"More – make it burn!" hissed the black-robed Ancestor again, and the Harvester hurled the rest of his basket into the caldron. The Darkfyre hissed upward in greedy acceptance of the nourishment.

"We face a great challenge," the Ancestor finally said, speaking very slowly. "I do not need to remind you that we stand alone, forsaken by our kin, even by Lolth herself. Since the time of the Rockfire, we have been isolated, and yet we persevere.

"And so we must nurture our new god, feed the fires of our own power, and show our will to these savage humans. This is our task.

"Spirali set out to do this task, to work our will in the form of the girl's death. Though he was granted even the aid of the hellhounds, he failed. His death is just recompense for that failure."

"The girl has come here, to Nexal," said one of the robed drow after more than an hour had passed. The great city sprawled in the valley below them, for the Highcave was set high in the flank of the great volcano, Zatal, that overlooked the city.

"Indeed," replied the Ancestor. "Finally she comes to us, that she may be slain."

"It will not be easy," cautioned the drow. "It is said that she has the protection of Naltecona's nephew. Lord Poshtli."

There was no reply as the Ancient Ones absorbed this news. Poshtli was well known throughout Nexal as an intelligent, capable, and utterly fearless warrior-noble.

"Poshtli helped them to kill Spirali," said the Ancestor. "For this, he should be made to suffer. The girl's death may be just the beginning."

"Did they learn our nature when Spirali died?" asked another drow. The Ancient Ones took great pains to conceal their racial identity from the humans of Maztica.

"Who knows? And I do not care." The Ancestor wheezed as he continued. "Great events have occurred, and others are about to begin. A chain of destiny is unfolding, and the secret of our race will become insignificant as this chain advances."

"The cult of the Viperhand gains strength daily," offered another drow after further long pause.

"Good. Let the cult of violence grow like a weed, that it will be ready when we call upon it" The Ancestor nodded his satisfaction.

The ancient elf drew himself to his full height before continuing. "Remember the prophecy! Our destiny will be realized when we defeat the last obstacle, the one who is chosen by Qotal to be his champion. The chosen one is not a warrior or priest, as we had once supposed. No, it is this young woman!

"When she has been removed from our path, the death of Naltecona will open the way for us! When the Revered Counselor perishes, the cult of the Viperhand will see that we gain mastery over the True World!"

The Ancestor looked at the robed drow around him, his expression challenging each to dispute his words. Satisfied, he concluded with a voice grown suddenly firm.

"Nor does it matter whether or not she or her companions know who we are. What does matter is that she gives her heart to Zaltec soon! She must die!"

With a soft hiss, the Darkfyre rose and sparked in its caldron, then settled back with a rumble, as if it chuckled in gleeful agreement.

The inside of the lodge filled with smoke, steam, and sweat. The red glow of the low-banked fires cast the slick, bronze skin of the building's naked occupants in a crimson sheen. One of the warriors threw more water on the coals, and another cloud of steam hissed into the air.

This was the sweatlodge of the Order of Eagles, and the highest-ranking warriors of that avian banner had gathered to welcome Poshtli home in the cleansing ritual of the elite fraternity.

The returned warrior sat at the head of the lodge, between Chical and Atzil, two old veterans of the Eagle Knights. For the first time since their arrival in Nexal that day, Poshtli felt as though he had really come home.

After he arranged for quarters for Hal and Erix, he had spent a frustrating hour trying to arrange a meeting with his uncle, the great Naltecona. Finally, at sunset, he learned that the counselor had left the palace to attend the sacrifices on the Great Pyramid. Surprised and slightly worried, Poshtli, too, had departed the royal grounds to enter the city. He had come to this sturdy lodge, the headquarters of the Order of the Eagle Knighthood.

For a long time, the two dozen or so men who occupied the lodge sat in silence, letting the perspiration drip from their bodies, driving confusion and doubt from their minds. As the sweat trickled from their pores, they felt a purification that extended deep into their bodies, reaching even to their warrior souls. With the stoicism of their military fraternity, they sat uncomplaining as the heat intensified and the steam grew thicker and thicker, penetrating deep into their lungs with each deep, rhythmic breath.

"It is good to cleanse myself again," said Poshtli after a long silence.

"You have been gone a long time," Chical answered. "In the wilds, they tell me."

"Yes. I have not entered a lodge of Eagles since I left Nexal. But on this journey, I have seen many other things."

"They tell me you have met one of the strangers, a white man," said Chical.

Chical was old and bent at the waist, with a face covered with wrinkles. His long hair was pure white, and he kept it tied in a braid that reached his waist. Like most Mazticans, his body was virtually devoid of hair except for that on his head. He was the Honored Grandfather, the leader of the Eagle Knights – a proud warrior in his prime, whose wisdom and intelligence allowed him to lead the Eagles even though his physical peak was long past.

"Indeed I did, Father," replied Poshtli, using the honorary term for his teacher and mentor. He described Halloran to the others. "The invaders are strange men, and the monsters that they call 'horses' are fast and fearsome," he concluded. "But they are not gods or demons – they are undeniably men. Halloran is a courageous warrior, and his sword is sharper than any maca in Maztica."

He related what he had heard about the battle of Ulatos, where a small force of the strangers had routed a huge army of Maztican warriors.

"Pah!" uttered Atzil, the venerable warrior on Poshtli's other side. "How can you compare Payit warriors to the Nexal? Perhaps these white men did defeat the Payit, but it is inconceivable that their small numbers represent any threat to the Heart of the True World!"

Poshtli shook his head. "I mean no disrespect, but counsel you to observe and study these strangers before taking action."

"Wise words, my son," said Chical, nodding. "An Eagle flies always with the army of the strangers. Our latest word is that they are preparing to march again. We do not know where they will go, however."

"They will come to Nexal," said Poshtli without a moment's hesitation.

"How can you be so sure?" demanded Atzil, the sudden tension in his voice belying his previous assertion of confidence.

"They are shrewd, and they hunger for gold. These are two things I have learned about the strangers. They will learn as much as they can about Maztica before they act. They are certain to discover that nowhere in the True World will they find as much gold as we have here."

"Certainly they would not think they could march to Nexal and take our gold," demanded Atzil indignantly.

"I do not know," replied Poshtli, shaking his head. "But I would not be surprised to see them try."

"My son, there has been much talk of these strangers during your absence," broke in Chical gently. Poshtli noticed, with surprise, that the other warriors had silently slipped from the lodge. Now just the three of them sat in the long, dark room. A slave entered quietly and threw more water on the heated rocks, sending another cloud of steam into the air. The mist hung heavy in the air of the lodge.