Elminster in Hell

Chapter Six

It seemed he'd been crawling forever, in pain forever, wandering in Hell with an archdevil tramping through his mind.

My, my. Nether the usefulness nor the entertainment. I'd expected-or been promised. Show me more! Show me what shaped you, little being of silver fire! Swiftly, before i give in to the growing urge to make things more entertaining.

[mindworm thrusting, mental fire, bearing down, tightening]

[shriek, welter of images, howling failure to flee]

A grim man in black strides warily through a dripping wood, his hand on his sword hilt. His cloak, drawn up around him, is pinned with a brooch in the shape of a silver rose. From time to time, his alert and peering eyes seem to flame with silver.

Yes! More silver! Get to the silver that flows and burns! Snow me!

A silver harp pin, bobbing on the breast of someone running, in shadowed darkness where hounds howl and men curse, close behind …

Don't twist away from me, wizard! Show me the silver magic at work, not every last cursed silver thing that holds magic! Your mind is like a library where every tome's been shredded, and now you hurl handfuls of torn parchment in my face!

Show me silver and magic together. Now.

A silver-handled cane, black and slender, hangs in the hand of a fat, bearded mage. Heavy-lidded and sighing, he trudges clown gleaming marble-floored halls, past high-arched windows whose uppermost glass is worked into stained reliefs: images of a purple dragon in flight. The Purple Dragon of Cormyr.

"Honored Vangerdahast," a voice murmurs from ahead, "the queen has need of you, and in some haste."

The mage glares at the unseen speaker but quickens his pace.

Not that doddering fool! I watch over him myself!

Another bearded man in robes, taller and grimmer, strides through a room of many beds where young lasses are hastily dressing. Robes, sashes, high boots, and garters form a flurry. He sees them not, though he snaps orders obviously meant for them. He paces on, his gaze intent on a small blue sphere that floats in the air before him, flying slowly and smoothly elsewhere.

Khelben of waterdeep is not unknown to me either. Is this leading somewhere, elminster? Or are you but wasting my time once more and courting fresh torment?

The two bearded faces, together, wear expressions of irritation as they whirl down a rainbow-hued well…

A slender feminine hand reaches with firm, unhurried confidence through blue moonlight to touch the black-robed shoulder of Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun. The wizard stiffens, wonder warring with apprehension on his face. The hand dissolves into a flurry of small stars that swim and dance and spin to become a circle of nine stars.

Khelben goes to his knees in reverence, his eyes never leaving them. The nine stars race around in their circle to become seven, and the seven one. One that's not a star, after all, but a single blue-black eye, shot through with many racing motes. It winks coyly, once, then is gone…

No! No more teachings of mystra! What's this, over here-what you're dwelling on behind this cavalcade of snatched glimpses that avail me nothing! Show me what you're rummaging through!

[whirl of images, swept aside]That's better. I’ll judge what! Should see, captive.

[bright scene unfolding]

This looks interesting. I'll see all of it.

The news spread through the city like wildfire. The Company of the Wolf was riding into town. The Wolf himself would be at their head, fresh from defeating the armies of Amn in battles at far Sixtrumpets and the banks of the Winding Water. Behind that grim war captain would be horse after horse laden with plate, coins, and other booty of far-off wars: Calishite silks, spices, wines, and all manner of strange things. They would come to spend and carouse, and forget fallen friends and much hard riding and spilled blood. That was good for the girls who frequented the Slipper.

Mirt the Merciless, slayer of a thousand thousand, took his usual route from South Gate through the twisting streets of Dock Ward, at the head of a proud procession of battered men on battered horses. Men who had stared down death eye-to-eye two days before rode wearily into the shadow of Castle Waterdeep and turned at last into their usual stopping place: the old and rambling inn known as the Scarlet Slipper.

The Wolf sat patiently on his saddle while the wounded were carried to hire-nurses in South Ward. Three trusted captains rode to buy fresh horses, food, and drink. Others arranged rooms for the yeomen of the company. Only then did Mirt dismount, with a creak of protesting leather. He strode stiff-legged into the dimness of the Scarlet Slipper to call for his first jack of wine.

Bah! More love and tenderness! Weakness! Is that all this wizards is full of?

