No matter. Halisstra picked up the demonic looking priestess and tucked her under one arm. There were songs Halisstra could sing, later, that would remove the sword from those hands. And then she would use the sword to kill the interloper.

From there, who knew what might be possible? Perhaps Halisstra would finish what she'd started, so many years ago. Kill Lolth-and maybe Eilistraee too, while she was at it. Anything was within her grasp, now that the Crescent Blade had been returned to her.

Shrieking with laughter, she hurried back to her temple.

Naxil struggled to rise. He wasn't held by ropes or chains-something he might have escaped-but by magic. The fanatics had bound him with words. "Follow," they'd said, and he had. "Kneel," they'd ordered, and he had. Now, "Drink."

He tried to wrench his head aside, but couldn't. Compelled by magic, he gulped down the licorice-flavored drug the green-robed fanatic tipped into his mouth. As the drug took hold, the world slanted dizzily this way and that. Though his body hadn't physically altered, it now felt like a puddle of molten wax, soft and compliant. A numbness settled on his mind, quieting the screaming voice within. He smiled. Drool trickled down his chin.

Part of him knew there was nothing to smile about-and everything to scream about. He'd only joined the Masked Lady's faith a year ago, but he'd lived in the Promenade long enough to appreciate the terrible stillness that had settled upon the Cavern of Song. The chorus of voices that had filled it with sacred music and moonlight since its founding had been extinguished, and it was no longer a holy place. Now it was blasphemed by oozes and slimes, and by the presence of Ghaunadaur's fanatics. One of them-a stunted male in purple robes whose tentacle rod clung to his body like a leech-stared at the captives from a hovering driftdisc. He smiled gleefully as he savored their humiliation.

Naxil would have choked the life from him, were it not for the magic that held him fast and the drug that sent the world spinning. He consoled himself with the knowledge he'd fought well, with dagger and spellsong. After shaking off the charm the green-eyed male had cast on him, he'd personally killed three of Ghaunadaur's cultists. He'd danced from shadow to shadow, attacking from behind, avoiding the oozes and targeting their masters. He'd kept fighting long after realizing the battle was already lost. He'd prayed, then, that death would find him-that he'd make his way to the Masked Lady's side and sit in her cool, calming shadow.

In the end, despite those fervent prayers, despite his valiant struggles, he'd been captured, not killed. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer. Eilistraee grant that whatever happened next, it happened quickly.

Dozens of other captives kneeled or lay nearby-most of them lay worshipers routed from the Hall of the Faithful after the bubbling ooze had bored through the songwalls. Naxil spotted Jub, the half-orc, and several others he knew by name. Those too badly wounded to walk had been left to die The remainder were forced, like Naxil, to drink. There was even a Protector in their ranks, her chain mail hanging in tatters and her singing sword gone. It wasn't Leliana-Naxil had searched anxiously for her among the captives, but failed to spot her. He prayed she'd gone to Eilistraee's grace via a quick death.

Oozes slithered back and forth across the Cavern of Song, reducing the bodies of the fallen to puddles of sizzling flesh. The fanatic on the driftdisc, meanwhile, ordered the captives to their feet. "Follow," he commanded.

Together with the others, Naxil shuffled after the driftdisc. A second fanatic walked beside the line of captives lashing out with his whiplike rod at those who lagged. The amber-colored tentacles struck the moon elf next to Naxil, and she screamed as her skin burst into flame. Naxil tried to catch her, but the drug he'd been forced to drink made him stagger, and the words to his healing spell tangled together in his mind. The moon elf fell to the ground, her pale skin charred black. The reek of cooking meat filled the air.

The fanatic raised his rod to lash Naxil. As his arm whipped forward, another fanatic caught it and said something to him. The first one's aim was thrown off and just one tentacle struck Naxil's shoulder. He gasped as its heat seared into his flesh. The intense pain gave him a moment of clarity, and he whispered a song. Flesh knitted together. His mind cleared fully as Eilistraee's healing grace pushed the drug from his body. Yet the magical compulsion remained. Obedient as a soldier, he marched behind the driftdisc. He passed the fallen statue of Qilue-its face now reduced to a rounded blob by the slithering oozes-and descended into the spiral staircase the statue had once hidden.

Together with the other captives, he wound his way downward. The narrow staircase forced them into single file. Naxil heard the driftdisc scraping against stone up ahead, but couldn't see it. Nor could he see the fanatic who brought up the rear. Now was his moment-while they weren't watching. He sang a prayer, rendering himself invisible.

They reached the bottom of the staircase and entered a cavern. Naxil knew of this place, but had never entered it: this was the cavern at the top of Eilistraee's Mound. There should have been a dancing statue here, sealing the Pit, but Naxil couldn't see it. A dozen fanatics formed a circle around the spot where it should have stood. A thick purple mist filled the cavern, blurring his view. Naxil smelled acid. His nostrils stung. He barely stifled a retch that might have given him away. The captives coughed weakly, their eyes tearing in the acid-tinged air.

The fanatic leading the captives ordered them to stand against the wall. Naxil complied-slowly and heavily. The mist held a magic that slowed movement to a snail's pace. He winced as fragments of stone crunched under his boots, and prayed the fanatics wouldn't notice the dents his invisible feet made. He tried desperately to think of a way to break free.

The fanatic on the driftdisc stepped off it and joined those who had circled around the spot where the statue should have been. His arms lifted, and the others drew breath. At his signal they chanted in an impossibly slow drone.

The chanting intensified. The mist roiled. It swirled above the Pit, coalescing into a knot that became an eye, as large as a serving platter. The eye blinked open, emitting a dull orange light that illuminated the fanatic leading the chant. Immediately, he prostrated himself on the rubble. Slowly, the eye rotated, its sickly light washing over the fanatics one by one. Each fell to his knees in turn, crying out the Ancient One's name.

"Ghaunadaur, Ghaunadaur, Ghaunadaur…"

Naxil stared, horrified. The puddle of orange-purple light didn't quite extend to the captives. He knew, instinctively, that Ghaunadaur considered them unworthy, beneath even its contempt. Naxil's stomach felt watery and weak, and his head swam even without the drug. Tears poured down his cheeks, soaking his mask. Beside him, the other captives wept softly.

He touched his mask to steady himself, and saw a hazy smudge: his hand, becoming visible. Hastily, he renewed his prayer, rendering himself invisible again.

The eye completed its rotation. Then it "spoke" in a voice that slithered into Naxil's mind like a damp, unwelcome slug.

Clear the Pit.

The fanatics closest to the Pit laid hands on the jumbled stone and chanted. The others touched their backs, and joined in the prayer. Chips of rock melted into mud. A stench like manure filled the cavern. The fanatics closest to the Pit made paddling motions with their hands. The mud churned. Foul-smelling steam boiled from it, rendering the air in the cavern hot and humid. The puddle of mud sagged, twisted like water down a drain, and revealed the top of a shaft with utterly smooth, glasslike walls.