It was raining souls.

All around Pharaun, one after another, transparent wraiths dropped from the burning sky onto the blasted sand of the Plain of Infinite Portals. He could pick out representatives of a thousand different races. Some he recognized, and some he didn't. There was everythingfrom the lowliest kobold to enormous giants, humans by the hundreds, and no shortage of duergar. Pharaun could only hope that the latter were coming straight from the siege of Menzoberranzan.

Someone stepped close to him, and the Master of Sorcere turned to look. It was then that he realized he was lying on his back on the uncomfortably hot sand looking up. The wispy shade of a departed soul passed by him. The newly dead orc looked down but didn't seem to see Pharaun. Maybe the creature didn't care. It was headed to some porcine hell to serve its grunting god or demon prince, probably as a light supper. So what if it passed a sleeping dark elf along the way?

Pharaun blinked, expecting the passing orc to at least kick sand in his face, but the thing's feet were as insubstantial as they looked, and it made no sign of its passing on the dead ground. The Master of Sorcere slowly rose to a sitting position under painful protest from a dozen muscles, at least three of which he hadn't realized he possessed.

Taking a deep breath, he looked around.

The wreckage of the ship of chaos seemed oddly suited to their surroundings. Jagged fingers of bleached-white bone stood up like a more substantial line of souls against the red sky. The parts of the ship that had been alive with blood and breath sat shriveled and gray on the unforgiving sand.

Jeggred stood slouched in the center of the wrecked ship, his wild mane of white hair blowing madly in the hot wind. The draegloth stared at Pharaun expectantly. He looked even more battered and bruised, and he was bleeding again from a number of small wounds.

Danifae stepped out from behind the enormous half-demon. She held a long shard of broken bone and was dusty and disheveled but otherwise looked no worse for wear. The battle-captive looked down at the bone fragment she carried then absently tossed it to the ground where it clattered to a stop amid a myriad of shards like it. Danifae followed Jeggred's eyes to Pharaun.

The sound of a sigh startled the mage, and he spun, still sitting, to see Valas crouched next to him. He hadn't seen or heard the scout approach.

"Are you injured?" the mercenary asked him.

The scout's voice rose and fell on the wind, sounding distant though it came from only the few inches between his lips to Pharaun's ear.

"No," Pharaun answered, hearing his own voice echo in the same way. "I'm quite fine, actually. Thank you for asking, Master Hune."

"I'm no one's master," Valas replied, not looking the mage in the eye.

He stood and began to wander slowly back in the direction of the debris field. Pharaun asked of all three of them, "Has anyone seen Quenthel?"

"I will thank you," Quenthel said from behind him, "to refer to me as 'Mistress.' "

Pharaun didn't bother to turn. Quenthel walked past him, looking all around, apparently not giving the mage a second thought.

"My apologies, Mistress," he said. "I will extend Ma . . . Valas's question to the rest of you. Are you all all right?"

Quenthel, Danifae, and Jeggred variously shrugged, nodded, or ignored him, and Pharaun decided that was good enough.

"Frankly," Pharaun added, "I'm utterly shocked we survived that crash. That was impressive, even by my standards. What an entrance."

The others only sneered at him, except Valas, who shrugged and began to shift though the wreckage.

"Yes, quite an entrance, but I'm getting worried about our exit," Danifae said. "How do you plan to get us back?"

Pharaun opened his mouth to speak then clamped his teeth shut.

He didn't say anything to Danifae but assumed his silence was explanation enough. Pharaun had no idea how they were going to get back to their home plane, home world, and home city without the ship of chaos.

"Lolth," Quenthel said, "will provide."

No one looked at the high priestess or commented on how little faith was evident in her voice.

Danifae scanned around her and up into the air as the phantasms continued to drop from the sky, only to form columns then pitch themselves headlong into one of the endless array of black, puckered pits that looked like bottomless craters scattered around them as far as the eye could see in all directions. None of them were marked in any way that Pharaun recognized, and he hadn't the faintest clue which of the pits would take them to the Demonweb Pits, the sixty-sixth layer of that endless infernal plane.

"What are they?" Danifae asked, looking around at the falling apparitions.

