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or； a pentacle seemingly focused on a nexus of power at the exact center of the room。 The same figure adorned the lofty ceiling； reinforcing the enchantment。
The netherspirit had no particular desire to discover what that enchantment was。 It crawled along the walls； making sure not to touch the edge of the design。
Waves of power beat from the middle of the figure as something woke or became more real in the center of the chamber。 A sharpness tore into the top of the spirit's vapor like body； stunning it for an instant with a burst of unexpected pain。
Something jerked the living darkness toward the middle of the chamber。 It realized that despite its lack of solidity； something had caught it with the equivalent of a hook and line。 It also understood that simply avoiding the pentacle hadn't been good enough。 Apparently when one entered the room； one was supposed to say a password or something。
The pulling ended abruptly； and the pain diminished。 Shaking off its shock and disorientation； the darkness cast about and discerned the being crouching over it。 The attacker was nearly as amorphous as itself； but the essence of it was fixed； hard； a mass of knobs and angles。
The attacker extruded additional lengths of itself to transfix the darkness。 The piercing burned； made the spirit shake uncontrollably； and seemed to be leeching out its strength。
This； Gromph's agent realized with a kind of wonder； was the cold that could extinguish a mortal life in a heartbeat。 The intruder had never felt the sensation before—not in a painful way—and shouldn't have been feeling it at all； but the prisoner of the pentacle wasn't just cold。 It was the essence of cold； the pure idea of cold given life； just as the netherspirit to some degree embodied the concept of darkness。
Bits of the assassin began to clot； to gum； and to harden to a brittle rigidity； at which point they broke away。 It wasn't truly injured as yet； but if it wanted to keep it that way； it knew it had better strike back at its assailant。
It washed its leading edge over the spirit of cold and discovered stress points； hairline cracks； imperfect junctures。 Of course—the prisoner's structure resembled a mass of ice。
Gromph's agent materialized members like hammers； which pounded at the weak spots。 It slid thin planes of itself into the fissures； then thickened them； forcing the edges apart。
The cold spirit snatched its frigid claws out of its foe。 Its mind babbled a psionic offer of surrender。 The cloud of darkness ignored it and continued the attack。
The freezing prisoner of the sigil exploded into motes of frost。 They peppered the spirit of darkness for a second then they were gone。
Pleased with itself； the victor turned； inspecting each of the doorways in turn； trying to see if the battle had attracted anyone's attention。 Apparently not； and actually； that made sense。 The struggle had been relatively quiet； conducted largely on another level of existence。
The darkness reached the entrance to Quenthel's suite without further incident。 Another sentry waited there； a spiked mace all but crackling with mystic force in her hand。 Left to her own devices； she might hear her superior's distress and try to intervene； and the spirit decided to prevent such an occurrence。 It rose around the priestess； blinding her； thickened a length of itself； and whipped it around her neck。
The female thrashed a little； then passed out for want of air。 Her assailant laid her down and slid beneath the door。
Scores of costly icons decorated Quenthel's private rooms； so many that the place seemed a temple of Lolth in its own right。 Beyond that； however； the suite was sparsely furnished； albeit with exquisite pieces； as if the Mistress of ArachTinilith practiced an asceticism at odds with the habits of the average sybaritic Menzoberranyr。
The darkness sent an intangible ripple of itself probing ahead。 At once it discovered an element of Quenthel's personal defenses。 It was not； as the spirit might have expected； a hidden mantrap woven of potent divine magic but a simple set of crystal wind chimes rendered invisible and hung at a point where any oblivious intruder would be sure to bump his head on them。 Apparently the Baenre priestess believed that so long as an assassin gave her a second's warning； she would be able to handle the threat herself。
Maybe she could。 The netherspirit would never know； because it had no intention of informing her of its ing。 It took a certain ironic amusement in sliding its smoke like form directly through the dangling crystals without disturbing them in the slightest。
