This time, Leliana shucked off her chain mail and cast it aside. She yanked her padded tunic over her head, hurled it onto the ooze, and repeated her prayer. Cracks radiated outward across the body of the ooze as the ice flames "burned" into it. The ooze tried to extend an appendage, but its skin cracked apart, and the limb fell to the floor. It shattered, with the chunks dulling like nearly extinguished coals.

One more time. That would finish it.

Naxil was no longer screaming.

Leliana yanked off her shirt and hurled it onto the ooze. "Eilistraee!" she shouted as her hand swept down for the third time. The flames burning the shirt turned from red to blue, and the ooze roared in anguish.

Then it exploded.

Chunks of cooling ooze flew off in all directions. One slammed into Leliana's shoulder, knocking her off her feet. Pain flared in her elbows as she struck the floor.

She rolled over as the smell of scorched hair filled her nostrils. And something more: burning flesh.

Naxil groaned. Low and deep.

She scrambled to his side. He lay face down. Leliana rolled him over, tore open his armor, and examined his chest. The burns there were so deep his flesh had been charred black; he'd need restorative magic to heal them. She tore his smoldering mask from his face and cast it aside. As she did this, she felt heat radiating from his face-it seemed to be flowing out of his nostrils and mouth. Something was happening to him. Something odd. Even those parts of his body that hadn't been directly struck by the creature were affected. Something pulsed under his skin, leaving tiny blisters that formed a tracery across his skin, like veins.

Those were his veins. They were glowing. Hot as fire.

Terrified, Leliana began a healing prayer. Before she could finish it, Naxil's veins erupted. Liquid fire oozed from the furrows, charring the surrounding flesh. More liquid fire oozed from his nostrils. A faint, sizzling noise filled the air: Naxil's eyes, cooking in their sockets.

"Eilistraee! Aid him!" Leliana cried, one hand on Naxil's forehead, the other extended to the place where the moon would be in the realms above.

Twined light and shadow swept down into the cavern, into Leliana, and on into Naxil. Eilistraee's healing energy played about the body of the grievously wounded Nightshadow like a sparkle of ice in the moonlight, halting the burning within. As his body cooled, his veins lost their fiery glow. The trickles of liquid fire coming from his nostrils crusted over and fell away, and the burns in his body closed over. He was left, however, with terrible scars-and eyes that could no longer see. That was something Leliana couldn't repair here; it would have to wait until they got back to the temple.

"Thank… you," he gasped.

"Don't thank me," Leliana told him, wishing she could have intervened sooner-before he'd lost his eyes. "It's Eilistraee who saved your life." She touched his arm. "Can you stand?"

"I think so."

She helped him to his feet. He was remarkably steady, considering what he'd just been through. He moved with a certainty that suggested he'd been trained in blind fighting. He cocked his head, listening, as Leliana retrieved her singing sword. It lay next to the ooze's crusted remains. Even through the leather-wrapped hilt, the weapon felt hot. She noted the warp the creature's heat had left in the blade. It would no longer fit in her scabbard.

"What now?" Naxil asked.

"We press on," Leliana told him. She described for him what he couldn't see. "The ooze retreated back into the crevice before it died, and it's formed a natural bridge across the gap. As soon as it's cool enough, we can cross."

He nodded and touched his face. "My mask?"

"Burned."

His hand fell away. He turned his head, but she saw his stricken look just the same.

She took his hand and placed it on her shoulder. "We need to get moving," she said softly. "Get back to the Promenade and report what we've seen down here."

"The oozes," Naxil said grimly. "Ghaunadaur's minions. They're escaping from the Pit."

Leliana shuddered. "Let's pray the Ancient One isn't next."

Cavatina made her way through the Hall of the Priestesses, a cavern filled with a soft blue-white light emanating from lichens on its ceiling and walls. Glowballs-off-white hemispheres that waxed and waned with the moon's cycles-studded the buildings. The combined illumination made the cavern as bright as a moonlit night in the World Above.

The buildings she passed-originally part of a Netherese outpost in the Underdark-had lain buried in rubble for seventeen centuries before Qilue and her companions excavated them and made them part of the Promenade. Constructed in terraced layers like a series of blocks stacked largest to smallest, the buildings were four stories high. Much of their original decoration had been smashed when the magic supporting the ceiling had dissipated at the time of Netheril's fall, but here and there Cavatina saw the grooves of what had once been a fluted column, or fragments of the friezes that had once adorned every wall.

Nearly two and a half decades of labor by Eilistraee's faithful had restored the buildings to a usable state, here and elsewhere in the Promenade. Now each bore the goddess's symbol above its front door: a silver long sword, set point-upright against the circle of a full moon haloed with streaks of white.

Priestesses and lay worshipers alike strode the streets, the former on their way to services in the Cavern of Song, the latter hurrying about their errands. Most of the priestesses were drow; only a handful were drawn from the elven races of the World Above. But the lay worshipers came from a multitude of races. Many had been rescued from the holds of slave ships, or from the flesh markets of Skullport. Each had turned, in gratitude, to the Dark Maiden's faith. The other priestesses saluted Cavatina, while the lay worshipers bowed low. Awed whispers followed in her wake.

Cavatina spotted a familiar face: Meryl, Qilue's halfling cook. The little female with the mop of tangled gray hair padded along on bare feet to the high priestess's house, a basket tucked under one arm. Cavatina altered course so their paths would cross.

Meryl's wrinkled face creased in a grin as she spotted the Darksong Knight. "Hello, Cavatina! It's been a while."

Cavatina arched an eyebrow. " 'Cavatina?' " she echoed. "Not, 'Most Esteemed Darksong Knight, Slayer of Selvetarm?' " she continued in a teasing voice.

Meryl laughed and waved a hand. "Yes, yes, that too. It's just hard to remember, sometimes. I still see, when I look at you, the babe Jetel danced with in her arms. Though"-she craned her neck, looking up-"you get taller and skinnier each time I see you. You're thin as a sword blade. You really should eat more."

Cavatina smiled. Though the halfling was a mere lay worshiper, Meryl never-ever-used formal titles. She even addressed Lady Qilue by her first name.

"So what brings you to the Promenade?" Meryl continued. "Slain any demons lately? How are things in the Chondalwood? Are the elves still prevailing?"

Cavatina held up her hands, as if overwhelmed by the barrage of questions. Meryl seldom asked only one her tongue ran faster than her feet, more often than not. "Rylla's summons. Three yochlols. Good. And yes."

Meryl's head bobbed in a series of nods. She shifted her basket, and Cavatina heard metal clink inside it.

"Don't tell me you're stealing the silverware again," Cavatina teased. The jibe wouldn't sting Meryl, who prided herself on her stout-hearted loyalty. She'd been Qilue's cook for decades, and personally tasted every ingredient for poison before using it. A simple prayer of detection would have accomplished the same result, but Meryl insisted on putting her life on the line. If poison took her, she said, she'd go to Eilistraee's realm happy and content-and with a full stomach.