"The mortals of Krynn are ever foolish, and now they strive to master their own gods. They think Paladine and the queen will be their saviors, one pitted against the other. But I tell you now: the Father of Chaos himself has been awakened, and his wrath is mighty."

"And he will go to war against his children!" Zarak Thuul saw the promise clearly, clenching a rock hard fist into the palm of his other hand. "Perhaps then may all the legions of Chaos fly to his name!"

"Too, surely the lesser gods must fail in strife against their own father,"' Primus suggested. "For he who gave them life is able to take it away."

"You are right, my fiery pet," the daemon concluded, touching the great wyrm again in affection. "The queen will be occupied with matters elsewhere."

"And thus we, my lord, are free to fly where we wish."

Now the decision was easy.

Zarak Thuul swung gracefully onto the back of the great creature. Tendrils of flame swirled to form a depression, and the daemon sank easily into a comfortable recline. He needed neither saddle nor bridle, for the supple back of the monster shifted obligingly to accommodate the rider. The black of Zarak Thuul's obsidian skin reflected eerily in the cradle of flame, and his eyes glowed like twin spots of burning death, steady and focused and bright even against the inferno that was his monstrous mount.

With a sweep of fire and wing, Primus took to the air. Zarak Thuul crowed aloud, shrieking the wild joy he felt, exulting in the power of the fire dragon's flight, in the speed of ascent. Below lay the tortured domain of the Abyss, realm of the Dark Queen and, for countless eons, the daemon warrior's prison.

But now the mists of ether were a tenuous barrier. He would wait only a little longer, and then he knew that the barrier would part and all the planes of existence would lie open and inviting beyond.

A Thane's House

"Where's my helmet?" Baker Whitegranite whispered to himself. Despite his ill temper, a mood that grew darker with each heartbeat, he kept his voice low. He was not so irritated that he was ready to start a fight with Garimeth, who so far as he knew was napping in the next room.

Instead the dwarf stomped around his spacious study, moving scrolls and parchments, pushing a stack of musty tomes aside, looking under his desk, behind his chair, even in the wooden cabinet that stood near the door. All the while he was cognizant of the steady trickle of the water clock, knowing he had to get down to the Thane's Atrium within two hours. Since it would take nearly half that interval just to descend eighteen levels in the lift, his time was limited.

Exhausting all the crannies in his study, he decided he had no choice but to step through the door to the sitting room, where-predictably-his wife broke from her light slumber and sat bolt upright on the divan beside the cold hearth.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Gari, but I've looked everywhere," he began, watching her carefully but unable to gauge her reaction. He felt the familiar burning in his gut. "Have you seen the Helm of Tongues?"

Garimeth's wide, pale eyes stared at him, and he was once again reminded of the walleyed coldness that was a dark dwarf's gaze. Why it had never bothered him when he was courting her was a question he had long since ceased to ponder. Now he shrugged, nonplussed by her silence.

"I said, I was-"

"I heard you," she snapped, then snorted wryly. "And I wish I had seen the damn thing. I'd enjoy watching you hunt through all the wrong places."

Baker sighed, removing his spectacles to polish them on the hem of his overshirt, letting his watery eyes fasten on his wife's round, pale face, now comfortably blurred.

"It might be in the cedar wardrobe," he declared, ignoring her taunt and moved by a sudden remembrance.

"To the Abyss with your stupid toy!" Garimeth cried, rising to her feet and fixing him with those wide, milky eyes. She stepped closer so that her glare was no longer softened by his astigmatism, "Sometimes I think you would sit there and play with your scrolls and your translations even if the city were falling down around you!"

The words stung, probably because they resonated very close to the truth. Quickly Baker felt the cold, hard shell close around his heart. It was a shield he wore too often, yet even now a trace of the old hurt, the pain that used to wrack his days and torment his nights, broke through the defenses and rose into his voice. He shoved his glasses back onto his face.

"I will be treated with respect!" he declared carefully. "I am the acting thane of the Hylar, and I will not allow you to scorn me!"

"Acting thane? Then why do you spend so much time looking into the past, seeking ancient lairs and forgotten legends?" sneered Garimeth. "It's as though you were afraid of your throne!"

"It is a seat of high honor," Baker snapped. "Until my cousin returns I shall treat it with the respect it deserves-as will my wife!"

"For me to honor the chair I would have to honor the dwarf who holds it." Her tone was as cold as her eyes.

"Why then are you here?" demanded the thane bluntly. "What brought you from the home of your own clan to join me in Hybardin?"

"You had a certain style back then, something I admired." Her tone made it clear that the "something" was no longer a consideration. "And even Hybardin had its appeals for me."

"And still does," he goaded, "compared to the lightless hole of Daerforge."

Her laugh was dry and derisive. "Light is overrated. Besides, I have received word from Daerbardin-where my own brother soon will take hold of a real throne!"

He knew she had her spies and didn't ask how she had gained the information. "Your brother is undoubtedly dead, or he will be soon," he retorted instead, feeling a guilty flush of pleasure as the remark brought a momentary twinge of fear to his wife's small, tight mouth. The throne of Clan Daergar could only be won through a series of deadly duels, and they both knew the odds of a candidate's survival were slim.

Her features twisted, and he saw he had provoked her into a rage. Wildly she looked around, and Baker quickly snatched up her decanter of wine, depriving her of the only ready weapon. And at the same time he felt his own rage erupt. He raised the bottle, ready to throw, and then slowly the emotion faded. Though still burning beneath the power of his self-control, it was no longer a lethal force.

"Why don't you go to your brother now?" he growled. "Leave me, leave the city of the Hylar, and return to the darkness!"

"In a heartbeat, 'my lord thane,' " she mocked. "But for the fact that here I have made my life, and here lives my son!"

The last words broke his shell to pieces and left Baker drained and numb, with no spirit for war with his wife. He turned toward his own dressing chamber, anxious for nothing now but to put distance between himself and his enemy.

He decided to go down to the Thane's Atrium even before he had to. The helm was forgotten as he collected his royal stamp, donned his robe, and departed his house.

Partly to avoid his wife and partly because he needed a touch of serenity, he left through the side door into the garden. Here he took time to relish the cool damp air, the mist swirling along the ceiling that domed up to fifteen feet overhead. As always, the soothing presence of his dark-bred ferns and the clumps of round mushrooms cooled his agitation and steadied his nerves.

The centerpiece of his garden was the fountain that surged gently upward, trickling steadily under natural pressure, waters gathering in a bowl to spill through fluted spouts across a variety of small pools. They were not just any waters, for this was a fountain of phosphorescence, clear liquid that possessed a soft, innate brightness. The streams ran from pool to pool like pathways of pale lights, creating a glowing spiderweb on the floor of the wide garden chamber.