The vortices promptly collapsed and vanished. Manshoon snatched time enough to glance back over his shoulder, and his jaw dropped. Only one eye tyrant remained, rising above him to gain a clear pant to strike down at Elminster.

The Old Mage smiled tightly and let his hands fall again, his next spell done.

Zulthondre was an old and powerful eye tyrant: its chitinous body plates reflected the firelight in dancing green tongues of radiance. It knew the scent of the old, bearded man facing it across the small campfire. That smell had emanated from the very floor of the chamber in the Citadel of the Raven, where it had met with Manshoon and Sarhthor. Zulthondre seethed with rage. No human had ever outwitted it before.

The beholder ceased its futile eyestalk attacks; each beam it had lashed out had been absorbed by a silvery sphere and utterly wasted. Instead, Zulthondre bent its large, rage-reddened central eye balefully on those silvery spheres. The power of the eye destroyed the old man's spheres one by one, and each winked out of existence.

And then Zulthondre's world exploded in flames.

The Old Mage watched in satisfaction as eight blazing fireballs spun into being around the beholder-

and then burst in unison, with a roar that made Storm's ears ring. The eye tyrant darkened, writhing in obvious agony. Plates of chitin were flung away from its convulsing body as its skin wrinkled, melted, and burst open. Jets of bodily fluids boiled forth from within. Mouth gaping in a soundless scream, the beholder crashed to earth, flames rising from its body.

Manshoon had been frantically snarling spells, two wands crossed over his head. They flickered and vanished an instant after the beholder's death crash, leaving the sorcerer's hands empty, but outlined in dancing sparks. Ignoring the tumult behind him, Manshoon straightened in triumph, eyes flashing, and snarled, "Now you'll pay, Old Mage! Die!" Many lightning bolts raced from his crossed hands then, tearing the air with vicious snarls of their own to strike at the Old Mage.

Elminster stood unmoving as they came. An arm's length in front of him, the bolts struck an invisible, protective shield of force, and crawled futilely over its surface.

"One day," Elminster replied calmly, "ye'll anger me overmuch, Lord High and Mighty-and I'll make time enough to hunt down and blast to nothingness every last crawling clone of thine, thy every last hiding-hole-and wipe ye from the Realms entire; aye, and all the other worlds, too. So take care, Manshoon, to ne'er grow too powerful or too persistent in angering me-or I'll lose my temper, and it'll be too late for thee."

He turned deliberately to the bard and said, "Now, Storm."

Storm let fall her sword, and spun to face the High Lord of Zhentil Keep.

Manshoon's hands were already darting through the gestures of a spell, obviously aimed at the Old Mage. But the Zhentarim gaped in surprise as a spell leapt first from Storm's hands.

Storm felt an exultant thrill as the tingling magic rolled out of her, more power than she'd ever felt before. She laughed in pleasure. It felt good to finally be able to lash out with magic at a man whose spells would normally easily hold her at bay, however hot her hatred of him.

Radiance danced around Manshoon briefly and then disappeared. Had the spell failed? Storm bent anxiously to snatch up her sword, all her exultation gone.

The Zhentarim's hands faltered and fell, and he seemed to stagger for a moment. "What-what have you done?" he roared.

Elminster grinned. "Charge at him, Storm." Storm launched into a run.

The Old Mage smiled at Manshoon and waved a hand. His pipe obediently rose from the ground where it had been quietly smoking by itself, and drifted toward his tips.

"I held down thy defenses, idiot," Elminster told him calmly, "while Storm wiped out half thy spells, or so. Oh, by the way: I'm still doing so. If ye try to use a spell against her, ye'll end up feeble-witted. and we'll just leave ye here." He smiled. "I know ye won't be able to resist trying some magic now."

The Old Mage puffed on his pipe and added, "Ah, yes; Storm may want to cut off thy hands, too, to keep ye from casting too many spells if ye ever recover."

The Zhentarim looked open-mouthed at Storm. A blank expression washed over his face.

Storm knew from the horror that replaced this look that Manshoon had tried to use a spell to whisk himself away from the battle-and had discovered it was gone.

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep grabbed at a rod at his belt, saw how close Storm was, and tried to turn and run at the same time. Storm's blade caught him under one armpit and spun him around.

"Defend yourself, wizard!" Storm spat at him. Manshoon stared at her for a moment, then snatched something from his belt, leapt back, and hurled it at her. Storm's blade struck it aside. The bard saw the Zhentarim's dagger flash with a dull green light as it spun away.

"Poisoned?" she said contemptuously. "You snake!" Her long sword slashed out.

Manshoon shrieked as some of his fingers went flying. Elminster called, "'Ware, Storm-his contingencies are likely to harm ye and save him!"

Storm ruined Manshoon's other hand with a quick chop.

"Kill him from a distance, eh?" she replied, stepping away. Manshoon fumbled a wand out of his belt-but Storm cut it out of his bloody hand, and her backhand slash laid open Manshoon's face. Her eyes were hot, and with terrible speed that bright blade was reaching for him again. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep staggered back, coughed wetly, and, snarling, aimed another wand at her. An instant later, he was gone-leaving behind a burst of black, evil-looking flames that reached hungrily from the wand for Storm.

She fled, dived past the fire, rolled, and fetched up at Elminster's feet, panting.

"Easy now," Elminster said, Ye hurt him badly enough that ye triggered one of his contingency spells; it whisked him away. I've raised a spell-shield around us. Whatever else he planned, we're safe here, for now."

Storm looked up at him, shaking silver hair out of her face. "You seem to take this very calmly."

Elminster watched the beholder burn. As the oily smoke drifted away from them over the hills, he said softly, "It never lasts, ye see… I've had to kill him-oh, is it twenty-and-one, by now? Aye-that many times."

"Why didn't you slay him again this time?"

Elminster shook his tread. "He's prepared for that – half a day after he dies, his next clone's skulking about somewhere in the Dales, and death's hardly a setback at all. This way, I pulled him across Faerun, away from Shandril and the spellfire he's no hungry for, hurt him, and broke his power for a time… a good afternoon's work, I'd say. Besides, a certain lady has a prior claim on Manshoon's life-and I'd hate to deprive her of a chance to do some real good with her spellfire."

For the first time in years, Manshoon knew fear. Maimed, wincing at the burning pain from his hands, he whirled through mists and shadows for a moment, and then the world rocked and changed again. He found himself back on the clifftop where Elminster had first spelltrapped him.

Manshoon staggered and raised hands to his dazed head. Only a last defense had saved him: the contingency spell he'd worked long ago, which whisked him away when death came too close. It took him back to the last place he'd left by any sort of traveling spell. It was a powerful, expensive magic that had snatched him back from certain death only three times in all the years he'd ruled Zhentil lKeep.

Well, four times, now. Or so he thought for the space of slightly more than one deep breath.

"Well net, butcher," came a cold, clear voice from close at hand.

Manshoon turned in time to see Shandril standing amid the rocks nearby. Her eyes kindled into twin flames. "For Delg," she whispered fiercely. Her lips curved into a wolfish smile as she raised flaming hands. He did not even have time to scream.