"The dead," Quenthel answered, her voice barely audible through all the unnatural echoes that the air around them threw in and around her words.

"Departed souls from all over the Prime," Pharaun added. "Anyone who served one of the Abyssal gods in life will pass through here then jump into the appropriate portal and they're on their way. Each of these pits leads to a different layer, almost an entirelydifferent world. There are an endless number of them. This plain literally goes on into infinity in all directions."

Jeggred snorted, stood, and shook blood, water, and sand from his fur.

"So?" the draegloth asked.

Pharaun shrugged and said, "Actually I was hoping you could tell us more, Jeggred. After all you were sired by a native of the Abyss, and even a half-blooded tanar'ri should have some sensitivity to-"

"Never been here," the draegloth grunted. "You've mentioned my sire for the last time, too, wizard."

Pharaun was interrupted before he could answer the draegloth's unsubtle threat. "How do we find the right one?" Danifae asked. "The right portal, mean.

Jeggred growled once and said, "There is only one entrance for each layer, but there are an infinite number of layers. We could bestanding right next to the pit that will take us to the Demonweb Pits, or it could be a thousand miles or more in any direction ... a million miles even."

"Not likely, actually," said Pharaun, "but thank you for the vote of confidence anyway, honored half-breed-" Danifae put a hand on Jeggred's arm when the draegloth lurched for Pharaun at the sound of that word-"but I was guiding the ship, at least up until the very end there, and I was willing it not simply to take us to the Plain of Infinite Portals but to the one portal that would take us where we wanted to go. Even though we crashed, we must be close by it. The ship was moving us at least in its general direction before things went astray."

"Well it's good to know that you're not entirely inept, Pharaun," Quenthel said, her voice louder and oddly more confident than it had been in a long while, "but I will take it... take us, from here."

Pharaun watched another ghostly orc step past him. It dropped into a deep back hole in the ground. There was no sound, nothing at all to signal that it had hit bottom or that anything had happened to it at all. It was gone.

"My first instinct," Valas said, "would be to pick out a column of drow and follow them."

"Do you see any drow?" Quenthel asked.

"No," Danifae whispered.

The sound of her voice made Pharaun's skin crawl.

"So what do we do?" the draegloth asked.

"Follow me," the high priestess replied. "I'll know the right pit when I see it."

"How?" Pharaun asked.

Quenthel said, "I've passed through it before."

The Mistress of Arach-Tinilith set out before any of them realized she meant to leave right away. Danifae and Jeggred watched her go then shared a look that made it obvious that neither of them believed the high priestess.

Valas followed her, as did Pharaun, albeit as reluctantly as Danifae and Jeggred.

Aliisza watched from a safe distance as the dark elves brushed themselves off and regrouped.

Have I underestimated you? she thought, watching Pharaun struggle to his feet. She whispered, "Probably not," to herself and mulled over her next move.

Kaanyr Vhok's instructions were clear, even if they hadn't included helping the drow get to the Abyss in the first place. She was supposed to watch them, so she would do that at least until she got bored.

Aliisza looked out over the Plain of Infinite Portals, the gateway to the Abyss, and sighed. It had been a very long time since she'd been home, and at first it looked the same. She watched the ship of chaos fall through a red sky she used to fly through asa girl, then crash on sand she once sculpted into monsters from faraway universes-monsters like solars, ki-rin, and humans. It looked the same, but it wasn't-not quite.

Perhaps she had spent too much time with the goddess-obsessed dark elves, but Aliisza was sure there was something different about the Abyss, as if a piece of it were missing.

The feeling didn't make sense, and it confused the alu-fiend and made her uncomfortable, so she pushed it out of her mind.

Aliisza forced herself to smile even though she didn't feel like smiling, as she followed the drow from a safe distance and invisible.

The alu-fiend wasn't the only demonic creature that watched the drow just then. Another looked on from a similar far vantage point, cloaked in invisibility and other defensive spells. The creature seethed with hatred.

Floating in the air high above the Plain of Infinite Portals, the glabrezu touched the ruined stump of its legs and growled, "Soon, drow. Soon . . ."

