Realizing that, Cavatina nearly cried. With an effort that took every bit of her will, she forced a numb arm to move. Leaden fingers spread. As she swung past Halisstra, she seized the hilt of the sword.

Selvetarm straightened, and Cavatina nearly dropped the sword. Slowly, with intense concentration, she forced her other hand to also close around the hilt. She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer with numbed lips…

And she could move again.

Selvetarm's eyes widened.

Now! the sword howled.

Twisting in Selvetarm's grip, she bent the upper half of her body forward, toward the god's head. At the same time, she swung the Crescent Blade.

"Eilistraee!" she screamed. "Do not fail me!"

The Crescent Blade flashed toward Selvetarm's neck, glinting red in the eerie light of the eight stars clustered above.

Selvetarm's eyes widened.

The breeze that blew incessantly across the Demonweb Pits stilled.

Spiders halted in mid-scurry as the blade bit into flesh-and cut clean through it, in a spray of dark blood.

The neck was severed.

The head fell, at last releasing Cavatina.

"Eilistraee be praised!" Cavatina cried, exultant. "Selvetarm is dead!"

She twisted in mid-air, halting her fall with her magical boots. The demigod's head slammed into the ground and shattered into bloody pieces, his body belatedly crumpling to a heap beside it. Cavatina threw back her head and laughed, tears streaming from her eyes. She'd done it! Slain Selvetarm.

Killed a demigod.

It felt incredible-a greater thrill than any she'd ever experienced. She raised the Crescent Blade above her head, triumph surging through her. For just an instant, her body flared with the moon-bright white of Eilistraee's holy moonfire. On the ground below, spiders scurried away in terror, seeking shadows.

This, Cavatina exulted wildly, must be what Qilue feels each time she calls on Mystra's silver fire.

It was incredible. Indescribable. Glorious.

Yes, the sword whispered. This is what it feels like to be a god.

The words startled Cavatina, brought her back to the here and now, reminding her that she was in the Demonweb Pits. Lolth's domain. She saw the Spider Queen's fortress hurtling toward her at an impossible speed, hastened to fury by the flare of moonlight that was Eilistraee's sign.

Cavatina gripped the Crescent Blade firmly then decided against testing her luck a second time. Killing one deity had taken a miracle. Trying to kill a second would be demanding too much, especially if that god was Lolth, fully cognizant of what had just happened and protected within her fortress of iron.

Cavatina looked around. Halisstra was nowhere to be seen. Had she already escaped through the portal? Cavatina hoped so. She realized now that she'd been wrong about Halisstra. Even someone twisted into an evil caricature of her former self could, it seemed, be redeemed.

"Halisstra!" Cavatina shouted. The wind was rising, and spiderwebs snagged at the edges of her open mouth.

There was no reply.

Lolth's fortress drew nearer. Halisstra or no, Cavatina had to leave.

Shaking her head at the sheer wonder of what she'd just done, she sprinted for the portal and leaped into it.

Dhairn cried out in triumph as he brought his blade down in a killing blow. The light pouring from the priestess was blinding him, but he would cleave her in two, even with his eyes closed.

"Selvetarm!" he shouted.

Victory was his! The Promenade was his!

The blade struck the priestess's forehead-and crumbled in his hands. Instead of solid steel, Dhairn held nothing but a blade-thin line of spiders. The creatures scattered as though they'd burst from an egg sac when they met the priestess's forehead and showered like black soot onto her shoulders. Dhairn gaped at them then flexed a right hand that was empty for the first time in more than a century. He raised it, staring at it in disbelief. His sword? Gone?

"Selvetarm?" he whispered.

He felt nothing. Only… emptiness.

The priestess bent, scooping up her weapon with her off hand. Dhairn ducked instinctively as silver flashed within a hair's breadth of his face. He danced backward, weaving to avoid her sword. Something had happened to his weapon, something inexplicable, but he still had his spells. He raised a hand to cast one-and blinked in surprise at his skin, which had turned a clear, solid black.

The white lines-Selvetarm's holy web-were gone.

The priestess's sword flashed down. Too late, he jerked his hand back. The blade bit into it midway between the fingers, splitting the hand lengthwise. He howled in anguish-then turned the howl into a shout. "Selvetarm!" he cried, trying to summon up the battle fury that would carry him past the pain, but the cry rang hollow in his ears.

He would not faint from the pain. He could not. Forcing his body into a spin, he whirled, whipping the priestess's face with his braid. At the same time he furiously whispered a prayer. He thrust his wounded hand out, reaching for Selvetarm, but no healing came.

Worried, he tried another spell-one that would cover his body in venomous blades, turning it into a living weapon. Ducking and weaving all the while to avoid the priestess's furious but not quite coordinated slashes, he cried his deity's name.

"Selvetarm!" he shouted. "Make me your weapon!"

Nothing happened. The demigod refused to answer.

Nervous sweat prickled Dhairn's skin. Something had happened. Something terrible. Had Selvetarm turned his back on Dhairn and his followers-abandoned those who sought to worship Selvetarm as a deity unto himself? Had Lolth ordered her Champion to do it?

What… was… wrong?

Utterly unnerved by the sudden absence of his deity, Dhairn backed away from the high priestess, who pursued him with fury in her eyes. Behind him, he heard another of Eilistraee's priestesses hurrying down the stairs, shouting something about the Selvetargtlin being defeated.

He only realized how close to the exit he was when her blade skewered his back. He stared, uncomprehending, at the sword point that had mysteriously emerged from his chest. As the cavern began to vanish into a gray mist, he croaked out one final plea.

"Selvetarm," he gasped through lips suddenly gone ice-cold. "I commend… my soul… to… "

But the demigod was no longer there to claim it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Malvag reeled as the gate closed with a thunderclap that rattled the crystals in the cavern. It was several moments before the ringing in his ears subsided. When it did, he turned to Valdar and Q'arlynd, his body quivering with excitement. "Vhaeraun be praised! We did it!"

The slender Valdar wove back and forth where he stood, exhausted. Q'arlynd looked equally drained, his face an ashen gray. Both males nodded weakly.

The wizard turned and lifted his bound hands. "If you wouldn't mind…"

Malvag hesitated-but only for a heartbeat. Old habits. In the moment of communion their spellcasting had provided, he'd glimpsed Q'arlynd's soul. The wizard wasn't going to turn on him.

Malvag stepped forward and untwisted the wire, releasing the wizard's hands. Then, for good measure, he slipped the slave ring off Q'arlynd's finger and took the master ring off his own. He tucked both rings into a pocket of the wizard's piwafwi.

Q'arlynd's fingers were gray and puffy, with deep indentations from the wires. He rubbed them stiffly together, wincing.

"I can't feel them," he said. He extended his hands slightly. "Could you-"

"Of course."

Malvag took the wizard's hands in his own and whispered a prayer. He felt the rush of power that was the Masked Lord's reply course through him as the fingers healed. When he released Q'arlynd's hands, silver-white motes danced upon the wizard's dark skin.