“I’ll kill you, mage!” Jeggred shouted and rent the construct with his claws. “I’ll kill you both!”
“Jeggred!” Danifae said, and for the first time in Pharaun’s memory her words did not get through.
Battle mad, the draegloth continued to claw at the fist.
Pharaun smiled and readied the fist to deliver another blow.
“Jeggred, stop!” Danifae shouted.
That registered.
Jeggred stopped in mid-rampage, looked to Danifae, then back to the fist. His chest rose and fell, his eyes glared, and slobber dripped from his fangs. He fixed his gaze on Quenthel, on Pharaun, on the magical fist of force Pharaun had summoned.
“She was going to attack us, Mistress,” Jeggred hissed to Danifae.
Pharaun inched the magical fist closer to the draegloth. He could strike Jeggred again anytime he wished, but he was enjoying the draegloth’s growing frustration.
“You underestimate your aunt,” Danifae said, smiling sweetly at Quenthel.
Pharaun said, “She ordered Jeggred to attack, Mistress.”
The Baenre priestess, only mildly winded from her exchange with Jeggred, smiled and said, “You overestimate our battle-captive, Master Mizzrym.”
Pharaun thought not but said nothing.
Jeggred, voice low and dangerous, said to Danifae, “Mistress, I should be allowed to kill—”
“Silence, male,” Danifae snapped.
The draegloth fell silent. Pharaun admired the obedience she had instilled in the dolt.
Quenthel examined the small hole in her armor caused by Jeggred, then said to the draegloth, “Nephew, you have just named yourself as a sacrifice to Lolth.”
Jeggred spat a glob of yellow saliva in Quenthel’s direction. It spattered on the magical fist and dangled there before falling to the rocky ground.
“Are you certain that my mother would approve, aunt?” he said.
That hit home. Jeggred was the son of Matron Mother Baenre. Perhaps Quenthel would risk Triel’s wrath by sacrificing him, but perhaps she would not. Pharaun had his answer with Quenthel’s next words.
“I shall enjoy administering your punishment, nephew,” she said.
Disappointed, Pharaun decided that changing Quenthel’s mind was worth another try.
In the most cavalier tone of voice he could summon, he said “This shaggy dolt has repeatedly disobeyed your instructions, has sided with a minor priestess—” he nodded with contempt at Danifae—“and has shown himself unworthy of the Baenre name. His folly is exceeded only by his stink. If you will not sacrifice him, please allow me to kill him. It would be a favor to intelligent life in the multiverse.”
Jeggred glared hate.
Quenthel didn’t look at Pharaun but answered, “You will do nothing unless I allow it, Master Mizzrym.”
“Mistress...” Pharaun began.
“Only if I allow it, male,” Quenthel snapped, and her serpents fixed Pharaun with a stare.
The mage ground his teeth in frustration but managed a halfhearted bow.
“The mage’s insolence and the influence of that cursed whip is what shows your weakness, aunt,” Jeggred growled.
Pharaun brought the magical fist to his side.
“Enough,” Danifae said. She looked to Quenthel and withdrew her holy symbol.
Quenthel did the same. They stared at one another for a moment.
“Perhaps some protective spells before we attempt the pass?” Danifae said.
Quenthel nodded.
Both began to cast, eyeing the other the while.
Pharaun saw the look in each of their eyes and was not certain that defensive spells were what either had in mind.
Gromph moved methodically through the unending series of wards. Sometimes he used brute magical force, dispelling or destroying them; sometimes he used subtlety and misdirection, bending or warping the magical defenses for a time while he slipped past.
He focused entirely on House Agrach Dyrr’s arcane defenses, barely noticing the passing Dyrr soldiers or the second foiled attack on the bridge by the Xorlarrin.
With each ward he overcame, he moved nearer to Lolth’s temple, nearer to the golem and the phylactery.
The wards and spell traps cast in days or years past by Yasraena or a previous matron mother provided little challenge for Gromph’s counterspells. Only those cast by the lichdrow proved difficult to bypass or dispel, but always Gromph prevailed.
And always the lichdrow’s master ward, the thread that strung all of the others together, reactivated those that Gromph deactivated. Gromph opened and unlocked two score magical “doors” on his way in, only to watch the master ward close and relock them behind him. He did not fully understand the lichdrow’s purpose and had no time to think on it more.
Time passed, but Gromph had no way to measure it. He assumed he had been at the wards an hour and a half or more. Soon, the spell that allowed him to change shape—the spell that had allowed Prath to take his form and him to take that of the shadow—would expire. He would no longer be incorporeal. Prath would no longer look like Gromph.
At that point, Yasraena would surely recognize the deception, assume that Gromph was within the complex, and muster all of the resources at her disposal to find him.
He put that possibility out of his mind and focused on the next defense, a spell trap that would imprison him in a cage of force if he attempted to bypass the ward’s outer border. The forcecage could hold him even in incorporeal form.
Just as he prepared to dispel it, he noticed a subtle twist to the ward.
It was not one ward but two, the second cleverly masked by the first.
The hidden ward would be triggered by dispelling the first and held a latent spell that caused a few moments of agonizing pain before stopping the target’s heart.
Gromph admonished himself for his carelessness. He was mentally exhausted, and fatigue was making him sloppy. He had almost made a fatal mistake.
He took a moment to refocus before dispelling the wards in the proper sequence. As he passed through the area, the master ward reactivated them both behind him.
Gromph continued on.
The temple doors, themselves heavily warded, stood tantalizing near. He moved rapidly through the two wards that stood between him and the temple as Dyrr soldiers hurried past.
Constructed of finished stone, the temple sported a domed ceiling and a stone-flagged portico with a colonnade. A pair of open bronze double doors, darkened with age and inlaid with electrum spider motifs and prayers to Lolth, opened onto the nave.
Within, Gromph could see stone benches lining either side of the center aisle, which led up to the apse and the altar. He could not quite make out the golem, though he knew it to be positioned behind the altar.
The temple appeared unoccupied. The House was too busy defending itself to spend time in worship.
Several powerful wards and spell traps shielded the doors. The master ward twisted through all of them and extended into the temple, straight up the center aisle, presumably right into the spider golem.
Gromph floated before the lines of power and cast several spells that enabled him to analyze the wards’ natures. He removed one of his divining wands and stared through its tip while he cast.
He saw that the wards on the doors were heavily intertwined, heavily interdependent. He was not sure he could unravel them.
Frustration made his pulse pound. He tried to calm himself, but then he sensed something behind him and turned around.
A drow female, Yasraena’s daughter Larikal, walked toward the open doors of the temple. Her mesh armor hid her overlarge frame. A large mace hung from her belt. Her bland, unattractive face wore an angry scowl.
A balding, portly male walked beside her, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black robe—