"Is this the god – Zaltec?" Hal asked, gesturing to the fiery maelstrom.

"It is Zaltec, and more. This I see now, from a very high place." As Erix spoke, Hal noticed that they had indeed begun to rise above the explosion, floating dreamily in their soft, transparent cocoon, overlooking the god-wracked valley of Nexal so terribly far below.

"I see Zaltec meeting Helm in the struggle for mastery, and both of them threaten to destroy each other. But more, I see a spidery presence, the dark god of the Ancient Ones-"

"Lolth!" interjected Halloran. "Spider queen of darkness! You see her, too?'

"Yes. It is her rage that causes the mountain to explode. She is furious with her children, the drow. They have foresaken her in the quest for earthly rewards, turning to the worship of Zaltec."

Erixitl turned to look at Halloran, and the expression in her eyes seemed very far away. "Erix? What's wrong? You're here, with me!" He spoke loudly, with force, and slowly her eyes focused.

"Yes, I know. Hold me." She was quiet for a long time then as they drifted through the sky.

The cocoon of pluma seemed to float like a bubble on a light spring breeze. Even through the black of the night, they could see ruin wracked upon the city below. Lava flowed into the cool waters of the lakes, erupting in mountainous pillars of steam. The rain stilt fell, but it was a black, heavy rain, and it seemed to punish those under its downpour.

Below, in Nexal, they could see many thousands of people fleeing in panic from the confines of the doomed city. They saw the causeway, hours earlier the scene of savage battle, now the avenue for countless thousands of terrified Mazticans. As the two of them watched, drifting safely overhead, a steaming wave rose from the lake. Hissing and bubbling, it swept over one of the causeways, carrying the panicked humans away.

Convulsions wracked the earth upon which the city rested, and most of its great buildings tumbled into ruins. Only the Great Pyramid stood, and as Hal and Erix drifted past, high above it, they saw long, serpentine cracks run up the sides of the structure. The three temples atop the pyramid swayed, finally crumbling.

Then the whole great edifice, mightiest of the centers of the True World, twisted and broke and finally collapsed into rubble.

The palace walls buckled and crumbled around the terrified mare. Storm reared in panic, her hooves kicking the cracked adobe. The courtyard where Poshtil had kept the horse abruptly twisted, a great section sinking away. Wild lake waters surged into the opening.

With a maddened spring, Storm hurled herself across the open water, but her leap fell short. Splashing into the turbulence, she kicked free of the tumbling stone, desperately swimming toward the open waters of the lake.

The city surged, exploded, and died, but the horse pressed forward, uncaring of the surrounding chaos. Pressing through widening canals, snorting and kicking in fear, she finally reached the deep waters of Lake Azul. Deepest of the four lakes and farthest from the exploding mountain, its waters had not yet suffered the worst effects of the convulsions.

With strong strokes, the roan struggled through the waves until she reached the far northern shore. With a toss of her water-soaked head, she scrambled onto the shore and immediately galloped toward the wilds of northern Maztica.

The surviving drow sensed the imminence of disaster and teleported from the Highcave to refuge in caverns deep within the mountain. They escaped seconds before the lair – caldron, Darkfyre, and all – dissolved in an explosive convulsion of heat and pressure.

Zatal erupted, spewing lava, ash, smoke, and volcanic stone into the sky. Sizzling rivers of molten rock flooded down the slopes of the mountain, while chunks of the peak tumbled through the sky, wheeling gracefully before plummeting to earth. Steam billowed upward as a hissing black cloud of ash spread across the valley.

With the release of the volcano, like the popping cork of a bottle, Lolth's power surged into the True World. As the gods of the humans wrestled below, she laid her dark curse across the land.

That curse settled first upon the drow, huddled deep within the bowels of their exploding mountain. Most of them had reached temporary, imagined safety in their subterranean lairs, but even here the curse of Lolth crept toward them. Like a dark fog, her spidery essence slipped into the lairs, punishing her children for their dedication to a god of humans. She cast her curse upon the dark elves, and they changed forever.

Crying out in agony and horror, the drow thrashed and writhed, their bodies wracked by the all-consuming vengeance of their dark goddess. The sleek elven shapes grew grotesque and bloated, trailing great, immobile abdomens as their lower limbs withered and fell away. From these abdomens sprouted legs – eight legs each – that were covered with coarse fur. Dark elven heads and torsos – and minds – remained, so that they could know their disgrace. But the grotesque and hateful bodies would belong to them as long as they lived.

In horror, the drow regarded each other, no longer slim, handsome figures. Lolth had visited upon them the ultimate punishment, and the repulsive, spidery forms of the Ancient Ones would serve as a constant, painful reminder of their deity's vengeance.

For they became driders, outcast spider beasts of the drow.

But Lolth's vengeance was not merely directed at her wayward followers. Her power reached the cult of the Viperhand, since that order had flowed from the bidding of the drow. And its members were marked by the crimson brand.

A great, oppressive cloud lowered from the sky. Across the city, the ash of the volcano mixed with the rain to form a thick sludge that dropped, hissing, to the ground, coating the warriors of Maztica, and the legionaires, and the people of the city. Its corrosive touch burned skin and stung eyes, though they brushed it away without permanent hurt.

But not so with those who wore the brand of the Viperhand. When it struck those warriors, those priests and fanatics, a terrifying transformation occurred.

Once-human faces twisted into bestial expressions of hatred and rage. Bodies distorted, becoming grotesque and misshapen. Some grew into hulking brutes, surrounded by thick sinew. Stooped and hideous, they chomped mouths full of dull fangs and raised rocklike fists to crush any who stood before them.

Others became green and scaly, tall monsters with great, hooked noses and gangly, yet powerful, limbs. Warts burst from their horrid skin, and black eyes, sunk deep into monstrous faces, gleamed wickedly at a world gone mad.

The great masses of warriors who had been branded became ores. Snuffling through broad snouts, baring wicked tusks, the brutish, evil beasts quickly formed bands and turned upon the humans – Mazticans and legionnaires alike – of the city. Still armed with their stone weapons, they also used savage jaws to tear at the helpless victims of their rage.

The knights, Jaguar and Eagle, who had been branded by Hoxitl became ogres, huge, hulking brutes who cuffed the smaller ores around them, gruffly commanding their attention and obedience. The giantlike ogres seized beams, trunks, and other huge devices to use as clubs.

And finally, the priests of Zaltec who had been branded into the order grew to twice their height, with a ripping and tearing of skin and sinew. Their appearance distorted most horribly from the human norm, as their skin turned dark green, their features horrible in the extreme.

For they became the trolls. And so the ultimate contortion of war seized the land, while death spread through the city and lava spilled ever closer.