This is an utter waste of my r- bur hold. This cannot be from your own remembrance. It must have come from mystra. Perhaps if i follow it, i can trace other leavings of hers, until at last-nessiis, at last- i reach something useful…

The Scarlet Slipper was well known in Waterdeep, City of Splendors. Hither came many night maidens of the less expensive sort-young or old, fat or thin, from near-tea uties to heavily painted exotics of all eccentric descriptions. Those female citizens whom merchants called "ladies of the evening" kept to the gentler wards of the city. The Scarlet Slipper had a less exclusive reputation.

As the day drew down and dusk crept catlike along the alleys, they began to appear-night maidens strolling alone, in pairs, or even threesomes. Like softly scented shadows, they stole down from their upstairs rooms everywhere in Dock Ward-and a surprising number from wards farther afield. Word of the company's arrival had brought out what sailors called "a full hunt," well endowed with perfume, furs, and gowns of silk, satin, and muster-delvys. Inside the inn, wine flowed apace, and the gathering night grew loud.

Humans seem to spend a lot or time feasting… Hut so would i if avernus were not a place where to linger over a meal is to become a meal. Hmmm..

Scarred and hardened warriors laughed and roared and tossed dice. Some, emboldened by wine or youth or great need, took to dancing with tavern-girls amid the crowded tables. Others disappeared up dark stairways or into side alleys before full dark was come.

In the center of the tumult, silent and watchful, the one called the Wolf sat nursing a jack of wine. He ignored calls and caresses and flirtatious displays. Several men who sat with him looked interested. With a curt nod, Mirt allowed each in turn permission to leave duty behind for a time and join the frolics.

The burly, hawklike leader of the company sat warily at his table, hand never straying far from his blade. He took no companion from the many who approached him. His eyes no more than flickered once or twice.

So the evening passed. The Slipper's regulars trickled in, emboldened, to join the merriment and broad minstrelsy of the house. Ale and wine flowed freely. Others came, too; watch officers and urchins, passers-by and sailors. They stood quietly along the walls near the doors, watchful and curious. Mirt returned their stares, calmly and quietly, but nodded to few and spoke to none.

The less bold night maidens, too, drifted in by the door to stand staring, timid and yet hopeful. One or another was whirled away for a dance, or caught the eye of a favorite and left escorted. Most just stood, watching longingly.

Mirt looked at them all, expressionless, as the wine in his jack grew steadily less. Young or old, short or tall, buxom or slim-he'd seen them all, or their like, many times before. Sooner or later he'd choose one-who or why he did not know, for none had yet caught his interest- to spend the remainder of the night with. He was in no hurry. Wolves can seldom relax.

Then, with quickening interest, he noticed a new arrival among the night maidens. With the quiet grace of a lady, she slipped in behind louder, bolder wenches. She stood with the others in the shadows. He noticed her because she was far plainer than the rest.

Her gown was simple and gray. She wore no face paint, made no gesture, and took no preening or beckoning stance, Mirt looked at her again, meeting her eyes squarely. She seemed momentarily taken aback at his interest, then returned his gaze with steady calm.

Mirt looked at her more closely. She was much older than most of the girls. He watched her move aside serenely as a warrior pushed past. She had a beaklike nose that would have sat better on a man's face than on the serene visage whose gray-green eyes met his so steadily. Unexcited, yet not derisive or uninterested. Faintly curious, faintly-something else, but hiding all behind a steady mask.

Without hesitation Mirt rose. As he passed, he skirted bolder hands that stroked and plucked at him and ignored familiar entreaties husky and shrill alike. In a few strides, he was among those women who had hung back. Some were shy, or affected to be so. Some were young and unsure, or intimidated by more experienced rivals. The one he sought had as yet spoken to none. Most of the other girls thought her a wife or creditor come to seek one man of the company, not a night maiden at all.

Eyes widened in surprise and dawning hope at his approach. "Mirt," whispered a dozen excited throats. "Mirt the Wolf!"

There was shifting to straighten hair or best display a shapely leg, but the lady in gray moved not at all, nor spoke. Something flickered behind her eyes, but her expression did not change.

Girls moved aside, looking more surprised still, as the object of the Wolfs attention became clear. He came to a stop, hand on belt, and raised an eyebrow in silence.

This one was old indeed for the Scarlet Slipper. He had never seen her before.

In like silence, the lady nodded her head, once. Mirt stepped forward smoothly and took her arm as though they were old friends of high station at a dance in Piergeiron's Palace, not strangers in the course of an old trade at a rundown inn. The amulet around the Wolfs neck remained still and cool; there was no magic here.

