"Wait a bit. Some hidden bane might still lurk within us from the foul touch of those netherbeings. I'll use some curatives and antitoxin workings to see us whole and sound. Then we can go and deal once and for all with the demonurgist."

Allton hefted his staff. "Yes, I think we must. I don't know where our champion is, but we should be derelict of duty if we tarried awaiting his eventual appearance."

"Where could he be?" Timmil said as he rummaged through his pack.

"Don't be concerned, priest." The voice sounded like Allton's, but as if the mage was speaking from a long distance away. "He is mired in a maze which will entertain him and the three who accompany him for hours — perhaps days or weeks. There is also the distinct possibility of him not getting through it alive!"

"Just how do you know that?" asked the cleric without glancing up.

"He doesn't." said the same voice. Then it changed to a deeper, more threatening tone that was also familiar to Timmil. "It is I, Gravestone, who speaks to you. Rest assured I know where the reputed champion is, and what he must overcome to arrive here at all."

The cleric's faced paled as he turned and stared at his companion, for Allton was frozen with shock at what he was hearing. Before either of them could move or act, the disembodied voice of the demonurgist spoke again:

"You have rested and recouped your strength, questing heroes. Let me now even things out. After all, it is Balance you seek, isn't it?"

Even as Gravestone said the latter words, unseen forces lifted the pair of magical prisons that held the shrunken demons. The crystalline bottles rose, and as they flew upward they expanded. Far above the heads of the two men the containers suddenly burst, raining down a torrent of sharp, jagged shards of glass as deadly as spears hurled by great giants. Both the cleric and the mage were too busy protecting themselves to notice what occurred immediately thereafter.

"Yes, this is much better," Gravestone said with arrogant satisfaction. "Round two commences!"

"May the gods deliver us," Timmil whispered. All-ton gripped his staff grimly and remained silent. Before them stood the two demons, normal-sized again and with no sign of any harm ever having befallen either.

"Do we switch opponents?" Shabriri asked in his horrific, grating boom.

"No, brother, no," Pazuzeus replied as he fixed the mage with his dreadful stare. "I have personal business with a little human spell-tinkerer who thinks it amusing to break wings with a nasty little device he has. Perhaps it will expand from inside his intestine after I have shoved it up his ass!"

"Don't hurry with your fun, brother." Shabriri said. "That's the kind of sport I wish to enjoy!"

Chapter 14

THE SHIFTING NOTHINGNESS was oppressive. The nothingness-that-was-something made Gord's spirit sink, his courage shrivel and grow small. He wanted to hide somewhere, anywhere — even within himself, if necessary.

The terrible foe that Gord had faced upon entering this dismal world had vanished in the blink of an eye. It was only an illusion, and a short-lived one at that, but that knowledge did not hearten Gord. In fact, everything about this place had precisely the opposite effect on him. His very soul was shot through and through with despair and hopelessness. Even though he knew it was an artificially induced effect, he could not fight it off with the power of mind or magic. The force seemed to be strong enough to get through all of the defenses and protections that had been placed on his person.

He turned for some encouragement, looking toward Greenleaf. The druid was shivering, and his eyes were shut. "Curley!" Gord shouted with all the volume he could muster. It came out as a croak, but the half-elven priest of nature opened his eyes for a moment.

"Curley, don't allow this place to get to you," the young adventurer continued as he saw the stark fear in his comrade's eyes. "We can manage it together."

"I can't manage anything," Greenleaf replied. "I cant look at the obscenities here." As he spoke, the druid shut his eyes, screwing up his face to close them tightly. It was evident that the formless place was not conveying the same sights to him as it was to Gord. He saw terrible things, while Gord saw nothing. Still, the effect on each of them was similar. Green-leaf, like Gord, acted as if all the fight had been drained out of him.

"Sit and remain calm." Gord said with a soothing voice that he managed to make strong and confident now. He had to, for otherwise his friend would surely go mad. "Gellor," he called, touching the druid still as he looked over his shoulder for the troubador, "please sing a song for us. And Chert, you sing along in that barbarian basso you so favor when giving voice to war songs!" It made him feel better to speak, to issue instructions. With each word Gord's voice gained in volume and the sound made his spirit rise, his courage expand.

Gellor had covered his enchanted eye, so that he was not forced to view this terrible place as it actually existed. "I'll do so," he replied when Gord spoke. The bard's voice was as harsh and croaking as his champion's had been at first, however, and his shoulders drooped. His fingers played upon the strings of his little kanteel, but only a disGordant jangling arose. "Help me find the right note, Chert." Gellor whispered.

"Huh! No, no! I can't sing here," the hillman whispered back, licking his lips and trying to clear a parched throat. "You can do it without me...." And then Chert went back to staring around, jerking his head wildly from place to place every so often as if trying to keep his eyes on some hovering threat.

"Come on now, both of you! I require it — and old Curley, here," Gord said as he squeezed the hunched shoulder of the druld. "wants very much to hear a stirring ballad of heroic sort."

Chert was turning now, wary, staling around his position with wide eyes that didn't see his comrades. No words spoken reached his ears. Gellor spat when he saw the antics, saying, "That oaf was ever too stupid and useless in a press!"

"Then sing alone, Lord Gellor," Gord urged.

"Sing for yourself," the one eyed man replied in a harsh whisper. "I've no voice in this place. You've been placed above me — above us all. Go ahead and make music on your own, mighty champion." There was scorn and derision in the last word. Gellor made "champion" sound vulgar and dirty.

Anger began to wash over Gord. His brain sent a score of attack modes forth, a means of displaying to his critic Just how potent a champion was and how painful his wrath could be, even as blood suffused Gord's vision. Seeing red, he did nothing for a split second as the various means of punishing this detractor for his scorn flashed across his mind. The troubador was paying him no heed. Gellor was now directing his sarcasm and scorn toward the others.

"A giant too puny to shake away bogeymen he thinks are hiding out there, and a cringing druld who can't even speak. Why am I in such company? Because noble lineage and long accomplishment account for nothing with the addle-pated Masters' of balance." Gellor was barking now, his words still harsh and dry, but louder than before as he warmed to his task. "A lowly thief, that's who they give the laurels to. Oh, yes. Clever. A claim of illustrious parentage, substantiated only by the tomcat king, one always seeking to lord it over all the rest. Let this whelp—"

Gord's open palm struck Gellor's face with sufficient force to make the troubador stop talking and reel back. "Now, you half-assed, one-eyed old has-been!" Gord said with ice in his tone. "I'll make you masticate and swallow that talk. The eating will be most unpleasant — but you'll do it, or eat this!" The steely hiss of metal on metal seemed to fill the whole of the place as Gord's long, dead-black sword shot from its scabbard.