus of faint voices, some moaning, some gibbering, others laughing, emanated from it.

It was some form of undead, though it was far more gigantic than any creation of necromancy Aoth had ever seen. But it wasn't the size of it that dismayed him. It was the enormous might and insatiable hunger his fire-touched eyes saw burning inside it. "We're in trouble," he said.

Brightwing laughed. "No! Look! It's all right."

The fog hung over the crags like a curtain, and where the swirling vapor intersected the road, insubstantial tentacles writhed from the central mass to snatch for the orcs and ghouls scrambling on the slopes. The creatures they engulfed convulsed and dissolved into nothingness.

If the mist-thing simply continued attacking Szass Tam's army, all would be well. But then, though it continued to reach for the occasional luckless northerner like a man plucking berries from a bush, it floated lower.

It splashed at the foot of the crags and drifted outward. Its path carried it across the clump of northerners who'd managed to reach the bottom and keep themselves alive once they got there, but straight at the southern army as well. Panicking, some of the council's legionnaires threw down their weapons and turned to flee.

"Griffon riders!" Aoth bellowed. "Kill it!" He and Brightwing dived at the fog-thing. He pointed his spear and hurled a burst of flame into the heart of it. His men shot arrows.

The entity responded by snatching for them with lengths of its vaporous body. It hadn't reached nearly so far before, and the attack caught Aoth by surprise. A frigid column of shadowy, babbling faces engulfed him.

His thoughts shattered into confusion. He suddenly knew without questioning that his psyche and flesh were about to crumble, and then his attacker would absorb the residue.

Screaming, Brightwing lashed her wings and carried them free of the fog. Gasping, peering around, Aoth saw that other griffon riders hadn't been as lucky. Mired in writhing pillars of murk, they and their mounts disappeared. Meanwhile, as far as he could tell, their assault hadn't injured the mist-entity in the slightest.

It flowed toward the mass of the southern army, devouring men and the conjurors' demonic warriors as it went. Only zombies, skeletons, and golems-mindless things-endured its touch with impunity.

Malark sent the zombie bat swooping low over the southern army. It was a reckless thing to do, but no arrows or thunderbolts came flying up to strike him or his steed. The enemy was too busy fighting the force from the Keep of Sorrows and goggling at the fog-thing seething toward them from the foot of the cliff.

Malark spied Dmitra conferring with several illusionists, the lot of them amid a contingent of bodyguards. It was too bad her minions hadn't fled and left her unattended, but he'd cope.

The bat furled its wings and plunged to earth in front of the zulkir and her entourage. Someone cried out, and guards hefted javelins.

Malark swung himself down from his mount. "Your Omnipotence." He bowed.

Dmitra shook her head. "I wondered if you were insane to betray me. Now I know you must be, to do so and then return."

Malark smiled. "I'm sure it looks that way. You're an archmage, and you and your servants have me outnumbered. Even worse, Szass Tam's creation is advancing on our location. If I don't finish my business and get away quickly, it will eat me as readily as it would you."

"What is your business?" Dmitra asked.

"Knowing me for as long as you have, I thought you might have guessed already."

"I have an idea. Did you come to keep me from trying to destroy the creature?"

"Not exactly."

"To switch sides again?"

"No, I'm where I belong. But you, Mistress, were always generous to me in your fashion. I've always liked you. I want to repay your kindness by giving you a better death then you'd suffer with your body and mind breaking apart in the fog-thing's grip. In particular, I hope to spare you the ugliness of undeath, either as one small part of that abomination yonder or as a lich under Szass Tam's control."

Dmitra laughed a little puff of a laugh. "It sounds as if you're challenging me to a duel."

"You could put it that way."

"But that implies some sort of equality where none exists. I'm a zulkir of Thay, and you're a treacherous worm. Kill him!"

Legionnaires threw their javelins. Malark sidestepped some and batted one away with his forearm. He waved the giant bat forward.

The zombie was clumsy crawling on the ground. But its sheer bulk, gnashing fangs, and long flailing wings made it formidable. It bobbed its head and bit the top of a warrior's skull off, and Malark dashed forward.

A soldier tried to thrust a broadsword into his belly. He twisted out of the way, caught his opponent's outstretched arm, and spun him around to slam into one of his comrades. Tangled together, they fell with a clash of armor. One of the lesser illusionists rattled off rhyming words of power, and Malark chopped her across the throat before she could finish. Another stride brought him within striking distance of Dmitra.

She gave him a radiant smile.

He felt himself falling, suffered a pang of alarm, and then his eyes flew open. He realized he'd dreamed of plummeting and then awakened.

Disoriented, he looked around. He and Dmitra were sitting on the roof of a tower in her palace in Eltabbar. A carafe held red wine to fill the golden goblets, trays offered lobster, oysters, beef skewers, grape leaves, figs, sweetmeats, and other delicacies, and a scarlet awning provided shade in the midst of amber sunlight. Slaves hovered at a discreet distance.

Beyond the red marble balustrade and the walls of the castle, the city murmured, its voice arising from teeming streets and bustling markets. To the west, south, and east were green fields, and to the north, Lake Thaylambar, reflecting the clear blue of the sky. Sailboats and galleys dotted the surface.

It occurred to Malark that the vista was as lovely as any he'd seen in all his centuries of protracted life. Then, belatedly, he realized Dmitra was speaking to him. He resolved to pay attention and catch the sense of whatever she was saying, but she reached the end too quickly and then watched him, awaiting his response. He tried to think of something to say, but he was still muddled, and nothing came.

Dmitra laughed. "I thought you dozed off."

"I humbly beg your forgiveness."

"No need. You went without sleep for a tenday to find out what Nevron and his followers are up to. You can go to bed if you like."

He took stock of himself and decided he didn't need to. He didn't feel exhausted so much as bewildered. He remembered spending days without sleep to spy on the Order of Conjuration, but had the crazy sense that it had happened years ago. "Thank you, Your Omnipotence, but I'm all right."