"Whither?" was all Mirt asked as they stepped out into the moonlit street.

Amid the shadows, dark figures drifted a step or two closer, saw the scabbarded sword ready beneath the man's other hand, and moved away again.

"This way," was the cool reply. "It's not far." They walked slowly up the street toward the castle, looming high above. Mirt seemed in no hurry; he was intrigued.

"How much, milady?" he asked, in a gently neutral tone.

"I am no lady, sir," was the tart reply. "Two gold-one before my door… and one in the morning."

Mirt's eyebrows rose. "You've not done this long," he said flatly.

"Is the price too high?" came the cool challenge from beside his shoulder. But she walked on as before.

Mirt shrugged. " 'Tis not that," he answered. "You spoke of morning. Long indeed for but one gentleman-guest."

"I have not been doing this long, sir."

Mirt stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. His companion made as if to draw free, but he held her arm firmly.

"Have you changed your mind, sir?" she asked, slowly.

Mirt shook his head, raised his hand, and made a sign. Two men who followed them returned it and turned away, one raising his drawn sword in silent salute.

"Nay," Mirt replied. "My men," he added, and began walking again. 'They'll follow us no more."

"Why-no, you need not answer that," his companion of the evening replied. "It is just here, sir. Your gold?"

Wordlessly Mirt opened the hand whose arm was, linked through hers. In it gleamed a gold piece.

And humans call us evil! At least we make no pretenses about the evil we do!

What, is Nergal telling me there's no deceit in Hell! No lies? Hmm?

The little healed one wakes! Well, well… Enjoy the ride. I'm off through your memories again, little man, though i'm beginning to forget why!

Ah, my spell's working!

[snort, mind lash, groan of pain, diabolic chuckle] Idiot human, show on…

"Still awake, milady?" Mirt asked gently later, into the darkness. She turned from the window where she had been watching the moon sail above the harbor, laid down something long and thin that gleamed in the moonlight, and came back to bed.

"Yes," she said very softly, getting in. Mirt put an arm around her and drew her to him, to warm her. After a moment or two she relaxed, and lay still against him. Mirt traced the fall of her hair past her shoulder.

"How are you called, milady?" he asked.

"Nalitheen," she replied, a curious tightness in her voice.

"I am Mirt," Mirt said. After a moment, she chuckled.

"So half the girls in the Slipper said, when you came over." She lay against him, warming, unmoving. "The Wolf, they call you. Slayer of Thousands. I had thought to find you more-savage."

Mirt shrugged. "Why so? If I am angered, my trade is battle…. I get my fill of lashing out." He coughed, and stared into the night in his turn. "Some of my men are cruel, aye, and will always be so. Some bluster and swagger because they are too young to know better."

"I have hosted some of those," Nalitheen agreed, in neutral tones.

"Those who have fought longer," Mirt added, parting her shoulder, "would never treat you ill. The greatest thing a woman can give a soldier is safe rest, so that he can sleep deeply and relax, not fearing a knife in the ribs."

"I know that," Nalitheen said quietly. "My husband was a soldier. He was killed two summers back, near Dagger-ford. Borold was his name. He rode for Waterdeep and was well thought of. He was slain by mercenaries sent to seize the city's bars of silver that he was guarding. Every man in his command was cut down, and the lords were very angry." Her voice was thin and bitter as she added, "Angry for the loss of their silver."

Mirt lay still, looking into darkness. A small chill of sadness added its weight to earlier sorrows, deep within. The Company of the Wolf had taken that silver, under hire to the merchants of Amn. If Borold had commanded the guards that day, Mirt the Merciless had slain him. A stout man, with bristling sideburns and eyebrows. He had been fast enough to get his saber into Mirt's arm before he died. He stirred, and almost spoke-but Nalitheen's voice had been so bitter.

"Men who swing swords have no idea how many women go hungry because of them or are left behind, forever alone. Many I know here will never know if they've been abandoned or how their lord died," she said softly.

"How is it that you heard of your-of Borold's fall?" Mirt asked.

"They told me; soldiers at the palace, when they summoned me there and gave me his pay." She shrugged. "I know not how they learned it, or even if it "| is the truth. They gave me forty pieces of silver for the life of my husband."

"Then why, milady," Mirt asked softly, "sell yourself?J Is jt-forgive my blunt asking-loneliness?"

