Cavatina shifted her whispered song. As she'd suspected, there was a dark purple aura surrounding the Crescent Blade. Wendonai was back inside it. Yet even as Cavatina watched, a thread of purple found its way back to the scar on Qilue's wrist, and taint began to flow back into her.

So soon? Surely holy water would have a more lingering effect than that.

Unless it had been tainted by a dretch.

That hadn't been Meryl. The halfling would have reacted to Cavatina in some way, giving an inappropriate wave, or saying hello. This "Meryl" had simply given Cavatina a fiat, unrecognizing stare.

Cavatina needed to act-and quickly! This might be her only chance to banish Wendonai while he was still vulnerable, before he fully re-entered the high priestess. Yet she'd had no time to prepare. Wendonai was a balor-the most powerful demon of all. Cavatina would need something more than just her sword or holy symbol to…

Wait a moment! Her eyes fell on the sacred stone atop the pillar. Wendonai had been overly clever in bringing Cavatina and Leliana to the shrine. He'd placed the perfect tool for an exorcism within Cavatina's reach.

Cavatina's fingers flashed. Now!

Leliana swept up her sword and lunged, her weapon pealing its attack-a feint Qilue met with a slash of the Crescent Blade. Their weapons met with a loud crash. Cavatina leaped for the sacred stone. She scooped it from the top of the pillar and hurled it, aiming at the sword in Qilue's hand. "Begone, Wendonai!" she sang. "Return to-"

Silver fire filled the air with a flash of heat. Cavatina heard a crack-the sacred stone had struck the wall. A welter of fragments pattered onto the floor. Blinded by the aftereffects of the bright flash, she leaped forward, trying to locate Qilue by feel.

A strident note wailed past her ear once, twice: Leliana's sword blade.

Cavatina ducked. "Leliana! Hold!"

The sword's singing halted.

Blinking against the streaks that obscured her vision, Cavatina fumbled for the door. Her hand encountered an utterly smooth surface: magic-fused stone-hot enough to scorch her fingertips. She yanked her hand back and sang a hymn, one that should have sent her into the corridor beyond. But Eilistraee didn't answer.

As the room swam into focus, she understood why. The stone door had been fused shut by Qilue's silver fire. On top of that, the entire chamber was glowing. Bright green light sparkled from within the floor, ceiling, and walls: a magical barrier, just like the one Cavatina had seen when she'd been ethereal.

Qilue had disappeared, and they were trapped.

Cavatina turned to Leliana. "The demon's escaped!"

"That was a demon? A demon took Qilue's form?"

"Worse than that," Cavatina answered grimly. "That is Qilue, but only partially. A balor is sharing her body."

"Eilistraee save us," Leliana whispered, her face paling to gray. Her singing sword let out a mournful peal. She looked around. "Why didn't it kill us?"

It was a good question. But Cavatina didn't have time to speculate. With an urgent whisper, she tried sending a warning to Rylla.

No answer came.

Cavatina tried contacting Horaldin-the druid knew spells that would soften stone, and would soon have them out of here-but he also failed to answer.

Cavatina glanced around the shrine that had become their prison, furious at herself for having become trapped here. The battle-mistress needed her. Rylla was adept at exorcism and a skillful swordswoman, but she would be facing the Crescent Blade, backed up by Qilue's silver fire.

Cavatina bowed her head and prayed. Eilistraee, surely, could still hear her. "Grant Rylla the strength she needs to do battle in your name, Dark Maiden. Shield her, and strengthen her sword arm."

"By song and sword," Leliana whispered.

Cavatina hoped it wasn't already too late for their prayers.

Karas yanked the reins of his riding lizard to stop it from snapping at the tail of the mount in front. All around him, the twenty-six other priests who would ride out to the Gathering did the same. Their lizards, cramped together in the portico, were restless and aggressive as they waited for the drawbridge to fall.

A novice in oversized purple robes hurried into the portico, carrying a lacquered black tray. On it was a whiplike tentacle rod and the ring that controlled it. With eyes downcast, the boy halted next to Karas and lifted the tray.

Karas caught the eye of the priest on the mount next to him and feigned a greedy smile. "Mine?"

The priest-a greasy-haired, hollow-cheeked drow named Molvayas-smiled, revealing brown, stained teeth. "Yours. To replace the one you lost."

The brownish red tentacles of the priest's rod were coiled over one shoulder and around his chest; their suckers puckered the fabric of his tabard. They sucked and released the purple-encircled eye embroidered on the front of the tunic as if nursing from it. His shield bore the same symbol.

Karas could feel the other priests watching him out of the corners of their eyes. This was a test. He reached for the ring: a band of black obsidian, set with an equally dark stone. The bitterly cold ring stuck to his sweat-damp fingers. He jammed it onto his left thumb and tore his fingers away. Cold shot through his thumb to the bone, turning the meat of his thumb a dull gray. With a thought, he adjusted its color back to black.

He held up his thumb and flexed it-a motion that would draw the others' scrutiny away from his other hand as it surreptitiously brushed against the belt that cinched in his tabard: a belt that was actually his disguised holy symbol. Masked Lady, he silently prayed. Lend me strength.

Feeling returned to his thumb.

He grabbed the rod's leather-bound handgrip. Finger-thick, rubbery tentacles uncoiled and animated as he lifted the rod from the tray. When he held it at arm's length, the tentacles brushed back and forth against the slate floor, leaving streaks of frost in their wake. He flicked the rod, and a shiver ran through the tentacles. They snapped briefly to attention, then relaxed again and suckered the floor with faint wet pops.

"A fine weapon," he said. "My thanks to House Philiom."

"Gather well," Molvayas said.

Karas flicked the weapon a second time as he waited, and a third, pretending to admire the balance of its long metal shaft and the suppleness of its three black tentacles. At last he had to coil the weapon around his body, lest the others become suspicious. He suppressed his shudder at the touch of its tentacles against his skin.

Without warning, thuds sounded as the House boys on either side of the drawbridge slammed sledge hammers to release the pegs that held its counterweights. Chains rattled, and the drawbridge fell with a tremendous boom. En masse, the riding lizards surged forward, their riders urging them onward with hisses. The novice who'd handed Karas the rod gasped as a lizard knocked him down. He screamed as scrabbling claws shredded his tabard and back into a bloody fringe. The screaming fell behind as Karas's riding lizard surged onto the drawbridge with the rest.

The sour smell of green slime rose to Karas's nostrils as his mount crossed the moat. Soon it was replaced by the fetid stench of the manure in House Philiom's mushroom fields. The riders poured out of the black spire that was House Philiom's keep, their riding lizards' clawed feet sending up a splattering of mud that fouled the hems of their robes. Startled slaves rose from their mushroom picking to watch the mounts pass.

Karas wheeled his lizard past the slave hovels, blinking away smoke from the smudge fires the slaves used to keep midges at bay. Soon the hovels fell behind. The riders emerged onto the wide expanse of silt that covered the floor of the low-ceilinged cavern. As their lizards scuttled forward in a blur of legs and claws, the priests gibbered the name of their god, spittle flying from their lips.