Wolves gathered on the rocks, surrounding the stag and the pool, knowing that the prey was trapped. Yet some silent compulsion held the hungry predators at bay. Glittering eyes watched with keen intelligence as the stag's muzzle touched the surface of the water; long, panting tongues flopped loosely as the carnivores waited for their prey to drink.

For a long time, the great deer lapped at the waters of the Moonwell, and when finally it had drunk its fill it stepped away, mounting the steps toward the leader. The stag raised its head, baring the shaggy throat, uttering a final, triumphant bellow at the powdery clouds that had gathered in the sky.

When the leading wolf bit into that exposed neck, he did so almost tenderly. The kill was quick and clean, the predator ignoring the red blood that warmed his jaws, that should have inflamed his hunger and passion with its fresh and welcoming scent. Instead, the wolf raised his own head, fixed bright eyes on the same clouds that had been the last things seen by the mighty stag. A long howl ululated across the moor, and the leader was joined by the rest of his pack in a song of joy and worship, in music that hailed their mother and their maker.

When the pack finally fell to feeding, the blood of the stag ran down the rocky steps in crimson rivers. Though the wolves numbered an uncountable throng, now, there was meat for them all. With a sense of powerful satiation, each predator, after eating its fill, drank from the milky waters of the pool.

The feasting went on for more than a day, and at last the brightness of the full moon rose above the glimmering waters. Pups were born under that light, and youngsters frolicked around the fringes of a mighty gathering.

The red blood mingled with the waters of the Moonwell, and the goddess saw and celebrated with her children. The bold sacrifice of the stag was, to her, a thing of beauty-and with the mighty animal's blood was the water of her Moonwell consecrated.

And the balance of her living children maintained.

Alien C. Kupfer

"The vagabond has lied to us!"

Llewellyn the Loquacious felt the cold waters of the River Ghalagar soak through his clothes, through his black-brown hair, and through his narrow, all-too-human frame.

"Drown him like the rodent he is!"

A halfling heel pressed down on the side of his neck. Water splashed onto his face, into his eyes and mouth.

"Lie to us, will you? Hold him under the water. Let the fish swim in his lungs!"

He thought this might be the end. This time, he feared, there would be no way out, no escape. Not with this adventuring band of halflings thirsty for revenge. No, indeed!

The hair-covered foot on his neck was joined by another on the side of his head. The weight forced his head into the sand at the river's bottom. Other weights-several other halflings-pinned the rest of his body down. As the water rushed into his ears, he could no longer hear the voices calling out. And though he struggled, the combined weight of the halflings was too great for him.

He could hold his breath no more, and bubbles full of life-breath escaped from his lungs, exited through his mouth and nostrils, rose in the water, and burst at the surface of the river. Wide-eyed and terrified, he watched their ascent.

Perhaps, he thought, I shouldn't have sent this band of adventurers to seek the silver key. Perhaps I could have acquired Zalathorn's amulet on my own, without trying to distract these halflings; after all, Zalathorn, great and beneficent wizard-king that he is, said I could keep the amulet for my very own if I chose to. Perhaps sending them off into the Swamp of Ahklaur so that I could search their camp was not a good idea-no, not a particularly smart notion at all-even if I did find the amulet, which I now have in the pocket of my very wet robe…

Water filled his lungs, and the weight en various points of his body seemed to lessen. He thought it must have been the relief of death.

But strong fingers grabbed the long hair on his head and yanked him up over the surface of the water. He coughed up the water in his lungs, and the cold evening air brought him back to full consciousness. That was when he noticed the halfling shouting had ceased; in fact, once the water dripped from his ears, he could hear only one voice, that of the band's leader: Black Indio.

"… not hear me, my friend?" Black Indio, though a self-styled rapscallion, was no more daunting than any half-ling: fuzzy feet shadowed beneath a portly belly clothed in green homespun, wispy beard framing a face more fey than fanatic.

Llewellyn coughed out the last of the liquid.

"I said," Indio repeated, slapping the top of Llewellyn's head, "can you not hear me? Has your bath made you deaf?"

Indio's followers laughed. Llewellyn took a deep breath.

"No, I can hear you, you blackhearted, ungrateful cur!" he answered. Not having time to think about tactics- whether humility or boldness would be more appropriate at this time-Llewellyn opted for the latter. He silently prayed he wasn't creating even more trouble for himself.

"I am hurt, my friend!" Indio protested, his shaggy hair glowing with the light of the halfling campfire. "Blackhearted? Yes, no one can be more blackhearted than I when I choose to be. That's how I earned the title Black Indio, or more correctly, Indio the Black! Right now, I don't choose to be. And ungrateful? You cut me to the quick!"

"Do I?" Llewellyn asked. "Do I? I do? Indeed! Your band of cutthroats try to drown me! And why? I ask you why? I told you where you could find the silver key in the swamp; just because you couldn't find it-couldn't follow directions, most likely-is no fault of mine, I do declare! Yet your band of…"

"But we did find it."

"… hooligans throw me into the river…"

"I say, we did find it."

"… and nearly bury my head in the… What? What did you say?"

"We found it. We found the charm."

"You did?" Llewellyn coughed out loud to cover his surprise. "Of course you did. Just as I said, exactly the way I told you you would." Can my luck be holding? he wondered. Can this be possible?

"I'm not sure I know how to work it, though," Indio exclaimed.

"May I see it?" Indio handed it to him as he finally rose to his feet, water dripping from every inch of him.

It was a rather large key with three holes forged in it, where gems should be… but weren't. Llewellyn recognized the key immediately. Yes, the wheel of fortune was definitely turning in his favor. So much so that it worried him.

"I sent some of my troop back early," Indio explained. "The damned piranha were nibbling them away to nothing. I'm afraid that by the time they got back here, they were a bit overzealous. Remember, we hadn't found the key at that time, and all of my band-myself included- wanted to stuff a few live piranha down your throat for sending us into that godless swamp for nothing."

"How charming! How positively charitable of you!"

"But the moment we found it, I hurried back to camp, fearing what might be done to you in my absence."

"Thank you so excessively much," Llewellyn said sarcastically. "I take it back. It was a most grievous error on my part. You're not ungrateful at all."

"But I am still… Black Indio!" he shouted, drawing his sword and pointing it at the sky. His troop repeated the action, and in unison shouted, "Black Indio!"

"Come out of the water and sit by the fire, my friend," Indio said. "And tell me again of this key."

Llewellyn followed him to the campfire and sat close to it. In a few moments, its heat removed the chill from his bones.

"Bring our friend a drink," Indio commanded. Turning to Llewellyn, he continued: "This key, I believe you said, can unlock a chest of wealth somewhere in the mountains, just west of Zoundar. Am I correct?"