The door slammed shut.

Nightshade was tumbled about in the rushing water and for several tense moments he had no idea if he was on his head or his heels, and then the water dropped him down on a solid surface and went on without him. He lay still for a moment gasping at the suddenness of it all. When he was over his shock, he noticed that he was breathing air, not water, for which he was grateful. He’d been going over in his mind what he knew about a fish’s diet and thinking sadly that he was going to have to live on worms.

After gulping in few deep, reassuring breaths, he decided to get up and take a look around.

He looked around and looked around again and the more he looked the more he was certain, with a quaking feeling in his gut, that this was somewhere he should not be and there was only thing for a kender of common sense-even a kender with horns-to do.

“Rhys,” Nightshade wailed, “help!”

Rhys turned just in time to see Nightshade sucked inside the Hall of Sacrilege and the door slam shut on him. Mina was laughing and clapping her hands. “Now, Mister Monk, you’ll have to go inside. I win,”

She grinned and stuck out her tongue at him.

Rhys had never been a parent himself, and he had often wondered how any adult could bear to spank a child. He was now beginning to understand.

Mina swam to the door, and brushed her hand across the rune-carved emerald. As the door swung slowly open, sea water carried Mina and Rhys inside and bowled over Nightshade, who had been beating on the door with his fists.

Rhys picked himself up. He looked back through the open door onto the desert-like landscape of rippling wet sand.

Atta stood outside the door in the wet sand, shaking off the water, starting with her hind end and working her way to the front. When Rhys called to her, she slunk warily through the door. She clearly did not want to be here. Pressing her body up against his, she stood there, shivering.

Nightshade didn’t want to be here either.

“Rhys,” he said in a shaking voice, “this is it. This is that Hall place. It’s… it’s pretty scary, Rhys. I don’t think we’re supposed to be here.”

The Solio Febalas, the Hall of Sacrilege-the repository of the King-priest’s arrogant determination to defy the gods. Nightshade’s instincts (and Atta’s) were right. Mortals were not meant to be here. The hall was sacred to the gods, to their wrath.

“You’re not mad at me for making you come inside, are you, Mister Monk?” Mina asked wistfully, and she slid her hand into his.

Looking at her, he did not see a god. He saw a child with the mind of a child-unformed, with imperfect knowledge of the world, and he wondered, suddenly, if that was what the gods saw when they looked upon mankind.

Rhys no longer felt the gods’ wrath. He felt their sorrow.

“No, Mina,” he said, “I am not mad at you.”

The Hall was immense, perfectly round in shape, with a high, domed ceiling. The walls were notched with alcoves carved into the stone, each sacred to one of the gods. A single rune adorned the wall of each alcove. In some instances, the runes shone with light. There was the steadily beaming light of Majere, the blue-white flame of Mishakal, the almost blinding silver glare of Kiri-Jolith.

Alcoves on the opposite side of the hall were dark, fighting to extinguish the light. The dread symbol of Sargonnas, God of Vengeance, was darkness on darkness. The alcove of Morgion was a noxious black green, Chemosh was ghastly bone white.

The alcoves in between, separating darkness and light, striving to hold each in check, belonged to the neutral gods. In the center was the alcove sacred to Gilean. A book lay open upon the altar. Red light shone upon a set of scales, perfectly balanced, that stood in the center.

On either side of the altar of Gilean, one on the left and one on the right, were two alcoves that were neither dark nor light, but were both shrouded in shadow, as though a veil hung over them. Once, one had been impenetrably dark, the other unbearably light. Both were empty now-the altars of the banished Takhisis and the self-exiled Paladine.

The Hall was filled with holy artifacts, stacked on top of the altars, or jumbled in piles, or tossed carelessly onto the floor. Brought here by the soldiers of the Kingpriest, they had been unceremoniously dumped into his storehouse of shame.

Rhys could not speak. He could not see for his tears. He sank to his knees and, laying his staff carefully at his side, he clasped his hands in a prayer.

“Mister Monk, come with me-” Mina began.

“I don’t think he can hear you,” Nightshade said.

Mina gave a small sigh. “I know how he feels. I felt the same way when I came here-as though all the gods were gathered around me, looking down at me. And I was so very small and all alone.”

She paused, then glanced trepidatiously back at the alcoves. “But I still have to get my present for Goldmoon and I don’t want to go alone.” She turned to the kender. “You come with me.”

Nightshade cast a longing glance at the altars, at the vast assortment of the strange and beautiful, horrible and wonderful.

“I better not,” he said at last, regretfully. “I’m a mystic, you see, and it wouldn’t be right.”

“What’s a mystic?” Mina asked.

“It’s a… well…” Nightshade was confounded. He had never been called upon to define himself before. “It means I don’t believe in the gods. That is, I do believe in gods-I have to, I met Majere once,” he added with pride. “Majere even helped me pick a lock, though Rhys said that a god picking a lock was a one-time occurrence and I shouldn’t expect him to do it again. Being a mystic means I don’t pray to the gods like Rhys does. Like he’s doing right now. Well, I guess I did pray to Majere, but that prayer wasn’t for me. It was for Rhys, who couldn’t pray because he was almost dead.”

Mina looked confused, and Nightshade decided to cut his explanation short.

“Being a mystic means I like to go my own way without bothering anyone.”

“Fine,” said Mina. “You can go your own way with me. I don’t want to go back there by myself. It’s dark and spooky. And there might be spiders.”

Nightshade shook his head.

“Please!” Mina begged.

Nightshade had to admit he was tempted. If only she hadn’t mentioned spiders…

“Dare you!” Mina taunted.

Nightshade wavered.

“Double dog dare you!” Mina said.

That did it. Nightshade’s honor was at stake. No kender in the long and glorious history of kender had ever refused a double-dog dare.

“Race you!” he cried, and darted away.

Caele had never actually seen the Hall of Sacrilege, but he had been able to visualize it for his spell. The dragon, Midori, had once described it to him. Caele had not paid much attention to her description at the time; the dragon had rambled on about it simply to torment him. Midori knew he was terrified of her and she found it entertaining to keep him within snacking distance.

Caele had been sick with fear the day the dragon had spent a horrible half-hour rambling on about the sand castle and how clever Nuitari had been in building it to house the holy artifacts and how it was too bad he-Caele-would never live to see it. Caele remembered almost nothing from that conversation, but he did manage to dredge up the words “sand castle” from his memory and, with that image in his mind, his magic carried him to this location.

He materialized in the doorway and immediately froze, not daring to move until he’d assessed the situation. The monk was on his knees, blubbering. The dog crouched at his side. The kender and the brat were off looting an altar. No sign of Basalt.