His lips pulled back, transforming his grin into an expression of loathing. He turned away from the last kobold, and the creature squealed in surprise, thinking it had somehow escaped its worst nightmare. Without even looking, Zak thrust the blade backward, silencing the creature, ending its false hope. But there was no pleasure in the act. Not now. He glared at the spider, fingered the handle of his whip, and knew he could crush it with a single flick. But even he dared not harm one of Lloth's messengers. He let his hand fall from the weapon.

A gloom settled over him, even darker and more stifling than the oppressive air of the Underdark. After reluctantly harvesting the expected trophies, he started back toward the city of the drow.

By the time he reached the edge of the vast underground cavern that housed Menzoberranzan, his gloom had deepened into despair. Sitting astride the broad back of his lizard mount, he gazed over the dwelling of the dark elves-his home, and yet not his home. Long ago, the legends told, the dark elves had lived in the overworld. They had dwelt along with their fair sylvan kindred, with no comforting roof of stone above them but only a vast emptiness called sky. As out of place as Zak felt among his people, the thought of living on the surface chilled his blood. So changed were the drow after dwelling for eons in the realms below that they could never live in the overworld again. They were creatures of the dark now. Lloth had seen to that. She had made them what they were, and for that he hated her.

Zak let his gaze wander over the eerie cityscape before him. Pale faerie fire, conjured by the wizards of the various houses, revealed the fantastic shapes into which the cavern's gigantic stalagmites and stalactites had been hewn. Slender bridges leapt impossibly between the stone spires. In the five thousand years during which the dark elves had dwelt in this place, not a single surface had been left untouched. Every piece of stone had been carved and polished and shaped to suit the needs of the drow. Everything that was, except for Narbondel.

The rugged pillar of stone stood, as it had for millennia, in the center of the great cavern. Here in the unending dark, where there was no alternation of day and night to mark time, Narbondel served as the city's clock. Once each day, Menzoberranzan's archmage cast a spell of fire upon the base of the pillar. Throughout the day the enchanted fire rose, until the entire column glowed with the heat of it, before finally fading into cool darkness – the Black Death of Narbondel – upon which the cycle was begun anew.

Despite the magical fires that were cast upon it, each day Narbondel fell black again. Darkness always won in the end. Zak shook his head. Perhaps he was a fool to think he was different from the rest of his cruel and capricious kindred. He killed only creatures of evil, but it was the killing itself he craved, was it not? Maybe he was no different at all. That was, perhaps, his deepest fear.

A faint humming sound broke his grim reverie. Something twitched against his throat. He reached into his neck-purse and pulled out the insignia of House Do'Urden. The adamantite disk was engraved with a spider that wielded a different weapon in each of its eight appendages. The coin glowed with silver light and was warm against his hand. It was a summons. Matron Mother Malice, leader of House Do'Urden, required the presence of her weapons master.

For a moment, Zaknafein gazed into the darkness behind him. He half considered plunging back into the Dark Dominion and leaving the city forever. The chance that a lone drow could survive in the Underdark was slim. But there was a chance. And he could be free.

The metallic disk twitched again on his palm, the heat growing uncomfortable. Zak sighed. Thoughts of fleeing evaporated. He belonged in the Underdark even less than he did here. Like it or not, this was his home. He nudged his lizard mount into a swift, swaying walk, heading through an arched gate into the city of the drow.

One did not keep one's matron mother waiting.

"Where is he?" Matron Mother Malice of House Do'Urden demanded in a voice sharp with impatience.

She paced with perilous grace before the adamantite railing that separated the compound's private upper chambers from the common levels below, her dark gown flowing behind her like shadows. The other nobles of the house-her five living children, along with her current patron, Rizzen-watched from a prudent distance. None dared cross the path of her ire.

Malice muttered a curse under her breath. There was no doubt Zaknafein was the finest weapons master in the city, but that gave her little advantage if she could not control him. A servant-especially a male servant-did not make his matron wait. Several years ago, she had revoked Zak's position as patron and had taken Rizzen in his stead, thinking that would show him the consequences of displeasing her. In the time since, though, he had become only more willful and unmanageable. Malice was growing weary of being embarrassed by Zaknafein. Useful as he was to her, she would not tolerate it much longer.

"Let me deal with Zaknafein when he returns, Matron Malice," offered Briza, Malice's eldest daughter. Unlike her lithe mother, Briza was a big-boned and round-shouldered elf. Recently anointed a high priestess of Lloth, she enjoyed wielding her new authority. "Males are not as intelligent as the rest of us. There is only one sort of instruction they understand." With fond fingers, she touched the writhing, snake-headed whip at her belt. The half-dozen snake heads hissed in anticipation.

"If I have wronged Matron Mother Malice, then punishment is hers to mete out, not yours, Briza Do'Urden."

All turned to see a feral form step out of midair and float over the adamantite railing. Zaknafein drifted to the floor before Malice, waving a hand to end the levitation spell of which all highborn drow are capable-a fact that accounted for the lack of stairs leading to the upper level of the house. Briza glared daggers at the weapons master but held her tongue. All knew that his rebuke had been correct, and that she had overstepped her bounds in her eagerness to punish him.

Malice folded her arms over her breasts, her expression cold. "I do not like waiting, Zaknafein. Tell me quickly why I should not give you to Briza and her whip."

"There is no reason, Matron Mother," Zaknafein replied, bowing his head and assuming a submissive posture before her. "But allow me to present you with these before you do what you will."

He laid a grisly bundle at her feet-a dozen hairy kobold ears bound together with twine. Malice raised a single eyebrow, impressed despite her anger. Kobolds were wretched creatures, but they were vicious when cornered, and slaying a dozen alone was no mean feat. Such an act could only please Lloth.

She felt her anger receding. The gift was a good one, and Zaknafein was now acting suitably repentant. Perhaps his punishment should be to come to her bedchamber and serve her there. She knew she should resist the temptation. Zak needed to know how he had displeased her. And yet… She glanced at Rizzen. Her current patron was handsome, yes, but so docile, so pliant, so utterly dull. Maybe it was her lack of control over Zak that made him desirable. Danger could be ever so alluring.

Whatever her decision would be, Malice decided to save it for later. Zaknafein's offering had mollified her for the moment. Besides, there were more important matters to attend.

Malice rested her pointed chin on the back of her hand, her dark eyes glinting. "You and I will consider the matter of your punishment later, Zaknafein. Alone."

At that last word, an expression of surprise crossed Briza's broad face. Rizzen shot Zaknafein an open look of hatred, then remembered himself and averted his gaze, lest he attract his matron mother's wrath. Zaknafein only gave an emotionless nod.