Fetch poked the end of his hoopak into the troll ashes and grumbled. "Fetch, do this for me. Fetch, do that for me. Fetch, carry this. Fetch, stay here. Fetch-you stink when you get wet. Fetch, quit playing with the fire. Fetch. Fetch. Fetch." He stomped his foot against the tiled floor. "My name is Ilbreth."

His red eyes glowed like hot coals in the ever-darkening cave, fixing on the closest pillar, which bore the image of priests and religious warriors. "And since no one's watching Ilbreth, he might as well help himself." He strolled boldly over to the pillar, eyes darting to the alcoves to make sure Maldred and Dhamon weren't coming back right away, then he started to climb. When he was even with the first priest's visage, he dug his sharp claws into the eye sockets and pulled out the chunks of onyx. He examined them, smiling when he saw how smooth and large they were. A little higher and he found pearls serving as the pupils to another eerie face, these also a good size. Skittering around, he retrieved several polished balls of gold and brass on the back side. They felt comfortably heavy in his hand.

Only two of the pillars had such treasures, and these were the closest to the altar. Fetch guessed that in ages past other visitors helped themselves, then either were forced to leave before gobbling up the rest of the treasures or… well, he couldn't think of another reason why they wouldn't have taken everything. Only four pairs of eyes had been gemstones, the rest precious metals he suspected the dwarves had forged, perhaps from ore taken from this very mountain. The polished balls clinked together pleasingly in his pocket, and he made a game of thrusting his fingers into the pocket, naming the metals- gold, silver, or bronze-and seeing if he pulled out a ball that matched. But the game did not last long, and he quickly tired of it.

After about an hour had passed, the cave grew darker still, and the rain that pattered against the rocks outside began to sound threatening. Fetch felt like a nervous rabbit in a deep, dark hole and imagined the raindrops were footsteps of trolls and goatherders and gem-craving dwarves from the far valley of crystal come to rob him of his precious metal eyeballs.

"Don't like this dark," he muttered to himself. Though the kobold had unique vision that allowed him to see through the blackness, he detested the night. All manner of horrible things came out when the sun went down.

"A fire," he decided. "I'll start a fire and stay nice and cozy warm and it'll lighten up this cave for me." He rubbed his shoulders. Indeed, he thought, even though it was the heart of a very hot summer, it was getting a little chilly this high up. "Nice and warm and so I can see."

He padded around the cave looking for something to burn. Nothing much was left of the trolls. The altar was made of some rich, black stone that felt smooth to the touch and had no hope of catching fire. Neither did it register any heat, and that unnerved the kobold. He considered it unnatural. His hoopak was made of wood, but he had no intention of sacrificing it. The weapon was acquired from a kender who had befriended him years past and who Ilbreth turned on and killed during negotiations over a certain dubiously acquired treasure. So finally the kobold settled on one of the middle pillars to set on fire, the one with the carvings of female dwarven warriors. He didn't think it quite as artistic as the others, it had not yielded any metal eyeballs, and it looked like it would burn real good.

Sitting down in front of the pillar, he traced the outline of an ugly harridan who must have had more muscles than brains to be able to carry all the others on top of her shoulders. He took one more glance down the alcoves, then started humming, a magical tune Maldred had taught him-the first spell Maldred had ever taught him, in fact. And it was his favorite. He searched for the spark within him, that essence of magic Maldred said he sensed when he met the kobold in the wilderness. Feeling it, his tune increased and was cut through with a gargling noise that wasn't part of the enchantment but which the kobold added for effect. He felt the energy flow from his chest into his arms, into his fingers, and into the face of the carved dwarven woman.

"Make us a little light," he told the carving. Then a heartbeat later the carved figure started to burn. It was slow at first, the flames difficult to catch on because the wood was so dense, old, and dry. But Fetch was persistent. He puffed on the flames-he was extremely accomplished at setting fires. Then he sat back, satisfied, as the pillar became engulfed with flames.

It's just one pillar, he thought, although it was burning fast and merrily. There were still five left to pay homage to the departed dwarven god. What was the name Dhamon said? Rocks? No. Rork? The kobold paced around the pillar, warming his hands and tipping his face to catch the welcome heat. His gaze roamed to the far wall, where the light was catching the other faces carved in stone. The dancing flames made it look as if the faces were laughing. Fetch joined in their revelry, cackling and snorting and dancing and pretending to pray to Rork, god of the carved dwarves. The kobold liked to dance- though not when Maldred was around. Dancing was frivolous, and the kobold did his best to present a serious and studious image to his master and mentor. But Maldred wasn't here, so he danced faster and wilder until his chest burned from the exertion and the altitude.

Panting, he approached the laughing stone faces, his shadow darkening some and turning them sad. Running his fingers around their features he created another game to occupy himself. He began naming each face he touched. "Laughing Lars, Laughing Dretch, Laughing Riki, Crying Mo"-this for one who seemed to be looking directly at him, sorrowfully.

Then he skated over to the black altar. He worked at his other magic, the spell that allowed him to take on the form of various creatures. Within the span of several minutes, he looked like Laughing Lars, though he gave his face the healthy ruddy red color he imagined the dwarf would have if he were alive. For more fun, he took on Laughing Dretch's image and left his skin stony gray. But Fetch quickly tired of this game, too, and returned to the burning pillar. The flames had reached the topmost carved dwarf and was burning very quickly.

He thought the scent almost pleasant-much better, at least, than the troll flesh and the perfume Rikali had drenched herself with. He sniffed and tried to imagine what a young wild pig would taste like roasted on the pillar fire. Not quite able to decide, he gave up and returned to simply staring at the fire, mesmerized by it.

"Maldred says I play with you too much," he told the flames. "But I don't think so. I really like fire."

A moment later he was standing inches from another pillar, then sitting in front of the face of an old male dwarf, who had deeply carved wrinkles and squinting eyes- another that hadn't yielded any valuable gems. "Don't look at me like that," Fetch said. "Oh, won't listen to me, huh? Well, I'll just have to burn you, too."

He started humming, searching for the spark, and grinning wide when the old carving caught fire.

Maldred and Fiona carefully picked their way down a staircase that was at times winding and circular, then sharply angled and steep. It seemed to stretch downward into the darkness forever. The steps were smooth with age, and they were shiny from the numerous feet that must have traipsed over them. For more than an hour they'd been heading down, pausing at alcoves where wood and stone statues of Reorx were nestled. Beneath the statues were ceramic bowls with offerings so ancient and brittle that they were unidentifiable. As they continued on, they tried to gauge just how far beneath the great chamber they were.