Halisstra ran a finger along the warm, glowing edge of the Crescent Blade and marveled at its beauty. It was a magnificent weapon, and one she would never feel worthy of. Ryld should have drawn that blade, not her. Ryld would have known what to do with it.

The Melarn priestess felt the absence of her lover in a physically painful way. There was an emptiness in her chest that burned, that ached, that throbbed with uncertainty and longing, and a host of other emotions both alien and familiar. "If you can't do it," Feliane whispered to her, "you need to tell me now. Now, before we go any farther."

Halisstra looked up at Feliane and her eyesight blurred with tears.

"Tell me," the Eilistraeen prodded.

Halisstra wiped her eyes and said, "I can do it."

The elf priestess stared at her, waiting for Halisstra to go on.

Halisstra looked down at her tear-soaked hand with blurred vision. Her eyes were hot, her throat so tight it was painful. She hadn't done much crying in her life and had certainly never cried over the fate of a male, a soldier . . . anyone. I've changed, she thought. I am changing.

"He didn't want me to," Halisstra whispered.

"He wanted you to go back to the Underdark," said Uluyara, "if not to Lolth." Halisstra looked up at the drow priestess. Uluyara stood in the doorway, framed by the blinding twilight behind her. She was dressed for battle, covered in tokens made of feathers, sticks, and shards of bone. Halisstra nodded, and Uluyara stepped in.

The drow priestess crossed to the bed that Halisstra had once shared with Ryld Argith and kneeled. She took Halisstra's chin in one rough-fingered hand, holding her gently and forcing their eyes to meet.

"If they killed him," Uluyara said, "it's but another reason to do what you've been doing, another reason to leave them behind at least and defeat them forever if possible."

"By killing Lolth?" asked Halisstra.

"Yes," answered Feliane, who still stood leaning against the weed-covered wall, also dressed for battle and for a long journey.

"I need you to tell me something," Halisstra asked, her eyes darting back and forth between the two women. "I need you to tell me that this is possible, I mean even remotely possible."

Uluyara smiled and shrugged, but Feliane said, "It's possible."

Both Halisstra and Uluyara looked over at her.

"Anything is possible," Feliane explained, "with the right tools and with a goddess on your side."

"Eilistraee can't go where we're going," Halisstra said, "not to the Demonweb Pits."

"No, she can't," Uluyara agreed. "That's why she's sending us."

"If we die there," Halisstra asked Uluyara, who dropped her hand from the priestess's chin, "what becomes of us?"

"We go to Eilistraee," Uluyara replied.

Halisstra could hear the certainty in the drow's reply and see it in her eyes. "I don't know that for sure," Halisstra said.

"So," said Feliane, "what do you know for sure?"

Halisstra looked at her and the elf returned the gaze with almost perfect stillness.

"I know . . ." Halisstra began even as she was thinking it through. "I know that Lolth abandoned me and was a cruel mistress who let our city, our way of life fall into ruin, perhaps simply to satisfy some whim. I know that her temple on the sixty-sixth layer is sealed and there are no departed souls there. I know that eternity is closed off to me, thanks to her."

"What has changed?" asked Feliane.

Halisstra looked at Uluyara when she said, "Eilistraee."

"Eilistraee hasn't changed," Uluyara whispered.

"No," Halisstra agreed, "I have."

Uluyara smiled, and so did Halisstra, then the Melarn priestess began to cry. "I miss him," she said through a sob.

Uluyara put a hand on Halisstra's neck and drew her closer until their foreheads touched.

"Would you have been able to miss him," asked Uluyara, "if you were still Halisstra Melarn, First Daughter of House Melarn of Ched Nasad, Priestess of Lolth? Would that ever have entered into your mind?"

"No," Halisstra replied without hesitation.

"Then Eilistraee has touched you," said Uluyara. "Eilistraee has blessed you." Halisstra looked up at Feliane and asked, "Do you believe that too?" Feliane looked at her for the span of a few heartbeats then said, "I do. You wield the Crescent Blade, if for no other reason . . . but there are other reasons. Yes, I think Eilistraee has blessed you, indeed, and blessed us all with your presence."

