"Ghaunadaur who lurks, Ghaunadaur who sees, Ghaunadaur who devours."

Karas mouthed the refrain without giving voice to it. The harsh chirps and hisses of the lizards and the wet slap of clawed feet through mud masked his silence.

He marveled at the contrast. In other cities, merely speaking the Ancient One's name aloud resulted in immediate retribution. Here in Llurth Dreir, it was a different story. Lolth's temples had been scoured clean when an avatar of the Ancient One had risen from Llurthogl, consumed Lolth's faithful, and descended again. Over the centuries since, there had been frequent "spawnings"-eruptions of oozes, slimes, and slugs-ensuring that Lolth's clergy didn't return. At the moment, thankfully, the lake was still and quiet. Its scum-covered surface lay undisturbed, apart from the occasional bubble of foul-smelling gas.

Karas unwound the tentacles from his body and let them trail behind him as he rode. He wheeled his mount with the others as they turned to the black spire of rock that was House Abbylan's keep. Slave hovels fringed the base of it. As the riders drew near the outermost of these shanties, figures scattered like spiders from a torn egg sac. Goblins, kobolds, and orcs-even a handful of pale-skinned humans-flailed through the mud in a panic. Beyond them, House Abbylan's soldiers poured oil through slits in the keep, to prevent the attackers' lizards from scaling its walls.

The priests rode the slaves down, lashing out with their whiplike rods. Slaves collapsed as the tentacles struck them, magic turning muscle to jelly, or loosing a spray of slime that blinded and maimed. Some of the slaves stood dazed and staring, their wits sucked out by the lashing rods. Others leaped, screaming, from tentacles that left bands of fire across their flesh.

Karas lashed out with his rod, the unfamiliar weapon awkward in his grip. By mere chance, he struck a kobold with a tentacle The tiny reptilian squeaked in agony as its bones and cartilage turned as cold as ice, sending it into a stiff-limbed tumble.

Molvayas chanted a gurgling prayer. Rubbery black tentacles, as tall as saplings, sprang from the mud in a long line that extended back to House Philiom's keep. Like slaves picking mushrooms, they plucked the fallen from the mud and passed them back, tentacle to tentacle, toward the keep.

The Gathering had begun.

A gong sounded from the top of the nearby keep. Low and shuddering, it boomed once, twice, thrice. House Abbylan's drawbridge crashed down, sending up a spray of mud. Lizard-mounted riders-garbed in identical tabards, but with green robes instead of purple-raced from the keep.

"Consume them!" Molvayas cried.

Riders slammed spike-spurs into their mounts, sending them leaping at the enemy. Spells flew thick and fast between the slave hovels as the rival groups battled. A roiling wave of conjured slime smashed one of the huts flat and broke against the mount of one of House Philiom's priests. The lizard convulsed, thrashing its tail in agony, but the priest went down laughing, his arms waving above his head as he sang his god's name. A heartbeat later, a dark purple boil burst up through the slime, assumed the vague outline of a drow, and staggered on quivering legs toward the nearest enemy. It wrapped its "arms" around that rider's mount. As the lizard collapsed, its body dissolving, another of House Philiom's priests launched a spell that imploded the rider's head.

Karas spurred his mount between two of the slave hovels, seeking refuge. As soon as he reached a point where the others couldn't see him, he reined his mount to a halt. He threw down his tentacle rod and whispered a prayer to the Masked Lady, healing his frost-burned thumb.

A hiss made him look up. He wasn't the only one back there; Molvayas had followed him. The fanatic had heard Karas's prayer. He bared his stained teeth in a furious grimace. "Imposter!" he howled. His arm jerked up, flicking his tentacle rod back-ready to strike.

Karas shot a poisoned bolt from his wrist-bow, but Molvayas whipped up his shield and gurgled a one-word prayer. The metal shield turned into a shimmering disk made up of droplets, which caused the bolt to dissolve instantly when it struck.

Molyvas smiled and flicked his whip.

"Masked Lady, cloak me!" Karas cried as the tentacles flicked toward him. A sphere of darkness leavened with sparkles of moonlight sprang into being around him. The tentacles smacked into it and glanced aside-all but one, which brushed Karas's left knee, instantly deadening it. His leg muscles felt as though they'd turned to mush. He'd been leaning in that direction, and his left foot slipped out of the stirrup. He toppled sideways to the muddy ground, the weakened leg collapsing beneath him, his right foot still tangled in its stirrup, which had twisted up and over the saddle. The lizard, struck in the tail by a tentacle, twisted around to bite at its weakened, useless tail, dragging Karas behind it.

Molvayas flicked the tentacles back, readying for a second strike. Karas twisted to face his opponent. He spat out foul-tasting mud, pointed, and chanted a prayer. It should have immobilized Molvayas, but the Ghaunadaurian priest somehow shrugged it off. His arm whipped forward, and the tentacles lashed out a second time.

Karas at last yanked his foot out of the stirrup. He tried to roll behind his mount, but wasn't quick enough. Tentacles struck his shoulders and the back of his neck. His arms immediately numbed and fell limp at his sides. His head flopped forward on a loose-boned neck. Gasping, desperately trying to blink the mud from his eyes, he mumbled a prayer through numbed lips. "Masst Laybee, dribe him frum me…"

A foot squelched in the mud next to his ear. Karas twisted around and saw Molvayas looming over him. The tentacles of his rod were coiled around his waist; the handle hung like a sheath at his side. As he chanted, a green tinge appeared around his hands. Slime trickled down to his wrist, then fell, hissing, into the mud next to Karas's ear. In the distance, Karas heard the sounds of battle, and the squelch of his mount limping away.

"See him," Molvayas chanted. "Devour him. Destroy him."

Karas steeled himself. He was ready. A moment more, and he would go to his god-and find out, at long last, if it really was the Lady of the Dance who wore the mask, or if the Shadow Lord wore her.

Molvayas bent down, his slimed fingers splayed. But before he could touch Karas, a cord appeared around his neck and yanked him backward. A bolt of darkfire erupted out of his chest, burning a smoking hole through the eye embroidered on his tabard.

Yet still the priest didn't go down. He clawed at the strangle cord around his neck, choked out a word, and his neck softened to the consistency of jelly. The strangle cord slipped through it and was gone. His neck solid again, Molvayas twisted furiously to meet his opponent, his hands raised to cast a spell.

Karas seized his chance. He flailed with his good leg, snapping it against the back of Molvayas's knee. The priest staggered and toppled sideways, forced to check his fall with his hands. They slid into the foul-smelling mud. Snarling, he reached for his rod. But before the tentacles could uncoil from his body, a second bolt of darkfire caught him square in the mouth and exploded out of the back of his head, carrying bits of brain and skull with it. Molvayas fell over backward with a strangled cry. The rod's tentacles suckled at his smoking remains for a moment, then fell still.

A green-robed drow with distinctive pink eyes stepped over the corpse and kneeled beside Karas. His mud-splattered tabard bore Ghaunadaur's unblinking eye, but the prayer he whispered as he touched Karas's weakened arms, neck and leg was to another god entirely. "Masked Lord," he intoned, "heal him."

Sensation and strength returned. With a shudder, Karas sat up. "My thanks, Valdar. That was close."