With that, he whispered a single word of power, one of the most powerful he knew.

The arcane force in the word hit Jeggred like a titan's maul. Foul breath blew from the draegloth's lungs, and he released Pharaun-who managed to keep his feet when he hit the ground-

staggered, uttered a spit-fouled stutter, and sank to his knees.

Pharaun knew the word of stunning would leave the draegloth incapacitated for only a short time. He knew too that the spell likely would not ordinarily affect Jeggred at all, but the draegloth's battle with the chwidencha had left him weakened and vulnerable.

Of course, Jeggred knew no more of that than he did of Quenthel's tacit permission to Pharaun to teach the oaf a lesson.

With exaggerated dignity, Pharaun smoothed his piwafwi and straightened the stiff collar of his shirt. When he noticed that Jeggred's claw had torn a slash into the chest of his shirt, his anger burned hotter still.

"Oaf," he said and cuffed Jeggred in the head. It felt good. He cuffed him twice more.

The draegloth sat on his knees before him, drooling, moaning softly.

Pharaun looked up the tunnel to see ten slitted eyes still watching in silence. He knelt down to look into Jeggred's slack face.

Pharaun thought of offering the draegloth the excuse he had prepared-I was gathering material components. The illusion was to avoid alarming anyone who might stir in their sleep and find me gone. The invisibility is one of my ordinary precautions when acting alone-but decided against it.

Quenthel wanted to test Pharaun and at the same time teach a lesson to Jeggred. Pharaun would push it as far as the high priestess wanted it to go.

He took Jeggred's slack face in his hand and said, "Remember this moment, demonspawn.

This is me doing better than fire, not so? If I desired it, I could drag you to one of these acid pools and dip your head in. Imagine that, dolt. The spell I used to incapacitate you was of middling power. If I wished you dead, I could strip the flesh from your bones in an instant, or stop your heart with a word." He punched the draegloth in the face again, more angry at himself over Aliisza than at Jeggred. He decided that he would burn out Jeggred's eyes before killing him. He started to cast-

But the crack of a whip froze him.

"Master Mizzrym!" Quenthel called, her voice sharp.

With effort, Pharaun controlled his anger. He leaned in close to Jeggred's vile face and said,

"Serve your mistress and I'll serve mine. We'll see who has the right of it at the end of this.

Meanwhile, I'll place a contingency spell on my person. Perhaps you do not know what

'contingency' means? It means that if you put one of your stinking hands on me again-"

"Mage!" Quenthel called again. Pharaun licked his lips, looked back up the tunnel, and slowly stood. Lesson learned, apparently. He wondered if he had passed her test.

Quenthel stood over the illusionary Pharaun, looking down the tunnel at the confrontation between the real mage and Jeggred. Danifae stood behind and beside her.

"Explain yourself," Quenthel ordered.

Pharaun held up the webs and recited the lie without hesitation: "I was gathering material components, Mistress. I used an illusion of myself to avoid alarming your serpents, lest they disturb your sleep."

At that, the serpents hissed, and Qorra drifted up near Quenthel's ear and hissed something.

The high priestess cocked her head and nodded.

Danifae's hooded gaze went from Quenthel, to the stunned and drooling Jeggred, to Pharaun.

Despite her obvious vulnerability at that moment, she showed no fear. The Master of Sorcere wondered if Quenthel would take the opportunity to kill the former battle-captive.

"Not this," the Baenre priestess said. She passed her hand through the illusion, which vanished, then she pointed the haft of her whip at Jeggred. "Explain that."

Pharaun looked down on the draegloth, who seemed at last to be recovering from the effects of the word of power. All four of his hands reflexively clenched and unclenched. His moans grew louder, and his drool pooled on the tunnel floor.

"Ah, that," Pharaun said, and aimed a smile at Danifae. "Without the two of you available to mediate, your nephew and I found ourselves engaged in a … doctrinal dispute. I'm afraid the force of my arguments has left him stunned." He patted the draegloth's head the way he might a pet lizard. "My apologies, Jeggred. All is forgiven now though, not so? We'll simply agree to disagree."

Jeggred managed a growl, and his fighting hands pawed at the hem Pharaun's piwafwi.

"Yes, well. . ahem," Pharaun said, and backed up a step. "There we have it. Friends again."

He walked back up the tunnel and bowed before Quenthel.

"Forgive me for disturbing your Reverie, Mistress," he said.

Quenthel stood silent for a moment before saying, "You did not disturb me, Master

Mizzrym."

Hearing those words, Pharaun understood that he had passed her test. He smirked at Danifae and called to mind another spell as he watched Jeggred come back to himself. Just in case.

The effect of the word of power vanished quickly. Jeggred's breath came hard, and his hands dug furrows into the stone. He climbed to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and fixed his baleful stare on Pharaun.

"I will tear your head from your shoulders!" he roared as he stalked up the tunnel.

"Stop," Quenthel commanded but to no effect.

It was Danifae's raised hand and soft word that halted Jeggred's charge. He stood in the tunnel, staring hate and rage into Pharaun.

"All things in due time," Danifae said and offered the mage a smirk of her own.

"Indeed," Quenthel answered, eyeing her nephew coldly.

Pharaun forced a smile, just to irk the draegloth, though when he looked at Quenthel and

Danifae, he heard Aliisza's troubling words in his mind. Maybe neither of them was the Yor'thae.

Nimor found Crown Prince Horgar at his field headquarters-a large, rough-walled, stalagmite-

dotted cavern in the Dark Dominion not far from the battle lines at Tier Breche. The chamber stank of sweat, blood and the thick smoke from stonefire bombs. Nimor hung near the ceiling of the cavern in his half-dragon form, invisible by virtue of one of his spells.

Squads of duergar streamed in and out of the cavern, coming and going from the battle, their blocky armor ringing, their dusky skin smoke-blackened and bloody. Some were still enlarged-

duergar possessed an innate magical ability to double their size-so Nimor presumed they had just come from the battle.

They spoke to each other in their inelegant language, their voices deep and gravelly. In the conversations, Nimor caught the ripple of a faint undercurrent of fear. Perhaps the duergar forces at last had encountered the spells of a priestess of Lolth. If so, even the tiny intellects encased in their small bald heads must have understood the implications.

Two elderly clerics, each as bent and twisted as a demon's heart, tended the wounded. Nimor didn't know the name of the deity they served and did not care. Occasional explosions in the distance-stonefire bombs and spells, no doubt-occasionally shook the cavern and rained rock dust on the inhabitants.

Prince Horgar stood to one side of the table, bent over a low stone table, looking at a makeshift map of the approaches to Tier Breche and issuing orders to two of his commanders who stood to either side of him. After a few moments of exchanged words, nods, and gestures at the map, the two bald commanders offered agreement with whatever Horgar said, gave him a salute-by thumping their pick hafts against the cavern floor-and stalked off.

Horgar stood alone over the table. He stroked his chin, staring at the map, lost in thought.

Horgar's scarred bodyguard stood near the Prince. He held a bare warhammer, but his slack stance indicated that he expected no threat to his lord. Nimor smiled without mirth and flexed his claws. With the keen senses gifted him through his dragon heritage, Nimor studied the chamber.