The captive next to Naxil-Jub, the half-orc-fainted, either succumbing to his wounds, or to fear. Other captives tried to pray to Eilistraee, but only managed a slurred mutter, thanks to the drug.

The fanatics maintained their chant, and the mud continued to sink. With each passing moment, more fanatics descended the stairs and crowded into the cavern, lending their voices to the unholy chorus. Abruptly, the chant ended.

A second command hissed out of the floating eye. Feed them to me, it ordered. Then it disappeared.

Naxil tensed as the fanatic guarding the captives turned. "Forward," he commanded.

The fanatics parted, forming a corridor for the prisoners to walk through. "Ghaunadaur," they chanted. "Consume them. Consign them to oblivion. Devour them."

Compelled by the command, Naxil stumbled with the others to the Pit. A captive tripped and fell off the edge. Her scream wailed away into the distance. Another leaped into the Pit of his own accord, crying Ghaunadaur's name, causing Naxil's lip to curl at his cowardice. The other captives wavered at the edge. The magical compulsion wasn't quite strong enough to compel them to take their own lives.

Naxil stared down into a seemingly bottomless well. He'd heard the Pit was nearly half a league deep. Far, far below, he saw a bright silver glow. He wondered if it were the planar breach Cavatina had warned them about.

The fanatics closed in behind the captives. The push of a hand sent another of Eilistraee's faithful into the Pit. Others swiftly followed. Soon only Naxil, still hidden by his invisibility, stood at the edge.

Naxil listened to the captives' screams as they fell. Tears streamed down his cheeks and soaked his mask. He closed his eyes, unwilling to see more. He took a step back-and realized, to his amazement, that he was no longer under the magical compulsion.

Someone jostled him from behind: one of the fanatics, crowding forward. The fanatic started, glanced sideways at the spot where Naxil stood, and opened his mouth to shout. Naxil grabbed his robe and spun him off the edge. A flick of Naxil's fingers triggered a cantrip; his voice shifted to the falling cultist and followed him as he fell. "Ghaunadaur! Consume me!"

The other fanatics started. The face of the one who'd led the chanting purpled. He spun to face a green-robed cultist next to him. "Trucebreaker!" he howled. "What of your oath? Our Houses were to descend together to greet the Ancient One!"

The other fanatic whirled. "House Abbylan did not sanction this. He leaped of his own accord!"

As they argued, Naxil edged away from the Pit. Avoiding the fanatics was difficult, as the room was crowded. He wouldn't be able to climb the stairs-not with fanatics still descending. He'd have to make his way to the nearest wall, press his back against it, and hope his invisibility held out.

He decided to make his way to the spot where Jub lay, unconscious and forgotten. He twisted this way and that, slipping between the fanatics whenever an opportunity presented itself. Just as he reached the wall, a hand brushed against his shirt-and took hold of the fabric. He tried to wrench away, but the fanatic yanked him close.

"Ally?" the fanatic breathed. Then he coughed.

Naxil realized the "fanatic's" hand was lingering against his mouth-hiding it, as a mask would.

"Ally," Naxil hissed back.

The "fanatic" found Naxil's hand and pressed a gold ring into it. Levitate, his fingers flicked.

Naxil gave silent thanks to the Masked Lady for the boon as he shoved the ring onto his finger. He levitated just above the fanatics' heads, his back against the ceiling, trying to stifle the urge to cough as he breathed the acid-tinged air. He wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his sleeve, lest any tears fall on their heads and give him away.

Below him, the disguised Nightshadow eased into an indentation in the wall and cloaked himself in magical darkness. The fanatics, meanwhile, concluded their argument. They seemed to have come to some sort of agreement. The high priests called to their respective followers, and the fanatics lined up behind them, each with his hands on the shoulders of the one in front of him. Chanting Ghaunadaur's name, they shuffled forward, into the Pit.

At first, Naxil thought they were sacrificing themselves. The fanatics, however, didn't plummet. They sank gently into the Pit, their descent slowed by magic.

As the last of them disappeared into the Pit, a wind sucked the purple mist down after him, and the air cleared. The disguised Nightshadow stepped out of his darkness, crept to the Pit, and peered in. He cocked his head, as if listening to some distant sound. "The trap worked," he said at last with a smile. "They've been driven insane. All of them."

Naxil descended to the floor, the invisibility gone. He moved to where the other Nightshadow stood. Echoing up out of the Pit, from far below, came the sound of voices. It sounded as if all of the fanatics were screaming or crying out at once, in a frenzied cacophony.

Naxil began to tug the ring off his finger but the other Nightshadow gestured for him to keep it. Naxil nodded. "Thanks…"

"Mazrol."

"I'm Naxil."

Mazrol glanced again at the Pit, and shuddered. "Let's get out of here."

They moved to the stairs. Naxil paused to check Jub. The half-orc was unconscious, with a nasty bump on the side of his head, but a prayer would rouse him.

Mazrol looked impatient. "Have you seen Valdar?"

"Who?"

Mazrol's expression turned wary. Naxil tensed. Something was wrong here. Instinct screamed at him that Mazrol had just become his enemy, yet that was ridiculous.

Naxil touched Jub's forehead and began his prayer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw motion near the Pit: the purple mist, rising again. A tendril of it swirled over the lip and crept across the floor, behind Mazrol. The other Nightshadow hadn't noticed yet. He frowned down at Jub. "What are you doing?"

Naxil didn't answer. It ought to be obvious. He kept singing.

Mazrol caught his arm. "Save your prayers." He nodded at the staircase. "If any oozes come slithering down here, we'll need them."

Naxil finished his prayer. "But Jub-"

"Leave him. He's not one of us."

Naxil rose-slowly-to his feet. "He's one of Eilistraee's."

Jub groaned, and rolled over. Naxil heard him cough weakly.

Mazrol stared at Naxil a moment, as if taking his measure. "Eilistraee is dead," he said, his eyes locked on Naxil's. "The Masked Lord killed her. Everything the priestesses taught you was a lie."

Naxil's jaw clenched. He'd heard there were males like this within the ranks of the faithful-Nightshadows who refused to let go of Vhaeraun. Naxil had never worshiped that god, having come to the Masked Lady's faith only after the goddess's transformation. It hadn't been Vhaeraun who had led Naxil out of the misery of Menzoberranzan, but the Masked Lady. Eilistraee.

Mazrol must have seen the flat disbelief in Naxil's eyes. He gestured at the Pit behind him. "Would Eilistraee have allowed this?" he cried. "Would she have permitted us to open a back door to her enemies? She's dead, Naxil. The Promenade is ours now-if we can hold it."

Behind Mazrol, two blood red eyestalks rose above the lip of the Pit. The eyes opened and stared at the two Nightshadows through the swirling purple mist. Naxil would have quaked in terror, had he not already been sent reeling by what Mazrol had just told him. The other Nightshadow had taken a hand in the Promenade's fall! So had others of the Masked Lady's supposed faithful, by the sound of it. "Us," Mazrol had said. The betrayal cut deeper than any dagger.

Naxil prayed silently. Masked Lady, I am your sword, and your song. Temper me. Use my body as your instrument to lead this blasphemer to redemption. Keeping his voice utterly steady, he spoke his accusation aloud. "Traitor."