Her mouth opened wide as if she were about to scream. Instead, without any visible articulation, an awful voice rumbled, "Come to me."

Sevaera's mouth gaped even wider, but Warian saw nothing within but darkness. As her mouth widened, the wind redoubled. Warian had to lean away from his aunt, and Zel grabbed hold of his arm. Fragments of broken crystal from the spiders slid along the floor, accelerating as they neared her. They were sucked without a trace into her mouth.

"Come to me," said the appalling voice once more, louder.

The high-backed chair slid toward the woman. Books flew from the shelves like a converging swarm of bats. Each one disappeared down her maw, getting stuck only momentarily on the edges of her lips. The great crystal hanging from its chain strained toward her. The bodies of the dead spiders, slick with blood, tumbled into the epicenter of her influence, then were sucked down into the metaphysical cavity.

Zel shook Warian. "We have to get out of here, kid!" Warian broke free of his horror trance, grabbed his uncle's arm, and dashed through the exit, skimming past Sevaera. He ran down the short corridor and into the workroom beyond. The radiance in his arm intensified, as did the force pulling him backward. Loose objects in the workroom began to pelt and bounce off him as they arrowed through the air toward Sevaera. "Ouch!" A sealed glass jar filled with greenish fluid knocked his uncle down. Warian didn't stop-he just pulled his uncle forward.

He had to bat away panels ripped from the wall, sidestep sliding benches, and duck candles as lethal as crossbow bolts. Only the enhanced strength granted by his arm saved Warian, again and again, plus lent him enough power to pull his groaning, protesting uncle. The telltale tingle of his arm's imminent failure began to grow in his chest-a cavernous, dead feeling. If he allowed the prosthesis to fail now, they'd be pulled in. Warian glanced back and saw Sevaera walking after him with an awkward, stiff-legged gait. A rain of tools, crystals, papers, lamps, and candles gathered in a whirlwind around her before being pulled in. Warian lost all restraint and pumped the power of his arm to its brightest glow yet. He dashed through the work area, his uncle in tow. Objects seemed to hang suspended as he moved at superhuman speed, almost beyond mortality. But his strength guttered all too soon. He didn't dare swerve toward the side entrance-if he did, they wouldn't make it. His uncle screamed something. He was struggling to get to his feet despite Warian's grip on his arm, but the man's voice was too warped by speed for Warian to understand. Warian couldn't answer, anyway. All his concentration was required to continue on toward the ring of ancient standing stones. He gasped and nearly passed out, but pulled himself through a gap between two of the stones, into the interior of the ring. He ended up someplace quite different.

Essam of the desert-dwelling elves addressed Kiril and the throng gathered in the plaza of subterranean Al Qahera. "The great rock appeared in the wake of a tempest fiercer than most that stalk Raurin.

If you knew the wildness of Raurin's storms, you'd know that this event was singular in its violence. Thus, we call it the Storm Spike."

Kiril gave a heartfelt nod, remembering the wind devil that had pursued them onto the dervishes' doorstep. "So sudden did the storm hit that several of our people went missing, including two of Al Qahera's best archers. We never did learn their fate." A sigh escaped many throats. "They are missed." "When the storm subsided," Essam continued, "we sent foragers to see if the winds had uncovered anything of interest. Every so often, a big storm uncovers some likely artifact, fossilized creature, or other curiosity we can sell for a good measure of grain, cloth, or spice down in Huorm." The swordswoman nodded. She supposed the desert was rife with interesting relics-she vaguely recalled that some old human civilization once claimed the desert as its own-before destroying itself. Faerun had a way of eating civilizations, especially those that overreached themselves. In other words, human civilizations. "Three foragers-Feraih, Ghanim, and Haleem-walked north. The dusts subsided, and a bright dawn, clear of flying sand, lured them onward. Something new glistened on the horizon, flashing prettily in the sun. A day's gallop on camel-back brought the foragers to the desert newcomer." "The Storm Spike? What did it look like?" "At first glance, it seemed like a splinter of purplish stone and dark crystal that reached for the sky. But Feraih was the first to realize that what had really appeared in the desert was a tall, slender tower-a made thing. Made by whom, though, she couldn't begin to guess." Was this the epicenter of darkness Thormud detected, and the destination of their tendays-long quest? "What did they do next?" Kiril asked. "Ghanim and Haleem spied an entrance, and they went inside. Feraih waited outside, in the tower's shadow. When half a day had passed, she went to the entrance and found it sealed.

It looked as if it had always been sealed. She knew that couldn't possibly be true-her friends were within. She tried her rock hammers, minor enchantments of opening, and even prayer-nothing sufficed. The entrance was closed. "After two days, Feraih returned to Al Qahera.

That night, she slept again in her own bed. In the morning, her brothers found her dead. Mas'ud the healer was unable to find anything wrong-he suspected she had fallen into a curse." Mas'ud believed Thormud was suffering from a curse-might they be the same? Anxiety wrapped its prickly cloak around Kiril's shoulders. "So we call the Storm Spike a cursed thing, an intruder in Raurin, and something to steer clear of. Since Feraih returned, no Qaheran has journeyed north to again gaze upon the dark tower, the mere sight of which can curse an observer to her death."

After recounting Essam's story about the Storm Spike to Thormud, it was all Kiril could do to restrain the dwarf from leaving immediately. By the next morning, there was no arguing with him.

Despite the night's rest, the dwarf remained pale and shaky in the reddish light of the new day. He'd lost weight, and his hair had noticeably whitened since they'd set off from their home in the Mulhorand scrublands. "You're still too sick, Thormud. We should wait a few more days until you're better," pleaded Kiril. The dwarf patted her hand. "I might not have the luxury of a few more days." "Don't be so god-cursed dramatic," the swordswoman huffed, but an uncharacteristic quaver in her tone belied her anger. She didn't know how to end the mysterious curse sapping the geomancer's life. Perhaps the best choice was to race to the Storm Spike and deal with whatever inhabited it. In so doing, perhaps the curse could be dissolved. Many Qaherans, including Essam and Fadheela, followed Kiril, the geomancer, and the annoyingly underfoot Xet into the ravine that housed their hidden city. The Qaherans were impressed when Thormud spoke a word and the mineral destrier stirred. It rose from beneath the great sand dune that covered it during the evening's storm, shaking away the grit to reveal its strong lines. Kiril was relieved to see their supplies still lashed to the destrier's back. After the excitement over the destrier, Prince Monolith showed himself. Unlike the destrier, he had submerged himself in the stone of the ravine wall. Without warning, he simply walked out of it, much to the Qaherans' consternation. A few Qaherans cried out in alarm. "Don't worry-he's our friend," said Kiril. The elemental noble bowed low to the dumbfounded elves, then walked down the ravine, eager to be off. As they said their good-byes, Essam produced a wide, curved scabbard from his cloak. He said,