Nalitheen shrugged again. "I have two daughters. They J must eat. For myself, I don't care anymore, now that Borold is gone. I used to think I'd hear him call, and he'd come up the street again as he always did, singing. But I know he won't now. Ever again."

They were silent, for a time. Then Mirt asked again, roughly this time, "But why-sell yourself?"

Nalitheen turned in his arms to face him, in the darkness. "What else have I?" she asked simply. "I can cook, aye, but there are a hundred hundred folk this side of the castle who can cook better than 1.1 have no skill at handiwork, nor strength to load or unload goods in the streets for whatever coin is offered. All else in this city is guild work, and I lack the coins even to apprentice to a guild. And 'prentice wages won't feed two younglings, even if I near starve."

Mirt ran a hand along her ribs. "Naught else to spare, have you?"

Nalitheen chuckled. "Borold used to say that. I have always eaten little."

"I've no complaints," Mirt assured her, and they chuckled together. He fell silent then, and soon after began to snore. Nalitheen lay still in his arms, looking into the night-and surprised herself by falling asleep almost immediately.

You humans certainly rut a lot. If you wasted less time talking your way into each other's arms, you'd have more time for killing and plundering.

My thanks, Nergal, but some in Faerun, as it happens, have noticed that already.

[snort] Reveal more, wizard. My patience is a shorter thing than it was when i first captured you.

And as it happens, I've noticed that. [diabolic chuckle, images flying by]

When Mirt awoke and rolled over, it was gray dawn. Beside him, the bed was empty. He looked first for his sword and laid it by long habit close within reach. Then he dressed quickly and quietly, as was his wont, stretching once or twice as cats do.

Nalitheen came into the room before he was done, with two steaming tankards of what smelled like bull-tongue broth. She stopped suddenly at the sight of him fully dressed.

She was barefoot, and as a warming-robe wore a once-fine, patched gown, open down the front but loosely belted at the waist. She handed him one tankard with what might have been a smile and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling what she wore more tightly around her.

"You'll be leaving, then?" she asked, raising her eyes to his. There was something strange in them.

Mirt nodded slowly. "I must. The company rides again, this afternoon, after we've bought food enough to ride on." He sipped, and nodded appreciatively. "My thanks- this is welcome, indeed."

Nalitheen looked at him. "So was your kindness last night," she said. Mirt met her gaze steadily, and then deliberately drained his tankard and rose. A gold piece fell from his hand to clatter inside it as he set it down.

"One more thing, if you will," he said slowly. Nalitheen raised her eyebrows over her tankard, as she sipped her still-steaming broth.

"Show me your daughters," Mitt said softly, almost pleading.

Nalitheen looked at him for a moment, the tankard suddenly forgotten in her hand, and then nodded and led him to a curtain in one corner of the room.

The door behind it was locked. Expressionlessly, Nalitheen put one end of the curtain into Mirt's hand'. Then she bent and took a slim key from beneath a floorboard in a corner nearby, fitted it to the lock, and swung the door wide. A ladder led upward into soft gloom.

Nalitheen waved him forward. Mirt nodded and climbed the ladder slowly and carefully. The rungs creaked under his weight. The ladder ended in a little room under the eaves of the house, rosy now with the first true light of dawn. Great, wondering dark eyes waited for him there, as two sleepy, tousle-headed lasses stared at him from their shared bed.

"Naleetha and Boroldira," Nalitheen introduced them from behind him. Mirt turned at the harshness of her tone and saw her knuckles white around a dagger she clutched, its wickedly sharp point toward him. "Borold's," she added, flatly, nodding down at it.

Mirt met her burning eyes for a long, silent moment, then deliberately turned his back, to face the girls in the bed. "Ladies." he greeted them gravely, bowing as if they were high ladies of a court, "I am Mirt the Wolf. Pray accept my apologies for disturbing your slumber. Naleetha, Boroldira; I am pleased to have met you."

He smiled and turned back to Nalitheen, the smile still on his lips. "Thank you," he said simply. He stepped past her blade as though it was not there and went back down the ladder, not hurrying. He strode on, with Nalitheen behind him, on and down the stairs below, to the front door of the house.

When he turned, Nalitheen was standing on the lowest step of the stair, trembling, the dagger in her hands. Tears glistened in her eyes.

"Put the blade away, milady," Mirt said softly. "There's no need for that."

Nalitheen shook her head, slowly and helplessly, and let the dagger fall to the floor. She stared down at it silently, her hair fallen around her shading her face.

