He did not, however, move for a long time, even when the cold made him shiver. He lay still, remembering every last detail of Nergal's movements, words, and reactions, the archdevil's precise appearance... and what spells would make the best weapons against such a one.
Just as patiently, he recalled the drawbacks and precise effects of each suitable spell and his best tactics for using them in Avernus. At length, he smiled coldly and told the darkness, "It seems Halaster Blackcloak would make a good devil himself."
The smile slowly faded from his face, and he said more gently, "Lady Mystra, I have need of your aid. This task I would do for you has proven beyond my present mastery. May we speak?"
The stone floor beneath him grew warm. A tingling arose within him. He was suddenly no longer sweating or soiled, but whole and strong and alert. It felt almost as if warm, motherly arms wrapped around him.
Halaster Blackcloak did something he'd not done for centuries: He purred, shifted contentedly onto his side in a curled-up position, and drifted off to sleep.
In the warm, forgotten time thereafter, he dreamed that he suckled a motherly breast, that he explained his needs and revealed his thinking. He received in return the spells he needed and the wise advice of a battle master among wizards___At one point he floated on his hack through an endless array of lit candles that sprouted out of nothingness.Their flames warmed him but did not burn...
Halaster Blackcloak suddenly found himself standing in a room he rarely visited, deep in Undermountain: a chapel consecrated to Mystra. He was awake and alone. The flames of two candles burned above the bare stone altar he faced. No candles fueled those wisps of fire. He felt strong. Magic moved like raging fire within him, more than he'd ever felt before. All the spells he'd thought about were ready in his mind, and more besides, some completely unfamiliar and fascinating. He wore simple robes of black, and boots and a belt to match. All of them were unadorned, yet of the finest make-and perfect fit. His flesh was bare of all rings and markings and adornments. Someone had trimmed his beard.
"Lady," he told the altar, "have my thanks. Thy will be done."
He turned from the altar and took nine paces. He reached a place beyond the consecration, intending to weave a spell flight to Hell.
The moment he thought of his destination in Avernus, his spell yet uncast, the world became blue-white around Halaster He felt as if he were falling endlessly, though he could see nothing around him to show him for sure. When the blue mist tell away, he was standing on empty air a hand's width above rough black stone, in a place of tortured rock and squalling spinagons, beneath a blood-red sky. He stepped down into Avernus, and never saw or heard the ghostlike wisp that had come from the altar flames to Hell with him.
It wavered a little, as yet invisible, holding far more rage than he. The Witch-Queen of Aglarond had gone to Hell again.
***
A broken man wandered aimlessly amid the stone fields of Avernus. Gore dripped from the shattered stumps of his arms. He stumbled from time to time-and during those moments, black and red flames gouted from his eyes. Spinagons and abishai alike shrank from him and flew away. Even the slithering lemures and maggots hesitated to approach.
Sometimes his lips fell open, and he muttered echoes of the great mind-voice crashing in his head. Other times he grunted and squealed like a hog or made little birdlike trills. The lesser and least devils kept well clear. They had no wish to share in the torment of another.
The trudging husk of Elminster returned to a place of rocks and trees where Nergal had gnawed the dripping bones of Marane and dashed his mind-slave repeatedly against rocks. Slowly and with infinite subtlety, the silver fire within him rose, clouding, making memories swirl like dry fallen leaves spun by a breeze. The devil riding him plunged into those memories with roars of excitement... and never saw the moment when Elminster lifted a stone, plucked out what was waiting beneath it-and thrust it through the long, matted hair above his left ear.
Its weight rode there, solid and reassuring. Again he rose, wandering in apparent aimlessness, having regained the magic item he'd hidden earlier. Netnerese, the work of the Shadow Master TelamontTanthul, able to unleash a multiple clone spell to "grow" bodies simultaneously from one body part or relic-and so whelm armies.
Elminster put those thoughts firmly away again before a cloak of silver fire and let Nergal gloat at the length and vivid depths of the memory trail he'd been following through Elminster's mind.
Ah, little human, but we must be close to something worthwhile at last. I can feel it, as if your precious silver fire is surging in your! yes! Onward-Show me more!
***
"Dread Lord Geryon," the youngest and most ambitious of his pit fiends murmured, pointing at a shimmer on a distant, rock-studded hillside, "there."
The Overduke smiled, though the dark helm he wore showed the company of devils only the tiniest curve of his lips. "Thank you,Albitur.The first assault is yours."A massive barbed tail twitched.
Some of the gathered pit fiends drew back half a stealthy pace. Geryon was excited or angry-and for those desiring to survive, it didn't really matter which.
At least the orders the Lord of Nessus had given them hadn't meant a wait of years... or an eternity. Great Asmodeus had said this Halaster would return soon, armed with power enough from his goddess to be a threat to Hell. As always, but more so this time than most, the Lord Asmodeus had been right.
Albitur took wing like a dark storm, gathering the cornugons and pit fiends of his command as he went. Across a deep cavern of poisonous smoke they flew, to sweep over a ridge where rock pinnacles stood like fangs. They glided down in a deadly dive at the lone human figure, silent but for the wind whistling through their wings.
Forty devils and more against one, but no one standing with Geryon laughed or made wagers. How many, in the measure of fiends, is the aid of a goddess?
The human saw death coming. He lifted his hands to trace gestures in the air.
Devils swept down, and bolts of lightning stabbed forth from them. On the rocks around the lone wizard, flames roared. Devils conjured walls of fire.
The air above the pit fiends was suddenly full of head-sized, plummeting rocks. The rain of stone battered the devils to crash brokenly below. A stone crushed the skull of a hapless cornugon, leaving nothing but a smudge of blood atop its neck.
Halaster swayed in the heart of the devil-hurled lightning. The spasms seemed to invigorate rather than harm him.
Devils swept down with barbed whips snapping and flailing. They flew into a cloud of little silver hands that snatched and gouged and choked and punched, searing diabolic flesh.
Blinded pit fiends fell screaming to the stones. They rolled and thrashed in agony, arousing maggots to swarm over the rocks.
' Fires leaped up all around the wizard. One eruption tumbled Halaster onto his face. Through the flames swept rippling-muscled pit fiends and cornugons, plying their whips so vigorously that more than once they entangled each other and were forced to break from the tightening fray. Punching and raking and kicking, they swarmed the wizard. Red and black flesh hiding him from view.
"They must be almost done tearing him apart "muttered a pit fiend beside Lord Geryon.
Even before the Wild Beast's hairy hand swept up in a rebuking gesture, there was a flash of blinding silver light from the struggling knot below. Those few devils who weren't hurled shrieking across the sky toppled on their backs, ashen husks silent forever.