"Not bad." Eneever Zig admitted grudgingly, "but both of you go back to counting again. I'll see that we get across."

Giant seahorses, yoked as a team, appeared and began hauling the boxy barge ahead. "Not bad yourself," Gord returned the compliment. But before Eneever had a chance to acknowledge it, mermaids of most beautiful face and form appeared on the backs of the creatures.

"Who did that?" the wizard demanded angrily, for the burdened seahorses could now barely make headway.

Chert looked sheepish. "Sorry," he said, "but those things made me remember the stories i'd heard—"

"Just count," Zig said with resignation.

"One . . ." the barbarian said, and the mermaids were gone.

A rocky cliff was now visible, and a wide beach of black sand could be seen before the precipice. The seahorses were hauling them toward this place with strong motion. In a few minutes the three would be clear of the Realm of Thought and heading toward Eneever Zig's goal — whatever that was. The wizard was elated, and he exclaimed with satisfaction, "Only a handful of assorted monsters stand between us and the Ebon Well now! Be ready to fight stoutly when we land, for I believe that Bocheiris, the fish-bodied daemon, will be lurking near the tunnel we approach."

"Chert," Gord hissed at his comrade, "when you reach seven, think of the most precious thing you can! "

"Huh?Ah, four- okay."

Gord knew now how they could get away from this awful place and safely back, and better yet, he had figured out how to accomplish that and manage to garner some reward as well. Chert would be responsible for that last part of the task. As far as the wizard went, Eneever Zig could fight the lurking daemon with his magic. Gord and the barbarian would be long gone!

Fixing his mind and forming his thoughts carefully, Gord listened with half a mind to the hillman slowly say 'seven'. As Chert spoke the number, the young thief set his thoughts firmly. The clumsy barge grounded on the black sand. Eneever Zig had dispelled the seahorse team a moment before, and the momentum of their work did the rest.

"Now you may think freely — if you can," the wizard called to his two associates. "We have passed the Realm of Thought and my prize is all but won!" Only the waiting Bocheiris, toothy maw agape, was there to hear the wizard speak, however. Gord and Chert had vanished.

"Did it!" Gord exclaimed in triumph. He was standing on the weed-grown paves of the ruined courtyard of Castle Greyhawk. He had hoped he was right, but until now the young thief hadn't been certain if envisioning this place and wishing Chert and himself there would actually work. It had. and now he and the massive hillman could tramp safely back to the city, out of the nightmare realms hidden beneath the castle, with their spoils to be divided.

"Okay, Chert." he said without looking around as he heard the barbarian exclaim with glee at where they now stood, "let's see the treasure you thought up!"

The next sound Gord heard was a sweet, seductive giggle. Then Chert answered him. "Sure, pal, but we'd better think up a tub of water real soon. This pretty little mermaid wants to have a swim before dinner!"

The Weird Occurrence in Odd Alley

"CROSS MY PALM WITH NOBLES, noble youth, and you shall have my best reading." With that the old Rhennee crone cackled and winked suggestively.

Chert snorted derisively, but Gord complied with the request, dropping a half-dozen silver coins into the dirty, dried-up old hand. The crone wrapped her clawlike fingers possessively around the treasured nobles, and the payment quickly disappeared into the folds of her soiled robe.

"Read your rede, woman, and make it clear," Gord snapped. "At such prices, you should predict the future unerringly!"

The old woman's icy glare sought to penetrate the young thiefs soul. "Mind your tongue when you speak to a Wise Woman of the True Folk, young Gord! Remember, you sought out Old Annya, not she you!"

Gord shrugged but said no more. Mollified, the ancient hag brought forth a small leathern container that looked to be as old as its owner. She held the container in her left hand and, while making odd, jerky passes over the top of the antique box with her free hand, mumbled in a high-pitched voice: "Take now the runes and sigils of your fate." Then she solemnly extended the mysterious container and motioned for Gord to reach inside.

The contents of the leather coffer were not visible to the young thief as he reached up and inserted his hand into the box. His fingers carefully scouted the mixed group of small objects that seemed to squirm and twist away at his touch. Gord's forefinger and thumb played a strange game of tag with several of the elusive contents inside the pouch until, having grown tired of the chase, the young thief clamped all five fingers around a jumbled mass of jiggling mystery and extracted the mysterious mess from the box. Before he could examine his catch, however, the crone spoke again. "Now loose them, one by one — if you can!" she commanded.

Gord wanted to obey the old woman's orders, but the task proved to be much more difficult than he imagined. The young rogue fought to suppress a groan as he strained to do as he was instructed. The strange objects worked independently on their own behalf in spite of Gord's obvious wishes, each stngle-mindedly intent on wriggling out of his hand.

Chert perched himself on the edge of the bench he'd been offered as respite and watched with more than casual interest as his friend managed to hold on to all but a few of the squirming things clasped within his sweating hand. Old Annya called out the names of the falling components as Gord slowly spilled them:

"Bauble! Skull and snake. Shoe. Dagger and stinger. Rat. Eye. Nothingness! Coffin, horse, torch — gateway!" Gord shook his now-open hand, but a small object refused the offer of freedom, seemingly glued fast to the startled rogue's palm. Old Annya seized the hand and peered at the last sigil there. The Fool's Cap!" she exclaimed gleefully, and then sat back in her rickety chair and, abandoning what small scrap of propriety she may have possessed, cackled hideously.

"Enough of this!" Chert spat impatiently. "Give the meaning, or return the silver!"

"Oh, yes! You both shall have your glimpse of the future, just as promised," the crone screeched mirthfully. She sat back, a self-satisfied look dominating her prunelike face. "Listen carefully now," she purred, gazing fully into Gord's face.

"You and your overgrown associate" — at this, she paused, to throw a disgusted glance in Chert's direction — "have stolen something that many hold dear." She leaned closer and enunciated the next few words with purposeful emphasis. "It is of evil!" The old hag sat back and let her warning sink in before continuing her soothsaying. "Know now that you are hunted because of this. None you have spoken to will give you gold for the trantle — or at least as much as you two think your prize worth. You have sought a fence throughout most of Greyhawk, and come here as a last resort."

Gord was nodding as she spoke, but his barbarian companion was scowling. "Easy enough to guess, old bag. Get to your rede!" said Chert.

Old Annya gave Chert a look that was sufficient to wither a flower in first bloom, but thereafter ignored him and went on.

"There is a place that is neither here nor there, but if you leave from here and go to Odd Alley, you will realize your fortune from what you have . . . appropriated." The ancient Rhennee wise woman then sat back, gazing from one to the other of the two young men. Her face was impassive, but Old Annya's eyes fairly danced with malign amusement.

Chert stood up and moved toward the crone, his face clouded with growing rage. "If you want to play games, I’ll show you games, you miserable old . . ."