"How long have you known?" Mirt asked her quietly.

"T-they told me who killed him," Nalitheen whispered, and then looked up at him angrily through her tears, head to one side. "They told me Mirt the Merciless killed my man. I've waited for you. Two long seasons, lying alone and crying every night. I wondered if you'd ever come close enough to me for this dagger to reach."

"And now?" Mirt asked, unmoving, holding her gaze.

"Last night was different," Nalitheen sobbed, and looked away, striding along the bottom step of the stairs. She wheeled at its end, and cried, "How long have you known? Who I was, and wh-that you'd killed my husband?"

"Last night. When you told me how he died," Mirt told her truthfully.

"And you stayed?"

"I'd paid," Mirt replied mildly, and then added, "No, that was cruel. I trusted you with my life, Nalitheen. Then and now."

He drew his blade, slowly. Nalitheen flinched but did not draw back. Meeting her eyes steadily, Mirt upended his scabbard and shook a cloth bag out of its depths. The coins inside it clinked heavily as he put it into her hands.

"This," he said gently, closing her fingers around it with his own, "is for you, and Naleetha, and Boroldira. I'm sorry. I'll come again, and there'll be more. You have my word on that."

Nalitheen looked at him, unmoving and expressionless, the gold in her hands. Mirt kissed her forehead gently, resheathed his blade, and fetched down his cloak from a peg.

"Gods bless you for your charity, Mirt," Nalitheen whispered, sounding more weary than bitter. She shivered, shook her head a little, and closed her eyes, leaning against the door frame.

" ‘Tis not charity," the Wolf of Waterdeep told her almost fiercely as he turned to go out into the brightening street, "for I'll be back."

Ah, so touching! The misplaced pity that humans call "honor," i relieve. Ok loyalty, ok some other weakness like tiiat. And yet-minds like mazes, this one especially.

Rest not, captive wizard-nergal craves entertainment! Snow on!

"You offend me, pig of a merchant," the Calishite said, his accent as heavy as his perfume. Though Velzraedo Hlaklavarr of Calimport was hardly slimmer than the wheezing figure sprawled with his boots up on the chair, Velzraedo was far better dressed. His spade-beard wagging, the Calishite added a delicate stream of curses that called into question Mirt's ancestry, personal hygiene, dietary habits, the hobbies and judgment of his mother, and his familiarity with camels. "Kindly," he added with a sneer, "remove yourself from this seating you so indolently occupy. Its use is required by myself- Velzraedo Hlaklavarr of Calimport, First Finger of the Masked Vizier!"

Mirt's reply was a repetition of the mellifluous, echoing belch that had first offended the silk-clad envoy. "My," he told his fingernails, not moving from his sprawled position at the best table in the Brave Bustard, "but it certainly seems mustard and quince were not meant to be in a sauce together-at least not in my stomach. Why, stop me vitals: my very proximity seems to have a marked effect on the sanity of visiting Catamites-or is it 'Calishits'? I can never recall! Why-"

The envoy interrupted his airy observation with a roar of rage. He snatched one of the dozen or so wicked silver-bladed throwing knives from the gleaming row adorning his belt. His arm was a blur of purple silk-right until the moment it crashed down on the table in the violent and bouncing company of Velzraedo Hlaklavarr's nose.

The Calishite's generous behind and gilded boots rose into the air, driven up by the chair that Mirt the Moneylender's boot had thrust into his guts. In the suddenly silent tavern, everyone heard the loud sob of pain and robbed breath that Velzraedo Hlaklavarr announced to the world.

Almost lazily Mirt plucked the knife from the Calishite's numbed fingers, used its point to skew aside the envoy's turban, and delicately brought a decanter of firewine down onto Velzraedo Hlaklavarr's balding head.

In the wake of that wet, solid blow, the Calishite jerked once, arms flailing weakly, rolled to one side, and lay still. His tongue hung loosely over the edge of the table.

Mirt looked up at the six grandly uniformed warriors the envoy had brought with him. He smiled, Velzraedo's throwing knife waggling ever-so-gendy between his fingers. "Pity overwhelm us all, but he's collapsed. It must be the air in here-very bad, very bad. I fear my own offerings do nothing to improve that state of affairs, so perhaps His Fingerness will revive most speedily and completely elsewhere, hmm?"