Halisstra nodded then looked to Uluyara. The other drow female nodded and hugged her. The embrace was a quick one, sisterly, warm, and reassuring. "Well," Halisstra said when the embrace ended, "I think we should begin. There's a long road ahead for us and the most frightening opponent of all at the end of it: a goddess on her home plane."

Uluyara stood, helping Halisstra up with her. Halisstra dressed for travel and for fighting as the other two had, but when she was done she felt heavy and stiff.

Gromph's world had been reduced to a series of circles.

The antimagic field surrounded him in a circle of null space that would dissipate any spell that tried to pierce it and suppress any magical effect within it. The pain in his leg circled all the way around, where the interrupted regenerative effect of the ring had only partially reattached it, leaving a ragged, seeping wound all the way around the middle of his thigh. Past the outer edge of the antimagic field a tiny circle-a sphere really-of condensed magical fire orbited slowly around and around. It was Dyrr's next explosive blast of fire, held in check, circling, waiting for the field to drop. The lichdrow was circling him too, and like his fireball, waiting.

Gromph sat on the cool rock floor of the ruined Bazaar trying not to actually writhe in agony, concentrating on his breathing, and making himself think. "How long can it last, Gromph?" the lichdrow taunted from well outside the antimagic field. "Not forever, I know. Not as long as my own would. Am I that frightening to you that you have to hide so, even in plain sight?"

Gromph didn't bother answering. He wasn't afraid of the lichdrow. In fact, he was more concerned with Nimor Imphraezl. The winged assassin had disappeared into the shadows, back into his natural element. He could be anywhere. Dyrr, a being literally held together by magic, would no more cross the threshold of the antimagic field than he would throw himself headlong into the Clawrift. Nimor, on the other hand, had likely lost most if not all of his magic in the disjunction anyway and needed no spell to cut with his claws.

The Weave was blocked by the field, but that was all. Gromph, weak and in pain from loss of blood and the morbid wound in his leg, was all but helpless against anything but spells. Nimor could walk right up-anyone could walk right up-and kill the Archmage of Menzoberranzan with a dagger across the throat.

At least, Gromph thought, I don't have to listen to Prath remind me of that. The field blocked the telepathic link he'd established with the other Baenre mages. Gromph was entirely on his own, though he was sure Nauzhror and the others were still watching.

"Please tell me you aren't going to just sit there and die," Dyrr said. "I've come to expect so much more from you."

"Have you?" Gromph answered, every word coming with a painful effort. "What have you . . . come to expect. . . from Nimor?"

"Why, Archmage," the lich replied, "whatever do you mean?"

"Where is he?" Gromph said. "Where has your half-dragon gone? He could kill me easily enough, and we both know that. Has he-" Gromph winced through a wave of pain-"abandoned you?"

"I never trusted Nimor Imphraezl," said the lich. "What's your excuse ?" Gromph puzzled over that last comment.

Still, some of what the lich said rang painfully true. If he didn't drop the antimagic field, the ring would never finish reattaching his leg. If he sat there he would succumb to shock, loss of blood, even infection soon enough. The only thing keeping Dyrr from killing him was killing him.

Gromph did nothing to alert Dyrr to his intentions. He didn't draw in any dramatic, shuddering breath. He didn't move his trembling, pain-ravaged body. He didn't even look at the lich or at the bead of compressed fire waiting for its chance to immolate him. Everything that was happening was occurring inside his mind.

Gromph mentally arranged spells, bringing the opening stanzas to mind, willing his fingers in advance to form the gestures. He kept one hand on his staff, knowing that its magic wasn't gone but was simply suppressed, waiting the same way Dyrr's fireball-and Dyrr himself-was waiting.

He dropped the antimagic field, and in that same instant the globe burst back around him and the spell tripped rapidly past his lips. The bead of fire dropped out of its lazy orbit and shot at him as fast as a bolt from a crossbow, but Gromph's spell was a split second faster. The spell enabled him to push the bead of fire away with a wave of invisible force. Using the power of his mind, Gromph seized control of the nascent fireball and sent it hurtling back at the lichdrow.

Dyrr backed quickly away from it then turned and flew fast. Gromph kept the fireball racing toward the lich, gaining on him.

