Obligingly, his men did so, blades and bows at the ready. A spiral stair awaited-thankfully without guards or any traps. The boldest guard took a cautious step forward and peered up into the gloom.

"Well?" the guard captain snapped.

"There's something," the soldier replied, with a frown. "A sort of crashing..."

The officer snorted. "A 'sort of crashing? What son of crashing?"

Rathan's hurtling form rattled around the last bend, bounded off the edge of a particularly hard step, and sailed down into the antechamber like a large, jagged armored juggernaut. He smashed the guard captain to the floor like an angry cook dashing an egg. Zhents scattered as a raw groan arose from the wreckage, A ribbon of blood slowly followed, and the soldier at the doors turned and snarled, "That sort of crashing. Sir." Crossbow leveled, he grimly approached the chaos of armor plates and heaving flesh.

The smaller, much quieter ball of Torm hurtled out of the doorway and struck his legs. With a crack, the crossbow fired its bolt into the nearest Zhent. The bowman's head cracked almost as loudly against the floor.

Torm fetched up against Rathan in a cursing, panting tangle. "So how are your bunions, Old Barrelhead?"

Rathan's reply was long and loud and extremely colorful. Tymora was not visibly present to wince and cringe, so Torm did it for her.

Well, that was impressive. Not useful, but at least impressive.

[images plunging]

"It is my hope, Lord, that you never find out," Tessaril replied, her eyes grave. As she spoke, there was a sudden crash, inside.

Another crash? Hmmm. The rest is lost. Another human wench, this one with eyes like smoke. Nothing but a snippet left... but is this not her face again, over here?

"Now," Tessaril said, "we wait. Would anyone like something to eat, before conquering Zhentil Keep?"

Bah!a snippet only, again-i could have sworn there was more...

If ye handled my remembrances more gently, devil, ye might see more. There was more to that... but "was"is the right of it, now;ye destroyed it!

Don't tell me what to do, little man! Nergal will rummage as he pleases!

[mind lash, pain, frenzied rushing images]

They chuckled, and then the Royal Magician of Cormyr lifted an eyebrow and asked disbelievingly, "This little maid called Shandril?"

"Aye, Shandril. She didn't know that no one dares attack Manshoon in his lair-so she went ahead and attacked him."

Again the little maid of spellfire. You have spellfire too, do you not?

[silence]

Elminster! Elminster!

Sorry, devil, I was in too much pain to bear thee....

Cute ploy, human. Cute. Never mind-I'll search without your help or clever comments.

[images spinning]

bah! I want to see another op your real memories, something clear and lengthy and useful tome... something vivid and relevant about one of the seven sisters coming into her power. give such a memory to me, and give it now. storm seemed to work last time. she's been your lover a time or two, hasn't she? give me storm-and then another of the seven.

Nearby, a heap of twisted Zhentarim bodies heaved, shifted, and convulsed. Out from under it emerged a bloody, panting, wounded Storm.

Aha! More, and not destroyed! I can do it!

Silence fell over the field of the fallen.

[growl] Well, I destroyed only part of it. There's n- But what's this? The shandril wench again?

"Ye must join the Harpers, lass," Elminster said gravely.

Shandril looked up at him with something like spellfire glinting in her eyes and replied, "1 'must? Why?"

The Old Mage shrugged. "Somehow," he said in a dry voice, waving a hand at the smoking destruction around them, "ye must learn when not to start something like this."

Bah! You teaching, yes, but what use can I make of it?

[images clawed aside, whirling]

"I can't be bothered wasting spells on them. Hang them, for the citizens to watch."

"You'll watch from the balcony as usual, Lord?". "No. I have work to do, and one death upon order is very much like another. There are things in life that give me greater pleasure... and far greater amusement."

Who was that?

Manshoon, a mage cleverer than some give him credit for, playing the sinister ruler of Zhentil Keep, some time ago.

And who are these buffoons, here? I've seen them in your mind before....

Adventurers. The Knights of Myth Drannor.

Might they be talking of magic?

Those two talk only of drink, riches, women, brawling, and magic, so ye've a one in five chance....

Hmmph. Better odds than some you've given me.

[chosen image rushing up large and bright]

Torm coughed. "Ahem," he began, artlessly. "By all the good watching gods, lords and ladies gentle, be of good cheer! Tis a mighty day, to be sure. Rathan the Mighty rides again, and I with him. Full five score times ago did I first sally forth, blade in hand (leaden rapier though it's oft proved to be), to inflict this priest upon thee. Thou hast stood up to his sermons both manfully and woman-fully, as thy styles most rich and various bid. Certes, this heartens me, wherefore I bid ye: once more into the hungry, grim-a-visaged fray, b'yr deity whatsoever- once more!"

"Belay that knightly speech," Rathan replied crisply. "I'm the clever-tongued orator here!"

"Not with a flagon that small, you aren't," Torm replied slyly, from just out of reach.

[diabolic snort] Droll, very droll. Is there more of these two?

[silence, image spinning to the fore]

"Furies and gargoyles be damned, man/ Torm said in mock fury. "I ordered the bridal bed, and paid you well! You said nothing at all about my having to provide my own bride! Why, in Waterdeep, six gold buys you the warm company of a lass betrothed to you for the night!"

Rathan sent a discreet cough over the shoulder of the glowering innkeeper, and to it added the murmured words, "Bold blade of my heart, ye forget something: We are in Waterdeep. Thy claim rings a mite false."

The innkeeper rounded on him, still furious, and growled, "Unless you pay for a bed, sir, you'd best be his bride and share!"

Rathan raised his eyebrows and shot Torm a querying look that widened into astonishment. "Nay!" He exclaimed. "Not that!"

The innkeeper wheeled around again to see what had caused this reaction. Rathan coolly raised the hilt of his mace to his shoulder-and brought it deftly down across the back of the innkeeper's skull. The man crashed to the floor like a sack of potatoes, leaving Rathan standing innocently over the wreckage.

"If we carry him out to the stables," he told Torm. "I can have your bed-and you can have his and get a bride after all!"

"Oh, no," Torm said warningly. "No chance! I've seen his wife-she should be in the stables!" He frowned at his friend's sudden frantic gesticulations and asked irritably, "What?"

The skillet that felled him made Rathan wince. In the few seconds before the stout priest of Tymora whirled and broke into puffing flight, he reflected on how anger can make even four-hundred-pound, wart-studded women attractive. Being about a dozen pounds lighter, he managed to stay just ahead of the innkeeper's wife all the way out to the horse-trough-where, unfortunately, he slipped in something.