Show me a memory from mystra. It doesn't mattek which one; i can taste the difference now and follow the trail you leave me make it too long, and i'll give you much pain. Lead me to what i see, and you'll live longer. A simple bargain, eh?
Clear enough.
I heard your tone. Remeatber this: I hold you in my hand. I decide the terms… And the punishments. Forget that not.
Oh, I'm unlikely to. Believe me. human, do you dare to threaten me? I never threaten, devil. I promise.
[growl] I have a promise for you. When I have what I desire, your suffering will be long.
Do you dare to have any promises for me?
Not yet.
[smoldering diabolic glare, whirl about, plunge into vaulted darkness once more, scattering images like forlorn stars…]
***
The sky was gray over Aglarond-slate-gray and cloudless, like a vast sheet of armor plate.The Simbul scowled up at it from her favorite balcony. She set down a goblet of something she'd cast spell after spell on in a vain attempt to make it taste like a certain ancient vintage El had spell-stored from fallen Myth Drannor. The bracer that was all she wore had begun to glow, telling her the seneschal had lost patience in stalling envoys and courtiers and wanted the afternoon throne session to begin.
The Simbul strode back through her chambers. Snatching a robe from the nearest hook as she passed-a rich purple and clothof-gold affair of many entwined dragons that would have been better given to someone who'd admire beautiful garments a trifle more-the Witch-Queen of Aglarond shrugged herself into it. She strode along a back passage, vaulted over a railing in front of a carefully impassive guard, landed on a harlounge, bare inches from a sleeping cat, marched away heedless of its spitting wake-fulness, and found herself crossing the last few paces of carpet to the side doors of the throne chamber. Without a sash, her grand robe billowed open around her.
The guard by the doors had served her for a very long time. He looked at the Simbul's face and down at her bared body for just an instant. He set aside his glaive and unbuckled his sword belt with frantic haste, stepping forward to hold it out to her in one gauntleted hand in time to receive a dazzling smile from his queen. Her whirling embrace spun him around in the passage.
She murmured,"Buckle me." During another turn in her arms he did. She saluted as they parted, thrust the door wide, and was gone.
Only then did he stoop to retrieve his breeches from the floor, recall that he'd worn his second-best sword belt, and cringe at the thought that the Witch-Queen of all Aglarond was even now striding to the throne with not only a sword and a dagger bouncing at her hips, but a bag of dice, a bit of string knotted around some cheese with which to entice a pet mouse out of its hole to visit him, and an undone pouch with his best deck of air solitaire cards in it-the ones with the unclad beauties of Thay on the backs, guaranteed to float in the air for at least three breaths after being released.
With a grin, Thaergar of the Doors decided that if his queen noticed, she'd probably be greatly amused. Thank the gods.
Or at least, so he hoped.
***
So I have called, and my friends come not-or cannot reach me, through the legions of Hell. I am lost. It is cruelty on my part, sheer vanity, to drag down with me others who can live on in Toril and serve it as I have. I must fight this battle alone.
And fight it will be, for I shall not go down in gentle surrender. I will fight. Mind to mind, I cannot hope to stand against Nergal-for he can diminish my will in an instant by visiting physical pain on me. He is a swift, reckless, overconfident intellect-a willful child, in some ways-and cannot hope to match my store of memories or experience…for all his long years, he has done the same things over and over and seen far less than certain old human wizards.
Yet he knows this. It is why I still live now. I am more than an idle plaything to him, more than a trophy other devils do not have, or a lure to bring rivals to where he can smash them. I am a storehouse he longs to ransack, the fount of magical lore he craves-and the source of something else he refuses to admit: the memories of sensation and beautiful sights, terrible moments and acts of kindness…a life, all that be lacks. If I entertain, he suffers me to feed him memories he knows will not yield him mage-lore, or silver fire, or secrets of Mystra. He needs them.
I would give them freely, to make an archdevil more human, to give one being in Hell greater understanding of Toril-were it not for his mindworm, which takes what I share and strips it from my mind.
So it must be war between us. It is a war Elminster cannot win but must win. With every remembrance, Elminster is less-a little emptier, more of a mumbling sHell-and Nergal is a little more. A little more Elminster. Somehow I must fight him through the memories that go into him. I must wortn my way into his mind and fight him there.
Yet, to do that, I must surrender what I have been so closely guarding. Everything. Mystra, no.'
On the other hand, saith the juggler, why not? He will have it all in the end, anyway. I cannot stop him, only steer him as to what I yield, and when. My battle-and any slim chance at victory I might have-can only lie therein, in the pattern of my yielding.
Is this not what captive women have done to men who seized them, for centuries? Sought to master their captors by the manner and pacing of their yielding?
I am armed and armored in greater weakness. Well, then, I salute my foe-and the battle goes on.
I must think more on this. I need time. Let me yield another memory given me by Afystra and win some time to plot. I shall go to my tent and confer with my generals, who are all Elminster.
I hope we can agree on something.
***
Phaeldara was standing before the throne, facing the usual glittering throng. Gems gleamed in her sweeping wave of purple hair. She drew herself up to her full, dignified, darkly beautiful height and said, "Lords and ladies, patience is a virtue more should cultivate. Especially in this palace. I-"
"How now, beloved sister of Aglarond? Are the people unaware of my tasks?" The Simbul made her voice merry, ignoring the sigh of exasperation from the far corners of the throneroom."Or my… restlessness?"
With a smile of relief, Phaeldara turned to meet her and murmured as they embraced, "Hardly. I'm sure fools in red robes inThay can feel that. Go and see your Old Mage for a few days, and… assuage your hungers."
The queen grinned. "Going delicate on me now, Phaele?"
"No," the sorceress warned her, something grim in her dark eyes. "This morn, after you brained Lorn Thorvim with that platter, I–I tried to farspeak Elminster to bid him visit you. He… I could not reach him."
The Simbul stiffened. Phaeldara drew carefully back as the queen's eyes went blank. The air around her slowly began to crackle. Those cracklings grew as the ruler of Aglarond poured more magical power into her questing. The little lightnings turned silver in hue.
A murmur of fear and consternation rippled through the watching courtiers. Something was very amiss.