Poshtli gasped an inarticulate reply. The combination of the steep climb and the high altitude made it virtually impossible for him to move, much less speak. Nevertheless, he followed the desert dwarf in their slow, steady ascent.

Clad only in sandals and loincloths, they made the grueling climb under the blazing light of the morning sun. The climb was not treacherous, just a steady, long uphill grind in an atmosphere that offered precious little air to breathe.

The mountain spread across a vast area of desert, rising from a tumult of lesser peaks to dominate the skyline in all directions. Dirty white snowfields, streaked with mud from melting, adorned the heights of the cone-shaped peak, and finally the climbers neared this region.

"The mountain was born at the time of the Rockfire," explained Luskag when they both paused to catch their breath.

"You've talked about that before," noted Poshtli, between gasps. "What's the Rockfire?"

Luskag looked at him in surprise. "I thought surely the tale was known to all. The Rockfire marks the birth of the desert dwarves, but the death of all of our kindred dwarves."

Poshtli looked at him in puzzlement, and Luskag continued. "The time was many generations ago, by dwarven reckoning – that means even more, measured in human generations – though no one knows exactly. The dwarves were locked in conflict with their archenemies, the drow elves… the dark elves.

"It was a conflict that wracked the far corners of the world, for the underearth at that time was linked by tunnels and caverns, such that a dwarf could cross under the great ocean, past the vast snow realms of the north and south, anywhere he wanted, without poking his head above the earth.

"And this region was the domain of many peoples – dwarves and dark elves, of course, but also the deep gnomes, the mind flayers, and many others. But none were as evil, as calculating, as the drow.

"The drow maintained a magical focus, deep under the earth, that they called the Darkfyre. Into this, they fed the bodies of their slain enemies, and the Darkfyre grew in power. Finally it overwhelmed those who fed it and grew of its own will into a great force, of cataclysmic destruction – the Rockfire.

"It consumed the world of the underground, destroying most of it. Mountains such as this were born in the fire, while whole cities and nations of the underdark were demolished." Luskag paused, and Poshtli sensed the pain of the tale, a pain that appeared as fresh as if the disaster had occurred only yesterday.

"The dwarven race was annihilated, except for a few small tribes, such as my ancestors. And even they found that life underground was no longer possible, for the hallowed caverns of antiquity, those that survived the fire, became caldrons of poison gas or pools of hot, molten rock. So the dwarves came to the surface, and now we live our lives in shallow caves, very near the baking heat of the sun. Now we dwarves, here in the House of Tezca, are the last survivors of a proud and noble race.

"But one good thing, too, came from the Rockfire. That was the complete destruction of the drow. At least now we live in peace, unthreatened by their evil machinations."

Poshtli lowered his eyes in respect for his companion's pain. He wondered at the power that could destroy a whole people, a whole nation. The dry wind swirled around him, and he felt a sudden chill.

Luskag's pride was evident as he raised his bald head and looked across the House of Tezca. The barren, hot desert became muted with distance, when viewed from this lofty vantage. The reds and browns and yellows flowed together in soft shades. The harsh and jagged skyline became a thing of beauty – distant, aloof, and unassailable.

"And the Sunstone… that, too, was born of the Rock-fire?" asked Poshtli, with a glance toward the summit.

Luskag nodded and climbed to his feet. "And we'd best get moving if you would consult the stone today. The sun will be high in the sky shortly, and we must reach the top before then."

Poshtli grunted acquiescence and stood stiffly. They had climbed most of the way up the mountain, but the last bit was the steepest, strewn with loose rock and dirty patches of snow. His mind became a haze of fatigue. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. They had brought no water. Luskag had informed him that the body and soul must be bared by the climb. One who sought the insight of the Sunstone must be pure and show his devotion by such abstinence.

Finally they crested the summit, and Poshtli saw that they stood upon the rim of a vast volcanic caldera. Through his fatigue, he looked down into the yawning crater and gasped with amazement at the sight of the Sunstone. His body tingled, his mind came sharply alert. This is a place of the gods! he realized in awe.

A great disk of silver lay flat in the crater, like a lake of molten metal. The inside of the caldera was dry and lifeless, a baked surface of black rock. But the disk, nearly the size of the great plaza of Nexal, seemed to gleam with a life of its own.

Poshtli could not have torn his eyes away even if he had wanted to. He squatted on his haunches, spellbound. He sensed Luskag sitting beside him, also facing the inside of the mountain.

Slowly, majestically, the sun crested the opposite side of the crater. Higher it climbed, warming them with its heat, but never did their eyes waver from the silver disk. Poshtli saw the metal begin to move, starting to swirl slowly in a great circle.

Faster and faster the metal whirled, and more magnificent, more enthralling grew the spell. The Eagle Warrior and the desert dwarf did not move, did not twitch a muscle or blink.

Finally the sun reached high across the mountain. Its light struck the disk in a scorching reflection, pouring brilliance in its concentrated beams.

Poshtli felt the force wash over him, almost knocking him backward. Grimly he fixed his gaze against the glare, feeling his body grow warm, then hot. His vision had suddenly become a white nothingness, but then a hole opened in the vast blank. In the very center of his vision, the hole grew, until he could see through it, into a region of clear blue sky. He looked through the hole in his vision and saw buzzards circling, wheeling downward, away from him.

Poshtli forgot his pain, forgot the heat. He dove with the buzzards, which had now become eagles. Soaring, he remembered sensations of flight, but never had they created such joy.

With sudden, sickening abruptness, he flew with the eagles over a vast black wasteland. Through the ashes, he could see the outlines of canals, a tumbled mound that might have been a pyramid, the swamps that outlined what once had been lakes.

Nexal! He cried for the city, his voice a harsh wail. This was truly Nexal that stood below him, but a Nexal of death and disaster. There were no people here, but strange, frightening things wandered among the muck and ruin: creatures of grotesque appearance, malformed shapes, and bestial, hateful eyes.

Poshtli still looked through the hole in his vision, though now he tried to look away – but he could not. He thought the sight would drive him mad. Despair threatened to burst his heart.

Then he saw, before him, a woman of indescribable beauty. She stood among the blackened ruins, and the darkness fell back from her. Where it recoiled, the city did not reappear, but at least the land emerged, green and whole again.

Poshtli's avian form reeled under the brutal assault of the vision. He twisted and squirmed in the air as if he would escape the horror below it, but it seemed that everywhere he turned he faced new scenes of devastation.

Then he saw jungle below him, broken by patches of savannah. The sun appeared in his vision, rising directly above an overgrown pyramid. Poshtli's vision fell toward the pyramid, and here he saw a strange sight, a beautiful woman, fighting desperately for her life. He saw a pack of coyotes snapping at her legs.