Eyes closed； in Reverie no doubt； Quenthel sat straightbacked and crosslegged on a rug。 Along the back wall； pulses of mystical force throbbed from a pair of iron chests and from behind a theoretically secret door。 The high priestess had invoked some formidable magic to protect her valuables。 It was too bad she wasn't similarly careful with her life。
Gromph's agent flowed forward； and something reared hissing atop a round little table。 It was the five vipers prising an enchanted whip。 Distracted by the magical power blazing at the back of the chamber； the netherspirit had missed feeling the lesser emanations of the vipers。
Fortunately； it didn't matter。 The animate darkness had skulked too close to its prey for anything to balk it。 It solidified a twisting strand of itself and slapped the table over； sending the whip flying。 At the same time it darted； stretching； to pounce on Quenthel。
Her slanted eyes opened but of course saw only blackness。 She opened her mouth to speak or shout； and the demon shoved a tendril inside。
C h a p t e r
S E V E N
For an instant； the world blazed bright and hot； searing Pharaun's skin。 However； when the flame was gone it left little more than a tactile memory of pain。 Gasping； the wizard took stock of himself。 Except for a blister or two； he was all right。 Some bination of the protective enchantments woven into both his vest and piwafwi； his innate drow resistance to hostile magic； and the silver ring he wore bearing the insignia of Sorcere； had saved him from fatal burns。
Ryld had drawn Splitter。 An arrow whizzed down from a rooftop across the street； and the burly swordsman batted it out of the air。 A huge flying mount wheeled overhead； vanishing from view before Pharaun could get a good look at it。
〃Are you all right？〃 Ryld asked。
〃Just singed a little；〃 Pharaun replied。
〃Here are your rogues； not so canny after all。 We'll either have to rise into the air after them or pull them down to the street。〃
〃We'll do neither。 Follow me。〃
〃Run？〃 the weapons master asked； swatting away another arrow。 〃I thought we wanted to catch one of them。〃
〃Just follow。〃
Pharaun began moving down the street； meanwhile peering upward； looking for his attackers。 Ryld scowled but trailed along behind him。
The Master of Sorcere glimpsed a swirling motion from the corner of his eye。 He pivoted。 Crouched on the edge of a roof； a spell caster spun his hands in fluid mystic passes。
Gesturing； speaking rapidly； Pharaun rattled off his own incantation。 He was racing the other mage； and he finished his magic first。 Five darts of azure light leaped from his fingertips； shot at the spell caster； and plunged into his chest。 From that distance； he couldn't tell how badly he'd hurt his colleague； but at the least his foe flailed his arms in pain。 The Academician's attack had disrupted his spell。
Ryld knocked another arrow away； and only then did Pharaun realize that this time； the shaft had been hurtling at him。 An instant later； a studded mace seemingly made of shadow flew out of nowhere and swung itself at his head。 Splitter flicked over and tapped that manifestation。 As conjured objects often did； the war club vanished at the great sword's touch。
〃In here；〃 Pharaun said。
The two masters ran to the arched sandstone door of one of the modest houses on the street。 Pharaun suspected that the tenants had locked it at the first sign of trouble； and evidently Ryld agreed； because he didn't bother trying the handle。 He simply booted the door and broke the latch。 The weapons master scrambled inside。
The front room of the home was crowded。 Pharaun might have expected that。 The population of the city had grown considerably since its founding but the number of stalagmite buildings was of necessity fixed。 The poor had to squeeze in wherever they could。
Thus； an abundance of paupers lived in the hovel； and a goodly number of them had gathered in this mon space； either to relax or to dip rothe stew from the iron caldron on the trestle table。 Surprisingly； the simple meal actually smelled appetizing。 The aroma made Pharaun's mouth water and reminded him that he hadn't dined in several hours。
Ryld brandished Splitter at the occupants of the house with a flashy facility calculated to quell aggressive impulses。
〃We apologize for the intrusion；〃 Pharaun said。
The weapons master glowered at him。 〃Why are we running？〃
〃That pillar of fire was divine magic； not arcane。〃 Pharaun lifted his hand； displaying the silver Sorcere ring and reminding his friend of its power to identify； not just protect him from； magic。 〃It's priestesses attacking us。 Killing them would call attention to us； make the Cou