Even if that fool discovered the figure he opposed was naught but a false image. It would be too late. Blasts of magic from the demonurgist's own store of dweomer would cut him down before he could escape. Gravestone recalled for an instant his pleasure in slaying this young upstart's father and mother. He had enjoyed the woman's tenor as-

The extrasensory alarm in his head blared its warning. This was terrible! The final confrontation and fight between the champion and the illusory Tharizdun was commencing. The demonurgist men tally set a fixed program of actions for the phantom deity of all evil, sufficient in force and deadliness to keep the man occupied for a minute or two. That was ample time, for he needed only a few moments to deal with the three prisoners. Gravestone had thought to keep them alive for questioning and amusement. Under the circumstances, though, he would now simply kill them, then return to the direct handling of what would be the demise of the last hope of all who opposed evil.

It was at the instant that Gord leaped toward the illusory Tharizdun that the mental warning was triggered in the demonurgist's mind. Even as he shut off the telepathic link with the trap, leaving it on a program that included triggering of actual magical energies, and turned his attention toward the bound captives, Gord did what the demonurgist had not anticipated. The phantasmal form of the dark god was nothing, but the hand that reached forth to seize the young champion was enspelled with dweomer and meant to crush Gord. Instead, Gord used his acrobatic ability to bound up and actually stand upon the bundle of force that was the enspelled member. That was the last step....

* * *

"What's this?!" Gravestone blinked and stared, using magic as well to examine the three bound enemies. None of them were actually loose. "But why did the warning sound... ?" Thinking about that, the demonurgist decided to slay them instantly anyway and return full attention to his chief antagonist. He raised his arms to set in motion the power that would kill the helpless prisoners.

"Whump!"

The soft sound of something falling behind him distracted Gravestone. He spun and readied the dweomer's force for some possible new opponent. Somehow, one of the trio of captives must have managed to summon another to assist. As the demonurgist turned, arms half raised, mystic syllables ready to trip from his tongue, something struck htm a blow that drove the air from his lungs, the spell from his mind. "Sorry to drop in on you like that, old sorcerer." a mocking voice said as Gravestone scrabbled to gain his feet and face the opponent.

He saw Gord. This was impossible! The alarm... the trap. It all came together suddenly. It had been this one's action in leaping that had triggered his mental warning bell. There could be only one result of Gord's action, coming here to this plane to threaten Gravestone personally. His own mind had tricked him, worked too quickly, betrayed him! The demonurgist knew of his opponent's prowess as a thief, gymnast, acrobat, swordsman, adventurer. This was no mean opponent, as the blow to his back indicated — probably a kick delivered at the end of a leap. Gravestone felt confident still, despite all that. He was supernormal, far greater than any foe the so-called champion had ever faced. Even stripped of the great elder ones of demonkind, the priest-wizard was filled with self-assurance regarding any contest with this one before him, remarkable or not.

"I'll have your balls for that, shitpile!"

"Then you'd have two, eh?" Gord laughed as he spoke, but the young man's clear gray eyes were as cold and humorless as the winter sky.

Gravestone moved back, hastily weaving wards and protections. The dull black of his adversary's sword disconcerted the demonurgist. "Let us fence a bit then, braggart," he chided, drawing forth a wavybladed dagger. It was a ruse, of course. He had no intention of physically contesting with the young champion. The next spell he planned to use would require just a little more time, and Gravestone hoped to buy that interval with his offer. "Do you fear to cross weapons with an old man?"

Instead of moving toward the priest wizard. Gord suddenly did a backward vault, rolled sideways, and struck at the chains that held his comrade Gellor. Although he had a dagger at his waist whose dweomer made steel as weak as tin under its edge. Gord didn't employ that weapon. The ebon-bladed sword he wielded was of far greater enchantment here, for the bonds that imprisoned his friends were of the sort utilizing dark power and netherforce. Sunder the evil dweomers that fortified them, and the chains and Gords would be as nothing. The sword rang dully against the thick links of metal, and the chain rattled and clanged upon the stonelike floor.

"Free yourself quickly!" Gord managed to call as he sprang away, putting as much distance between himself and the bard as possible.

"Nyeeyah!" Furious at being outfoxed thus. Gravestone gave vent to a cry of rage even as he loosed a shackling spell meant to slow his enemy for but a little bit. The demonurgist needed more time to work his greater spells, to bring forth things to deal with the now-freed troubador and possibly the barbarian axeman, too. His conjuration manifested itself in whirling chains of magical sort that headed straight for Gord's legs.

As the shackles spun toward Gord, he countered with a downward thrust of his sword, which interposed the blade between the chains and his legs. Gord saw the demonurgist begin immediately upon another casting. Although the conjured metal of the shackle was already visibly corroding where it touched Blackheartseeker, the impatient adventurer didn't wait for the chains to fall away from this erosion. With a flick he had his long dagger out and drawn across the stuff. The magic broke and the shackles fell into bits of rust.

"Now, my tall and gangly fellow," he called to Gravestone to distract the priest-wizard from his ritual, "we have some business to finish between us."

Just then Gellor called out. "Gord, help me free Chert!" The bard's sword and the hillman's battleaxe were on the dais near the storklike demonurgist, but Gord had no time to assist the troubador by grabbing the weapons.

"Here." he shouted, sending his dagger spinning toward the one eyed hero. "This will do the work!" Then he leaped ahead and cut viciously at Gravestone's neck. Suddenly a forest of mottled tentacles sprang up between Gord and his foe. Their purple and maroon blotches were poisonous looking, and the fanged sucker-mouths that adorned these wildly waxing appendages threatened to fasten to him and tear the young champion apart.

His sword cut down upon these tentacles instead of upon Gravestone. The light less black blade sliced the things away easily, though. In a few strokes all were severed, and Gord had only slight damage from the things, although the one place he had been well struck burned and ached from the toxic secretions of the tentacle.

It was working. Even though the cursed little thief had managed to win free of each spell, virtually unscathed from any damage in a dweomer's content. Gravestone was gaining time. Now I'll deal with the reinforcements he hopes to gain, the demonurgist thought as he wove a powerful vortex that spun from his own little universe into another place nearby along the flow of evil. Out from that place came a stream of hideous things — dumalduns, members of the disgusting race native to the plane of Tarterus.

A dozen at most had come gibbering and howling into the place when the vortex vanished. In the time it had taken for the disgusting monsters to arrive upon Gravestone's quasi-sphere. Gord managed to seize and hurl Chert's great axe and Gellor's sword belt, with longsword and dagger thereon, in the general direction of where his friends were.