The envoy's guards glared at Mirt, hands clenched on the hilts of their blades-then surveyed the dozen or so armed, scruffy men sitting tensely at the tables all around, weapons ready and bottles hefted for hurling. Dark eagerness burned in their eyes. Even the serving wenches had turned to glare, clay wine-jacks poised in their hands.

The largest and most grandly mustachioed guard looked at Mirt and bowed his head. "Perhaps there is wisdom in what you say, merchant. We'll take our master elsewhere, in peace, and remember your kind concern- and your face-in our prayers, for later."

Mirt's smile was wintry as he replied, "As I will yours… and with two sets of gods heeding fervent entreaties, our next meeting should come soon, hey? I know I'll be ready."

The guard froze for a moment to match stares with him, then slowly and deliberately dragged the senseless envoy back off the table and into the arms of the other guards. They went out, the two rearmost men facing back into the dining hall, hard expressions on their faces. Various gestures offered them a swift and eventful journey-even before a sudden tumult and clang of arms in the passage outside heralded their fate.

Breathing heavily and wearing a smile as broad as the sun, Beldrigarr Stoneshield of die watch burst into the room. "Did those Calishites cause any trouble in here?"

A dozen smoothly expressionless faces adorned as many shaken heads, telling him no.

Stoneshield grinned. "Thought so. Well, two of them tried to cut down a serving lad right under my nose, there by the door-and we were already looking for that envoy for passing crooked coins in the Sunset Sail!"

The tavern master of the Bustard cursed heartily and scooped his hand into the bowl under the bar. He brought up a fistful of coins and peered at them.

The watch officer shook his head, chuckling, and sat down across from Mirt. "So, Old Wolf" he growled. "I might have known I'd fi-hey! What's amiss?"

Mirt the Moneylender, most famous roisterer on the Docks, was frowning and shaking his head, an odd expression on his face.The Calishite throwing knife fell forgotten from his fingers to clatter on the table.

Stoneshield drew back from it as if it were a coiling viper. "Is it-poisoned?" he rumbled, his eyes darting from it to Mirt and then back again.

"N-nay," the moneylender said slowly. "No, I-something just touched my thoughts." He lifted one scarred hand to tap the side of his head, and added slowly, "Just about-here."

"Magic!" the watch officer spat, boiling up out of his chair. "Why, I'll have those Calishites in chains in two hot moments, see if I don-"

"No," Mirt snapped, putting out his hand," it's not them. No. I hardly think they'd know of Nalitheen or her daughters." His frown deepened, and he rumbled, "I'd best go check on them. Perhaps they're in need, an' the gods've sent me a sign." He rose, tossed a handful of gold coins toward the tavern master, and said, "Top up all flagons, will ye?"

A roar of approval followed him out of the Bustard, but it didn't cheer him up much.

***

He set his hands on soft shoulders.

Silver hair whirled around and coldly imperious eyes looked into his. "Do you have any idea what a foolish thing that was to do, Elminster of Shadowdale?" the Queen of Aglarond asked, anger lifting her voice like a drawn sword. *I might have slain you in an instant."

"I've spent my life doing foolish things and stepping into the path of peril," the Old Mage replied gently. "I'm not going to stop now-no matter how beautiful the lady who admonishes me."

That brought a smile. "You flatter like a Thayan," The Simbul observed, making the words almost a dagger-thrust.

"They, Lady, learned flattery from me," Elminster said in dignified tones. "They failed, however, to learn any good judgment from me if they are so foolish as to offer violence to a queen so powerful and passionate and wise."

Silver hair stirred as soft words fell like stinging blows. "And what if I like violence, old man?"

"Then you may offer it to me," replied the wizard in the patched and stained robes, spreading his hands. "Mystra has made me into an old anvil, to take the blows of many. Lady, do your worst."

A sudden smile like silver moonlight split the room. "I think I'm going to enjoy this," the Simbul told the air around her. She plucked off her crown and sent it spinning into a corner. As she started toward him, she crooked one shapely eyebrow. ''Which shall it be, now-my worst, or my best?"

"Lady," the old man replied in a purr that matched hers, "let me, I pray, be the judge of that."

Wizard, do you have any idea now boring the flirtations of humans are to me? Now, if you'd knocked her over with a spell-hurled horse, or accidentally buried her under dung or rotten fruit and had to endure her fury after, that i'd like to see. But honeyed words… D'you think devils know nothing of such bandinage?