The pain in his leg began to fade and was replaced once more by pulses of nettling as it drew itself together. Concentrating on chasing the fleeing lich with his own fireball, Gromph didn't see the blood that still surrounded him-his own blood-being soaked up by the skin of his leg. As it drew into his tissue, the blood itself warmed, and one by one the cells came back to life. The bead of fire was within a handspan of the fleeing lich when Nimor stabbed Gromph in the back.

The archmage might have thought that he'd be accustomed to the odd blast of mind-ravaging agony by then, but the pain hit him full force. He could feel every fraction of an inch of the blade's path through his skin, into and through the muscles of his back. He could feel the cold steel pierce his heart. Gromph gasped and lost control of the spell that held the fireball. He closed his eyes against the flare of it exploding-too far from Gromph to burn him but too far from the lich to damage him either.

That wasn't the only fire. The flickering shield of arcane flames that had surrounded him before he cast the antimagic field had returned to him as had the globe. Fire poured over the wound in Gromph's back even though it hadn't protected him from the dagger. Fire washed over Nimor, who released the knife and staggered back, waving off the flames that once again seared his shadow-black face.

The dagger was still in him, still in his heart, and Gromph lurched forward to sprawl on his stomach on the unforgiving floor of the Bazaar. The ring fought second by second to keep his heart intact, to keep it beating, to keep his blood flowing, but it did nothing for the pain. The archmage's vision blurred, and when he tried to reach behind him to pull the dagger out of his back he could only twitch his arm uselessly at his side.

The archmage was vaguely aware of heat, light, and the sound of crackling, a dull roar . . . fire.

He blinked. His vision cleared enough to see a row of burning merchant's stalls and a thick column of smoke rising into the still, warming air. Hovering in stark, spindly silhouette against the blinding orange flames was the figure of the lichdrow Dyrr.

Gromph coughed and felt something warm and thick trickle from his lips. The dagger twitched in his back, and Gromph was afraid that it was Nimor, turning the blade, driving it deeper, or withdrawing it only to plunge it home again. No, Nauzhror said into Gromph's confused, slowing mind. It's the ring. Don't move, Archmage. Try not to move for a few seconds more.

Gromph looked up at the hovering lich and saw another black silhouette join him to hover far above the burning stalls. The second silhouette had huge, semi-transparent wings traced with veins.

The dagger twitched again, and Gromph coughed more blood as it came free of his heart, only to knick his lung.

A few more seconds, Master, Nauzhror said. Patience.

Gromph let that last word play in his mind. He had no choice but to be patient. To him, it felt as if the pain were actually pushing him down, driving him into the rock beneath him.

The two black figures started to grow against the roiling backdrop of uncontrolled fire. They were coming for him. They meant to end it.

The dagger slipped out of Gromph's back to clatter on the stone floor beside him. He shuddered through a last spasm of pain and clenched his chest when his heart skipped a beat then started up again, strong and regular. The archmage began to cast a spell.

Gromph rolled into a seated position as he cast, turning to face his enemies with fire reflected in his stolen eyes. Nimor was closer, coming at him with his shadow dragon's claws, so Gromph directed the spell at him. The archmage sent a rolling wave of blinding fire at the assassin, but Nimor stepped quickly to one side and was gone, sinking into the shadows like a rock slipping under the surface of Donigarten Lake.

The conjured fire flared past the spot where the assassin had been standing, burning nothing but empty air.

Gromph cringed.

It's all right, Archmage, Nauzhror said.

No, it's not, Gromph shot back at him. I'm using too much fire against Nimor. It's true- Prath began but stopped so abruptly Gromph was sure it was Nauzhror who silenced him-lucky for Prath.

The lichdrow stopped his advance and waved his hands in front of him. Gromph tightened his grip on his staff, sighing as the last of the grievous wounds were closed forever by the magic of the ring.

A faint mist coalesced in the air in front of Dyrr, adding to itself one mote at a time until a wide, flat cloud of churning mist rolled out away from the lich and toward Gromph.

The archmage got to his feet and uttered the single triggering command that activated another of his staff's array of powers. Gromph couldn't see it, but thanks to the magic of the staff he was keenly aware of the confines of the invisible wall he'd conjured in front of him.

