Karas jerked to a halt. "Release me," he ordered. He flipped up his hood, using it as an excuse to touch the skullcap he wore-his disguised holy symbol. Silently, he prayed to the Masked Lord, Drive him back. Make him obey.

The boneclaw twisted its wrist, snapping off its claws near their tips. Fresh points sprouted immediately from the stubs as it returned its hand to its side. "Pass," it hissed through clenched teeth.

Karas stepped over the broken claw stubs. Then he climbed the stairs. The quth-maren didn't follow. It remained at the base of the stalagmite, craning its neck up to watch him, its lipless mouth twisted in a mocking smile.

Did it know something Karas didn't?

Karas shook off his apprehension. He needed to watch where he was going. The stairs were covered with trickles of what smelled like dribbling, rancid fat. He had to concentrate on each step to keep from slipping.

At last he reached the level stop of the spire. Here, for the first time since setting foot on the island, he saw other Crones. All were dressed as he was, in loose black robes, some with their hoods pulled up. The silver rings they wore on every finger glinted blue, reflecting the light of the Faerzress. Most of the Crones hurried past on errands of their own, but others stood rocking in place, arms clasped tight around their bodies, tittering with mad laughter. One squatted over a corpse, yarding out its withered entrails and carefully coiling them around a spool.

Karas walked steadily toward the temple. Built of black marble veined with red, it was a chaotic jumble of angles, misshapen windows and gaping doorways. The closer he got, the greater his urge to cringe and cower. His feet felt heavy as stone. Each dragging step forward was an effort that caused his heart to pound wildly in his ears. A part of his mind gibbered in terror at what he was about to do. This is the Acropolis, it shrieked. Kiaransalee's temple. You don't dare enter it. They'll know you, see you for what you are. Turn back!

A whimper struggled to escape his throat. With a savage effort, he swallowed it down. He shifted the strongbox into the crook of one arm and adjusted his hood, using the motion to once again brush his fingers against the skullcap-mask. Masked Lord, he silently prayed, give me strength.

Confidence stirred like a whisper in the darkness, then flooded him like a shaft of moonlight. His shoulders squared, his heart lightened, his step grew more confident. I can do it, he told himself. Just a few steps more.

Then he was inside.

He halted as abruptly as he'd entered. If he hadn't, it all would have ended right there. He stood on the edge of a precipice; the interior of the Acropolis of Thanatos was nothing more than an empty hole. Walls, floors, ceiling beams-all ended abruptly, as if the stone building were a squash that had been scraped empty by a spoon. At the center of this hollow hung a sphere of utter blackness. Karas could feel it tugging at him, and he found himself leaning toward it. When he flinched back, a tiny fragment of marble broke off from the edge where his foot had been. The chip of stone flew toward the sphere at the center of the hollow space, spiraling in toward it, then was gone.

"Voidstone," he whispered.

The sphere sucked hungrily at his essence, chilling him until his bones ached. He tried to take the measure of the thing but couldn't. It was enormous, as large as a small building. The Crones must have been working at it for years, building it up one tiny chunk at a time.

Seeing the immensity of it, his heart sank. Destroying it would take dozens of priests, working in concert to channel positive energy into it. Before there was even a hope of attempting this, the army of undead that filled the streets below would have to be defeated.

Cavatina had been right. They would have to mount an attack on the Acropolis.

The sphere of darkness wasn't entirely featureless. If Karas turned his head slightly, he could see shapes and movement out of the corner of his eye. Wild images filled the voidstone's depths: the towers of a city, rows of skeletal undead lined up like soldiers, a plaza filled with capering ghouls, a minotaur seated on a bone throne. The latter twisted around to stare at Karas. A bestial muzzle pressed against the surface of the voidstone sphere from within. Lips twitched in a grimace, revealing elongated fangs.

Free me, the minotaur hissed. And my legions will serve you.

"Soon, Lord Casus," a soft voice answered. "Soon."

Karas started, nearly dropping the strongbox. Slowly he turned.

Standing just behind him was a female he recognized: Cabrath, of House Nelinderra. Her face was clean of the death's head paint she habitually wore, but she looked no better for it. Her lips were a narrow slash, her nose a second, vertical slash, and her eyes mere slits. She wore black robes trimmed with purple. She toyed with a bone-handled dagger whose blade was a tapering glimmer of blue energy. The harsh light glinted off the silver rings on her fingers.

Karas was surprised to see her there. He'd assumed she'd died with the rest of the Crones when Kiaransalee's cult in Maerimydra was overthrown.

A bone-white aura wavered around her, chill as mist in a graveyard. It brushed against Karas-he didn't dare flinch, lest Cabrath realize something was wrong. Its brief touch left him feeling sick and weak. In another moment, he thought, he would faint. Tumble and slide down the slope in front of him into the voidstone and be consumed.

Staring at the orb was better than looking into Cabrath's terrible amber eyes. Karas tore his gaze away from her. The voidstone was black again, unmarked by visions.

Cabrath drifted around in front of Karas, her hair streaming back toward the voidstone. Her body was translucent; Karas could see the voidstone right through her. She was dead.

She tilted her head at the voidstone. "Feed him."

Karas hesitated, even though he knew there was little he could do. In death, Cabrath had become something more than the mere priestess she had been. As a spirit, she could slay him with a touch, with a word, between one heartbeat and the next. Any spell he tried would die on his lips before he could complete it.

He tossed the strongbox at the voidstone sphere. Cabrath moved to intercept it. As the box passed through her ghostly body, she threw out her arms and shrieked with wild laughter. For just an instant, she seemed solid again, corporeal, except for her aura. She spun in place and watched the box strike the larger sphere and disappear, releasing the chunk of voidstone it held. Her gaunt face held a look of first eager anticipation, then disappointment.

"Go!" she shrieked over her shoulder at Karas, not deigning to look at him. "Find more!"

Karas bowed. As he started to back away, a section of the voidstone bulged outward. Horror filled Karas as he realized the chunk of voidstone he'd just added might tip the balance. Were the armies of the undead minotaur about to be released?

The bulge in the voidstone erupted. A figure tumbled out, screaming like a thing damned. She was a massive female drow, twice as large as Q'arlynd, with a bestial face, matted hair, and spiderlike legs protruding from her chest. Cabrath whirled, barely dodging the tumbling form. The newcomer sailed past her and crashed into a wall. Cabrath glanced between the bestial female and the voidstone, a shocked look on her face.

The demonic drow scrambled to her feet. She stared wildly around-at the hollowed-out temple, at Karas, at the voidstone, at Cabrath. Then she threw back her head and shrieked with laughter, a sound as brittle as breaking glass.

"Lolth!" she cried. "I'm your plaything no longer. I've won! I'm dead!"

Karas stared at the voidstone. It was smooth and spherical once more. The skeletal legions were not issuing forth from it. Not yet. And Cabrath seemed just as surprised by what had just happened as Karas was. The spirit stared at the demonic drow, a puzzled frown on her face.