Nimor both hated and respected him.

Nimor beat his wings and looked to his right, to the great spire of Narbondel. Its base glowed red in the darkness, a defiant beacon proclaiming to the whole of the Underdark that

Menzoberranzan remained standing. Nimor wondered if Gromph Baenre himself had lit the beacon's fires.

With startling suddenness, Nimor's emotional control slipped. An unbearable wave of frustration washed over him. He clenched his fists and swallowed down the roar that threatened to escape his throat.

He had fought well, schemed his best, and nearly-within a rothe's hair-conquered the most powerful drow city in the Underdark. The trophy of Ched Nasad would have paled in comparison to the jewel of a conquered Menzoberranzan.

Of course, he knew that nearly was insufficient, almost a paltry substitute for success, both for him and for the Jaezred Chaulssin. Nearly won him nothing. Nearly had lost him his place of honor as the Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin.

That was the lesson the patron grandfather had wanted him to learn in returning-Nimor was to taste of failure, to gag on its flavor so much that he would never allow it to happen again. A tiny amount of humility took root in him and tempered his habitual arrogance.

You promised to cleanse Menzoberranzan of the stench of Lolth, Patron Grandfather

Mauzzkyl had said to him. Have you done that?

Nimor had answered truthfully-he had not done it. He had only nearly done it, and the bitter taste of nearly had all but choked him.

There will be other opportunities, Patron Father Tomphael had promised. If you learn wisdom.

Lesson learned, Tomphael, Nimor thought.

He fixed his gaze on Tier Breche, where the battle still raged, on the quiet Donigarten, where drow soldiers prowled amongst the giant mushrooms. He thought of Horgar, of the little princeling's failings. .

Nimor had a lesson of his own to teach. Horgar would be his student.

With his mind made up, he looked down upon Menzoberranzan a final time. He stared at the soaring, elegant spires, the tall towers, the twisting architecture of the great manor houses-all of it a silent testimony to the unbearable arrogance of the Menzoberranyr. Perhaps they too had learned to temper their arrogance with humility.

Or perhaps not.

Nimor looked down on the city and offered it a grudging nod of respect.

It had beaten him.

This time.

With a minor exercise of will, he moved into the bleakness of the Shadow Fringe.

The chwidencha shaft dropped down a spearcast before ending in a round chamber from which a wide horizontal tunnel extended. Old webs covered the walls, and the dried husks of dismembered spiders lay cast about here and there, no doubt the remains of the chwidenchas'

meals. Jeggred kicked at them absently. The dry air stank of must and decay.

Pharaun lowered himself to the ground beside Quenthel. Her whip flicked its tongues at him.

Danifae and Jeggred stood apart, eyeing them. Danifae ran her fingers over her holy symbol.

Pharaun could not help but think that not all of them would be returning to the surface. As a precaution, he still held the piece of flakefungus hidden in his palm.

To Quenthel, he said, "The tunnel is sealed above us, Mistress."

She nodded, looked down the horizontal tunnel, and said, "We will continue on for a bit longer. Find a more suitable spot to rest."

No one protested, and Quenthel started down the tunnel. The rest of them fell in beside her.

The cavern was wide enough to accommodate the four of them walking abreast, and they did exactly that. None wanted to show their backs to the others.

Here and there, smaller tunnels branched off of the main corridor and extended away into the darkness. Pharaun wondered if all of Lolth's plane was hollowed out with tunnels, possessed of an Underdark of its own. He thought they might have escaped the chwidencha and the Teeming only to find themselves facing something worse in the depths.

Nothing for it now, he thought, but he kept his hearing attuned for sound from ahead.

He heard nothing other than Jeggred's respiration and the scrape of their boots over the rock.

The draegloth shouldered aside any carcasses in their way, but they encountered nothing alive.

With the chwidencha pack on the surface, it appeared that at least the main horizontal tunnel was empty.

After a short time, they came to another roughly round chamber, one littered with more desiccated spider husks and the hollowed out molt shells of the chwidencha. The shells, each as thin as fine parchment, looked like dozens of chwidencha ghosts. Jeggred clutched one of them by its leg, and the entire shell crumbled away in his grasp.

A few small pools of green acid dotted the chamber and bubbled smoke and stink into the air.

It vented through cracks in the low ceiling. A natural archway in the far side of the chamber opened onto another large tunnel.

"Perhaps here, Mistress?" Pharaun ventured. "We are not vulnerable to attack from behind"-at least not from the chwidencha, he thought-"and can set a watch in the tunnel ahead. A rest would allow me time to study my spellbooks and replace those spells I've cast."

He knew that it would also allow the priestesses, after a brief Reverie, to refresh their own spells from Lolth. He could use the benefit of one or two of Quenthel's healing spells.

Quenthel eyed him with cool disdain, obviously displeased that he had offered yet another

"suggestion." Still, she said, "Here is as good a place as any. We will eat, rest, and pray to Lolth."

Hearing no protests, Pharaun found a choice rock and collapsed atop it.

"Jeggred will take the first watch," Quenthel said.

The draegloth, crumbling yet another chwidencha molt, looked to Danifae, who nodded.

"Very well," Jeggred said to Quenthel and stalked across the chamber to take a position at the mouth of the tunnel before them.

Quenthel watched him go with anger in her eyes. When he seemed situated, she said, "Not there, nephew. Up the tunnel a ways. It does me no good to learn of danger after it is already upon us."

Jeggred offered her an irritated growl and looked again to Danifae. The former battle-captive hesitated.

"Are you concerned to be alone with me?" Quenthel asked Danifae, letting contempt drip from her tone.

Danifae looked at Quenthel with a challenge in her startling gray eyes. "I have yet to see a reason why I should be," she replied.

Quenthel smiled. Still holding Danifae's attention, she waved dismissively at Jeggred and said, "Be off, nephew."

Jeggred held his ground until Danifae gestured him up the tunnel with a flick of her fingers.

"I will not be far," Jeggred warned, for the benefit of everyone.

Even after the draegloth had prowled up the tunnel, Quenthel continued to stare at Danifae.

The former battle-captive studiously ignored Quenthel, examined her wounds, shook out her gear, and stripped down to a tight-fitting tunic and breeches. Scratches, cuts, and bruises from the battle marred her skin but did nothing to diminish her attractiveness.

Pharaun again was struck by the sheer physicality of the woman. Men had fought and died for things much less beautiful than Danifae's form.

It was unfortunate she would have to die. Hopefully, soon.

After a time, Quenthel too began to tend to her gear while her serpents eyed Danifae. Pharaun took that as a truce and settled in himself.

Each of the three rested as far from the others as the chamber allowed, their backs pressed against the web-covered tunnel wall. They ate in silence from the stores Valas Hune had procured for them long ago and brooded in silence amongst the chwidencha molts.

To occupy himself, Pharaun inventoried and organized his spell components in the many pockets of his piwafwi. Afterward he took one of his traveling spellbooks from the extradimensional space contained in his pack and replaced the spells he had cast by committing to memory the arcane words to new spells. Thinking that he might have to use his magic against