Except there were no spices in the second package, but rather bottles of oil. Fine lamp oil.

The satchel caught fire, and the oil streaming out from behind it formed a red tail to match the black one of the pepper comet. The entire parcel hit slightly behind and to the right of the draconian, but as with the pepper, accuracy was not a major concern. Upon impact, the remaining vials ruptured, and burning oil splattered in all directions.

Most of the oil fell on the dirty, bloodstained stones of the hallway and did little damage. A wave of flaming oil engulfed the gagging, poisoned draconian, and was much more effective.

Gildentongue shouted something in a tongue that Toede did not recognize, but that the hobgoblin assumed was a curse. The draconian dropped to his knees, attempting to roll the fires out, but instead succeeded only in picking up more oil to feed the flames and pepper to be rubbed into his wounds. Toede vaulted up the stairs to the balcony, where Groag was enjoying the proceedings.

"It's almost beautiful," said Groag, watching the aurak's agony.

"Beautiful like a dagger in the dark," said Toede, grabbing his companion. "Now we have to get out of here before…"

Groag was transfixed. "Ooooh, the fires are turning green now."

Toede shot a look at the first floor and saw that the red flames had subsided and were replaced by ones shot with green, like a coppersmith's hearth. Toede cursed loudly and said, "That means Gildentongue just died."

Groag smiled. "So he's dead."

Toede nodded. "So now he's really steamed.

Groag looked down and saw that the burning form of Gildentongue was rising from the ground in a parody of its former self. Its head had already been charred to a blackened skull, wrapped in pale tongues of green fire. The beast began shambling up the right-hand stairs, leaving a blackened scorch mark in its passing.

It croaked a single word from its useless throat: "Toede."

It ascended swiftly. Toede grabbed Groag by the collar and dragged him down the opposite stairs. Or halfway down, since the fabric of the collar tore loose and the pair of them tumbled the rest of the way to the floor. The remains of Gildentongue had reached the top step and now descended the other staircase after them. The hallway was a smoking, scorched ruin, and small fires still flickered in pools of oil.

Toede was up and running to the double iron-shod doors of the audience room. He reached them and began to swing them shut when he saw Groag, still at the bottom of the steps, lying on the ground and not moving. Gilden-tongue's eldritch remains were descending the stairs directly above the fallen hobgoblin, glowing more intensely than before. Groag's clothes were already smoking from their proximity to the intense heat.

Toede bid a fond mental farewell to his loyal retainer. But still, he could not resist one last taunt of his enemy.

"Gildentongue," shouted Toede, "you're frying the wrong goblin! Remember to tell your masters in the next life how you screwed up to the very end!",

With that he slammed the door, sliding the metal latch home as he did so. A final glimpse told him that the draconian had either flown or jumped over Groag's body and was charging toward the doors, aiming to burst them by sheer force.

The doors buckled five inches, and the latch cracked from the force of the blow. The thunderous noise sounded like a bell throughout Flotsam, rousing more than a few people from their sleep and summoning the guards who had not already been alerted by the strange display of lights inside the manor house. Now many stood outside, holding their symbols and wondering what manner of beast the Holy Hopsloth and his faithful minion were battling. The guards who did know were of course attempting to book passage on the next boat out of port.

Inside the manor, the door rocked again with a hollow boom, and the hinges on each side began to pull from the frame. At any moment, Toede knew, the draconian would reach the end of his unliving tether and explode in a burst of eldritch fire. And it did not look like the door would hold long enough to shield Toede from the humongous blast.

Toede looked around the abattoir of Gildentongue's lair. Nothing presented itself as a tool, a weapon, or a way out. The windows were tightly shuttered, and there was no egress other than…

The pit that yawned at his feet. Hopsloth's pool. Toede knew that it would be the equivalent of jumping into a giant spittoon.

The door boomed a third time, bursting off its hinges.

with pieces flying to the far corners of the room. Gilden-tongue's animated corpse strode, like a hot green bonfire, into the audience hall, blistering the paint from the walls. Toede jumped a foot into the air and felt the wave of heat push him backward and down into the foul blackness of Hopsloth's lair.

He was halfway to the water when Gildentongue detonated in a flash of light, like a faulty skyrocket. Toede saw his own shadow framed against the water, then he was slammed into the pool with the force of the explosion.

The soupy, almost solid water of Hopsloth's pool forced itself into Toede's eyes, mouth, and nostrils, and for a moment the highmaster feared he was covered with burning oil. No, he was merely immersed in the sludge. A great shape moved beneath him and nosed him to the surface. Gasping, Toede broke the surface of the water, multicolored sparks dancing in front of his eyes.

Above him, the manor house was burning. The pool was lit with a red glow. Bits of bodies and other, less pleasant material floated in the water.

Toede struggled to paddle a few yards, then felt firm earth beneath him. He pulled himself up on the shore, the air already excruciatingly hot from the billowing flames above.

Gagging for breath, Toede saw he was being watched from the water. A great hillock of a frog, its vestigial wings hanging uselessly at its sides, sat, its lower body submerged in the pool. The light from the flames danced over its sickly yellow flesh, giving it a macabre appearance.

"Hopsloth," said Toede with a weary smile, "I knew you wouldn't let me drown. Let's get out of here."

But the amphidragon just sat there, regarding its long-lost hobgoblin master.

"Come on, you misbegotten dragon-spawn, we have to leave before the roof caves in on us." Toede tried to rise, but found that his arms no longer bent in the proper direction. He was sore, weary, barely alive.

The amphidragon remained inert, then belched out a single word. "Why?"

Toede shook his head. "You talk?" he said, wondering if the force of the aurak-blast had driven him to delusions.

"Sometimes," came the belch. "Why?"

"I was…" gasped Toede. "I was told I would be made a noble. After I died. The first time. Gildentongue didn't agree."

"So you… killed him," the amphidragon croaked. "Burning… my… house."

"Our house! And he tried to kill me!" shouted Toede, his voice ragged from the heat. "He sent an assassin after me."

"Not him," croaked Hopsloth. "I… sent one… to kill… you."

Toede blinked the filth from his eyes. "Hopsloth?" he said. "But you're my friend."

"No friend. You live. I'm a… mount," croaked Hopsloth in an almost-sneer, his mouth opening between the grunting bellows, showing a slimy line of teeth. "You die… I'm a god." Hopsloth gave a creaking laugh. "Which… would… you… choose?"

Toede tried to scuttle backward, but his legs did not seem to be functioning well either. "I was supposed to be a noble!" he whined, almost as a plea.

"I knight you… Lord Toede," boomed Hopsloth, his tongue snaking out and striking Toede in the chest. Before the hobgoblin could protest or even scream, the amphidragon had pulled the highmaster fully into his gullet. Toede felt the darkness enfold him in a single, sharp, exquisite pain as his head bent backward off his neck.