Suddenly his fingers were in her hair, tearing, hauling Silaril roughly to her knees. His rings were cold against her cheek as his sword grated from its scabbard.

"I have had enough of your twisted words, 'Lady.' I have been patient too long."

Steel stung SilarU's throat. She forced herself to remain silent, her face still-but she could not stop her chest heaving, brushing the arm that held her captive.

The chancellor knew her fear and smiled slowly and coldly. "I will now hear truth from your pretty lips. If you refuse, or speak falsely, your body will taste some truth from this sword. My patience is at an end."

Now, what was that, I wonder? Pity the rest is gone. We archdevils are so mighty, you know, that even when we're trying to be oh-so-careful, sometimes things just get... Broken. Clever human wizards, for instance.

I understood thy heavy-handed point, Nergal. Have ye something particular in mind for thy viewing pleasure."

No, mage, i let you lead me long enough-and a fine, long, and wasted road you led me on, too. I believe i'll look where i will, without your guidance-and just might thereby find what i'm seeking without a lot of clever racktalk from a human whose life hangs by the thinnest of threads.

[silence]

[diabolic chuckle]

[images swilling]

Somewhere in the Stonelands, Manshoon raised his head and looked back the way he'd come, coldly and calmly. The reek of rotting flesh was strong around him. His nostrils twitched at the sharp stench. For a moment he remembered his first fearful experimentation with zombies, in a crypt far away and long ago.... One never forgot the smell.

[diabolic sigh, more images flung side, others torn apart]

All right... This one!

The skull watched all of this, nodding knowingly from time to time.

Bah! Nothing left...

[more images shining proudly]

The other beholder turned an eyestalk or two to gaze at its fellow. "Can we defeat Manshoon, were he to gain spellfire?"

The first eye tyrant bobbed slightly in the air. If it had possessed shoulders, the movement might have been a shrug. "See how easily he's swayed to our bidding now," it said, in tones cold with scorn. "A mighty tyrant and mage as humans reckon such things, to be sure-but blinded with lusts and mistrusts and paranoias, need for power, hunger for triumph. He's a stunted, twisted thing. Spellfire could not right all that."

The second beholder blinked. "Agreed."

Amusing, elminster. A warning for me, i suppose? Oh, so amusing. Well, if you're going to persist in trying to meddle in my searching, show me one of the seven right now! Show me-storm!

[pincers like claws of steel gripping fiercely; dark will set afire with rage bearing down hard]

[pain]

[satisfied snarl]

[pain]

Show me, wizard!

Moonlight traced the magnificence of a bare shoulder as Storm Silverhand rose on one elbow and put a firm hand over Elminster's mouth. "Stop dispensing twaddle and go to sleep," she told him, not unkindly, and moved her hand to his chest, thrusting him back flat on the bed.

He drew breath to protest as to the importance of what he'd been trying to say.

She put her mouth down where her hand had been, thrust her tongue into his mouth, and said along its thrilling length, "Go to sleep, I said. Despite my provocations to the contrary."

That seemed like a good idea to Elminster, drifting numb and wearily in floods of chaos that no longer brought pain to his bruised and battered wits. He found a dark cavern that was undisturbed as yet, where the memories were covered with the dust and cobwebs of long neglect, curled up therein, and let Avernus fade away from him as Toril was beginning to do.

No, don't go to sleep on me! I am not pleased.

Are you going to show me every last kiss you've received in your overlong, miserable life, human? You try my patience too far!

[searing mind lash, bright bursts of pain, shredded memories tumbling]

Well, wizard? Speak to me!

[pain, writhing, gasping struggle to mind speak]

Every memory shown ye, devil, is one lost forever to me. To show ye every last thing, and lose it all, would not be the act of a sane man.

And are you a sane man?

[silence]

Well?

[grim silence]

[diabolical laughter, booming and roiling through every dark corner of a shuddering mind]

"This is ridiculous!" Rathan cursed as they hurried down the stairs, leather creaking and mail jangling. "Up tower and down! Why can't all these craven fools march up to the gate and declare themselves, like in the children's tales? Twould be far easier on my aching feet!"

"I'll try to remember to tell them that," Torm called back merrily. "I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding and that anxious regard for your bunions is and will be the first and overriding concern of all armed Zhent war parties who show up in the dale a-raiding!"

Rathan's reply was a heartfelt roar of anger. He felt for the flask of firewine at his belt as he ran down the steps, bouncing and lurching. Three turns farther, he got it unstopped and up to his lips-which was about the time his elbow had a brief but painful meeting with a protruding block in the stone wall.

Firewine stings when dashed into the eyes, and overweight priests of the goddess of good fortune throw all caution to the winds when pursuing holy business. So it was that Rathan was off balance and moving far too fast. Momentarily blinded and fumbling with his flask stopper when he should have spared a hand for the rail, he launched himself where he imagined the curve of the stairs to go.

He was regrettably mistaken.

The wall was unforgivingly hard, almost triumphant in its bruising resistance, and it was curved. The stairs were similarly hard, worn smooth by years of many feet, and pitched in a steep descent. Rathan was large, round, and loud in bellows and roars of pain. He bounced off the wall once, twice, thrice, ricocheted from the central pillar, tumbled down over the edges of three very sharp steps, and struck the curving outer wall again, liberally doused with lubricating firewine this time and driven into a more or less helpless ball.

Tymora encourages her faithful to take chances, but Rathan Thentraver was neither a slender nor energetic man. His armor was more impressive to the eye than it was to the sword-or to immovable stones.

His precipitous descent down the stairs began with a startled shout and a clatter and commenced to acquire the full-throated thunder of crumpling armor and a hurtling, heavy body that is embracing its fate with holy rage rather than the silence of acceptance or insensibility.

Torm was not slow of wit or foot, but he could jump only so high before negotiating his own inevitable meeting with stone walls, steps, or ceiling. His frantic leap to avoid his bouncing, rolling friend failed. He rebounded from the ceiling down onto the whirling armored ball. With a stream of colorful curses all his own, Torm was swept down the stairs in similar rolling tumult.

The smile of Tymora brought a Zhentilar guard captain striding into the antechamber. The crossbows of his men had cleared the tower entrance of guards and driven the few defenders into flight out through the kitchens. His duty was clear. "Open yon door," he snapped, through the din of shrieks, laughing men, and horses thundering past outside.