Moreover, it's hardly a revelation to me that you concern yourself overmuch with the ladies. What randy o1j) he-wizard doesn't?

My impatience grows. I think a little lesson is in order.

And in hell we teach with pain.

***

"All Faerun bows before the beauty of the-the queen of Aglarond" the Purseroyal of Tantras said tentatively, the sweat of fear glistening at his temples. Did one daresay "Witch-Queen" to the Simbul's face? Or call her "the Simbul"? Indeed, what at all did one dare do in the presence of a lady who could be a purring kitten one moment and a castle-shattering tempest the next?

The Simbul lounged barefoot on her throne, clad in a plain robe that hung open from her shoulders to the sash at her waist, and fell away from her magnificent legs high on her thighs. In both cases, the Tantran ambassador could tell with distressing clarity that the fiery ruler of Aglarond carried not an ounce of spare flesh on her body. Why, he could see every muscle and tendon, rippling as she shifted lazily, clear down to… Holy Sune! Guard my thoughts--

"An appropriate wish," the Simbul murmured, loud enough for just the ambassador to hear. "Know that your musings do not offend me, but know also that I am in some haste, and would hear with rather less formality and more speed the wishes of Tantras toward our fair realm. In plain speech, get on with it, man."

"Wah-I-ah, that is-" the purseroyal began auspiciously enough. Irritation and then anger stole across the regal face before him. The blood drained right out of his own face. His mouth trembled in uncontrollable terror.

One slim, long-fingered royal hand rose in a clawing, sweeping motion, as if to rake him away.

The Tantran was suddenly aware that he might have only moments longer to live. The courtiers of Aglarond, ranged tightly around the walls of the throne room, had fallen tense and silent-and were leaning forward in unison to see every detail of his fate.

He whimpered once, wondering where to run and knowing that such flight was doomed, and-and-

Then it was all too late. The Simbul lifted her head almost in defiance, stiffened, her face going dark and her eyes starting to blaze. Abruptly she rose and turned away from the quaking ambassador. She strode a few catlike paces across the open stretch of floor around the throne, clawing at die air in frustration.

What was it? Thrice now, whilst this fool gabbled and shook before her, it had touched her, stirring something in the depths of her mind. Oh, so faint a touch, but troubling, setting her nerves to jangling and the silver fire to flowing impatiently. When this happened, it always betokened something bad. It always made her restless, too. Part of her wanted to hurl off her clothes and fly, shifting from shape to shape, dragon and falcon and wyvern and pegasus, on and on as the spirit moved her, as she tore across the skies of Faerun, seeking… something. Something she knew not what.

Alassra Silverhand stood silent, motionless except for the shivers running up and down her body. She was clenching her hands so tightly that her fingernails pierced her palms, and blood began to drip through her fingers. She stared at the floor as if her gaze could burn through it…. From one courtier, a tiny, hastily stifled shriek ran around the throne room as smoke curled up from the floor tile that bore the brunt of the Simbul's regard.

The Purseroyal of Tantras shrank back, weeping as quietly as he could, visibly struggling to keep control of himself. Writhing in the icy claws of his own fear, he was on the brink of screaming his headlong way back to his ship, through closed castle gates, plate-armored guardsmen, and all. In a moment or two he might be blasted by the Witch-Queen of Aglarond in one of her fits of destructive fury- or as some folk called it, "insanity."

There was fear on many of the faces along the walls now. When the Tantran ambassador saw that, his nerve broke. With a raw wail that would have done justice to a banshee plummeting down a long, long well, the purse-royal whirled and fled for the door.

As his despairing cry rose to its height, the Simbul looked up-and froze, astonished. The throneroom was almost deserted, with only a few of her most faithful retainers trembling by the door. Their eyes were on her, their faces white and set.

"Whatever-? Oh," the Witch-Queen said, stopping in midsnarl as she caught sight of her image in one of the tall, narrow mirrors on the throne room walls. Silver fire licked forth from her eyes and her mouth. Blue lightning crackled from her fingertips.

"Mysira," she murmured aloud," but this is serious. Either grave matters are stirring, somewhere-trying to reach me, I'd say-or I'm finally going as mad as folk say. Well, one way or another, El will tell me soon enough."

She moved her hips restlessly and laughed and waved reassuringly to the sorceresses by the doors. "I'm growing to need him," she announced, "and that's a weakness I cannot indulge further. Thorneira! Phaeldara! Fetch back that screaming Tantran fool, and soothe and clean him up if he's no longer presentable! Bring me envoys and treaties and wrangles to settle! It's not nearly time to take ease and dine yet!"