The cloud of-Gromph assumed-poisonous gas that Dyrr had conjured mixed with the smoke from the burning stalls, slowing it but not stopping it. Gromph set the wall of magical force between himself and the cloud, and in a moment the mist began to spread along the flat surface of the wall, well away from the archmage.

Dyrr, obviously not surprised by Gromph's simple solution to the killing cloud, arced high into the air and flew over the wall of force.

The lich drew a wand from the folds of his piwafwi and stared at Gromph with a face devoid of emotion.

Gromph began to cast, judging the time necessary by the lich's flying speed. Even when Dyrr accelerated, Gromph had the opportunity to finish the spell and step through the doorway he opened in the air next to him. Like passing through an ordinary door, Gromph stepped out the other side having traveled a dozen yards across the burning Bazaar. He watched the lich swoop down, swing his wand through the spot where Gromph had been standing, then come to rest on the ground growling in frustration.

Gromph dropped the wall of force and smiled.

The cloud of poisonous gas-Dyrr's own spell-burst through when the wall fell, and the lich only had time to look up before the mist engulfed him and he disappeared inside its black-and-green expanse.

Gromph took a deep breath and glanced down when the fire shield finally faded from him. The spell he cast next was one of his most difficult. He worked it carefully and reveled as its effects washed through him. All at once he got the distinct impression that someone was behind him, and he knew that the spell was warning him. No one was behind him yet, but someone would be.

Gromph spun in place then stepped back when Nimor appeared from the shadows, already bringing one black-taloned hand down at the archmage's face. The tips of the claws passed within a finger's breadth of the archmage's nose. Nimor let the surprise show in his eyes, and Gromph had to admit to himself at least that he was just as surprised.

The archmage skipped back several steps, and so did the assassin. Nimor looked at Gromph with narrowed eyes that glowed in the smoky shadows of the burning Bazaar. Gromph had a clear vision of Nimor stepping in then quickly to the left and slashing at his side-then Nimor did just that. Gromph managed to step away again, and again the assassin was taken aback by the archmage's newfound reflexes. What Nimor didn't know was that it wasn't reflexes but foresight. Gromph reached into a pouch-an extradimensional space that held much more than it appeared capable of from the outside-and drew a weapon. The duergar's battle-axe was heavy, and the weight and heft of it wasunfamiliar to Gromph. The archmage had been schooled in the use of a number of weapons, but the battle-axe was hardly his cup of tea. It was unwieldy and unsubtle, almost more a tool than a weapon. However, there was more to that particular axe than its blade and a handle.

He knew that Nimor was going to step back and give himself a chance to examine Gromph's weapon. The archmage also expected that Nimor would move a few steps to one side in order to turn Gromph around and place himself between the half-dragon and the cloud that still concealed the lichdrow. Gromph gave him the chance he wanted to study the axe but didn't oblige him with the superior position.

Archmage, Nauzhror said, are you certain?

Gromph assumed that the other mage was referring to the battle-axe, and the obvious fact that Gromph meant to actually fight the assassin with physical weapons.

Gromph sent back the answer, I know what I'm doing, at precisely the same moment that Nauzhror repeated, Archmage, are you certain?

Gromph realized he hadn't heard Nauzhror the first time. It was the spell, showing him the future.

I see, Nauzhror replied and Gromph could feel that the other Baenre mage understood that Gromph had armed himself with perhaps the most potent weapon imaginable: the ability to perfectly anticipate every move of your opponent. The voice came to his head for real: I see.

Gromph knew that Nimor was going to rush him in an attempt to push him back toward the cloud of poison gas, so the archmage stepped quickly to the side and circled. Nimor took one step then stopped, eyeing Gromph.

The lich burst out of the cloud, trailing tendrils of toxic mist as he rose into the air. He turned and faced the archmage.

"Go ahead," said the lichdrow with a leering, evil smile, "try to fight him with your stolen axe. I'll enjoy watching Nimor shred you."

The half-dragon assassin smiled at that, and Gromph saw him coming in with one wild slash after another, a flurry of claws and kicks and head butts. Gromph had no idea what to do.

In the instant that Nimor started to run toward him, Gromph realized that knowing what your opponent intended to do might not be enough.