With uncertain smiles, her apprentices scurried to obey. After they'd gone, the Simbul stood alone amid deserted splendor and frowned down at her empty palms. The lightnings were gone now, but fire still surged and roiled just below the surface.

What-or who-could have brought on that troubling touch? It was so distant, so… strange, like a horn-call from Hell….

Shaking her head, the Witch-Queen of all Aglarond went back to her tlirone, and to the decanter of mint-water that rested beside it on a bed of ice. Well, if it was like all the other troubles that had flailed her with thorns all her life, 'twas a stone cold certainty that if she ignored it now, it would come back to smite her all the harder soon. And "soon" would become "right now" whenever its arrival would be most inconvenient.

***

Elminster threw back his head and screamed again as the imps tore away all of his fingernails and began gnawing on the bleeding ends of his fingers.

Mortals who presume to waste my time should expect to pay for their effrontery.

Nergal's mind-voice seemed almost to hold a sigh or a yawn. His rage amid El's memories, this time, had been brief, leaving behind a fiery headache. Blood still ran from El's ears and nose and welled up in his throat… but at no time in this last torment had he lost awareness of who and where he was.

No, he'd been spared that blessing. The endless brawl and slaughter that was Avernus raged around him unabated. El and the swarm of imps were writhing together on a rocky height whose stains and scattered bones attested to its usual use as a feasting-perch. From this height he could see far across the land of tortured rock. At least three dragons were flying across the blood-red sky, surrounded by swarms of winged devils that sought to slay the wyrms even as they savaged and devoured devil-flesh.

They'll have your toes next, then your hand and feet. I think the disobedience of even the great elminster may he tempered by a little time spent crawling and dragging along on raw stumps.

El did not bother to muster his will for a mental reply. He was too busy spinning a maelstrom of remembrances to deceive his captor into thinking his sanity was failing-to hide the slow seepage of healing silver fire he was releasing, oh so gently, within himself. El had to keep the pleasure of its healing relief out of mind, so Nergal wouldn't see it and pounce on what he so hungrily sought.

Something large and dark and terrible suddenly rose over the edge of the rock. The imps fled with frightened squeals. Naked and holding up bloody stumps in futile array, Elminster faced the pit fiend. Nothing but the vapors of Avernus separated them.

A slow, cruel smile quirked around man-rending fangs. Dark eyes flickered with mirth. Curse of the Nine, it wants to play. Mayhap I'll be torn apart slowly.

With an almost lazy flap of its wings, the hulking devil lifted itself over the lip of the rock, tail curling like that of a cruel cat, and landed before Elminster, as light as any feather.

Nergal, Elminster cried, putting all the fear he could find into that shout, aid, and swiftly-or your toy will be gone, silver fire, memories, and all-and whoever sent this fiend will know of your scheming!

Red rage flared in the back garden of his mind. You dare-?

On. Gabble, man. Quaver, scream-and then move your hand as if whelming a spell. Flee not!

Instants became long minutes of frenzied thought- flash and shimmer among the dark inner pillars-as Elminster did all of those things enthusiastically. Nergal shouldered forward through the wizard's ravaged mind, gathering his own strength for what was to come, and his captive saw much.

Deep rage calmed Elminster and fed him, rage at this ultimate violation. Nergal must be utterly destroyed. Not for the satisfaction of a certain mage of Shadowdale but for the memories the archdevil had already rummaged through and taken. Nergal now knew far too much about far too many people for civilized Faerun to survive. A Nergal free to play could now manipulate important folk and, with them, entire realms.

Nergal must be destroyed, before anyone else can learn what he now has or read the stolen memories… but how?

That question rang through Elminster's mind again as the pit fiend pounced. Magic so great that it left the wizard sick and shaking swept through him, laced with Nergal's triumphant laughter. It rode Elminster's bloody spittle down the fiend's gullet, to explode within.

El arched over backward, tumbling through the air, cloaked in a shield of Hell-magic as blast after wet, spattering blast heralded Nergal's triumph over the hapless fiend. Spells upon spells resounded, enough to shatter even the rock upon which they'd been standing and leave ashes of the mighty devil. Elminster meanwhile tumbled unscathed out of the wrack.

Nergal must be destroyed. But how?