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Liriel blinked. Power was the goal of every drow she knew, and it was pursued for its own sake. No one pondered what they'd do with it, beyond wielding it to gain still more. Though Qilue's question was strange, Liriel found she had an answer.

"The amulet has been stolen by a drow wizard called Nisstyre, captain of a merchant band known as the Dragon's Hoard. I know what he wants to do with it: he hopes to coax the drow from the Underdark to follow the ways of his god, Vhaeraun. From what I've seen of Nisstyre and his drow thieves, this would not be a good thing," Liriel concluded grimly. "If I must justify my claim to the Windwalker, then taking it from Nisstyre would be a good start!"

"A start!" exclaimed one of the guards. A tall drow male, clad in a hauberk and helm of black mail, stepped to Qilue's side. "My lady, that name is known in Skullport. Nisstyre is a wizard of Ched Nasad, and his guards number at least four score. Worse, it is rumored the name of his company is taken from his hidden hold: a cavern somewhere beneath the city that was once a dragon's lair. Many have followed these rumors in search of treasure. None have returned. Who knows what magical defenses might guard a dragon's hold?"

"Well then," Qilue said calmly, "we had better lay our plans well."

Chapter 25

THE DRAGON'S HOARD

At a cavern buried far below the streets of Sküllport, the drow priest Henge paced the small chamber where Nisstyre lay in a deathlike stupor. The wizard had improved but little since the night he'd been mysteriously struck down. Every day since, Henge had kept reluctant watch over him.

Nor was he the only one watching. At times the priest sensed an unnerving, malevolent presence, an evil hunger, behind the ruby embedded in Nisstyre's brow. Someone, somewhere, had reached through that gem and struck down his captain. Had the blow been clean and sure, Henge would have been delighted; this lingering vigil, however, was becoming unbearable. The ships of the Dragon's Hoard were loaded and ready to sail for the far south, but only the secretive Nisstyre knew the identity of their contacts there. There was nothing to do but wait, and dark elves were not known for patience.

The door to Nisstyre's chamber swung open, and a tall drow stalked into the room. Henge took in the elf'stattooed face, the patch over one eye, and the livid scar slashed across his throat.

"Ah, Gorlist. Here at last. The cuff of regeneration did its job, I see. Your wounds seem to be healing nicely."

The younger drow scowled. "But not without scars!"

"Yes, you're amassing quite a collection of those," Henge observed, "but considering the location of that throat wound, I should think you'd count yourself fortunate to have come off so lightly. I take it the wench is still alive?"

Gorlist ignored the cleric's taunts. He snatched up Nisstyre's travel bag from the bedside table, rummaged about in it, and took out a small, crimson vial shaped like a candle's flame. "Give him this. Those meddling drow from the Promenade are making inquiries in Skullport. If there's trouble, we'll need the wizard."

The priest balked. "This potion is more likely to kill than cure! You should know that as well as anyone."

"I survived it. He may, also. You needn't worry about breaking your blood-bond, or fear punishment if the wizard dies of the potion," Gorlist said bluntly, getting to the real issue behind the priest's hesitation. "Nisstyre is my sire; I have the right to order his treatment. You are absolved from responsibility."

Henge shrugged and uncapped the vial. It was past time for Nisstyre to rejoin the Dragon's Hoard, and his painful journey back should be most entertaining to observe. If some of the healing agony traveled through the ruby eye to the unseen watcher, so much the better.

In the garrisons and armory of the Promenade Temple, in the streets and hidden places of Skullport, Eilistraee's followers prepared for battle. At first Liriel was unimpressed by Qilue Veladorn's forces. The temple guard—a motley collection of dark elves, humans, dwarves, and halflings who called themselves Protectors of the Song—numbered fewer than sixty. In Menzoberranzan most of the lesser noble houses had several times that many soldiers, supported by the magic of wizards and high priestesses. Granted, every priestess of the Dark Maiden was trained to the sword, but the so-called Chosen of Eilistraee had no'slaves to spend as battle fodder, no wizardly weapons of destruction, and virtually no offensive clerical spells. The Chosen trusted in their goddess, in their skill at arms, and in each other. It was, in Liriel's opinion, a formula for disaster.

Yet as she watched the preparations, the young drow began to understand the true power at work. Every person in the temple was utterly devoted to Qilue and completely focused on the task ahead. No energy was siphoned off in small intrigues. No one seemed concerned about improving her status and influence. Each had a role and played it well, with an eye to the greater goal.

To Liriel, this was a revelation. She herself was beginning to come to terms with her alliance with Fyodor. From their first meeting, despite their vast and innumerable differences, she'd been drawn by the kindred spirit between them. The thing that Fyodor called friendship was an astonishing paradox: each gave, and neither was diminished. To the contrary, together friends stood to become more than the sum of their individual strengths. This flew in the face of everything Liriel had ever learned or experienced,-but she was beginning to accept it as truth. And dawning on the far horizon of her mind, as she watched the Chosen come together in preparation, was the possibility that something similar to friendship could exist on a larger scale. The young drow had no words for such a thing, but she suspected this discovery might also be part of her journey, might become part of the rune she was fashioning with each passing day.

In the meanwhile, Liriel prepared for battle in her own way. The temple had a small library of scrolls and spell-books, and the young wizard committed to memory several spells that might be useful. She also spent time poring over her book of rune lore, seeking a way to adapt the spell she'd devised to store her Underdark magic in the Windwalker amulet.

After two days of frantic activity, Elkantar, Qilue's drow consort and the commander of the Protectors, called all together in the temple's council chamber. The spies who'd been dispatched throughout Skullport to gather information on Dragon's Hoard activities spoke first.

"Nisstyre has not been seen since the day his band entered the port. Word has it he is ill and remains in the merchant stronghold," supplied a drow soldier.

"That might explain my news," added a stout, well-armed halfling. "The Dragon's Hoard merchants have two ships at dock. They've been ready to sail for days now. Seems they're waiting for something."

"Or someone," put in a grim-faced human. "Nisstyre's lieutenant, a tattooed drow warrior called Gorlist, was seen entering Skullport just this day. He has stood in for Nisstyre on other trade journeys, so they might well set sail now."

Liriel and Fyodor exchanged a dismayed look. "But you killed him!" the Rashemi protested.

"Well, apparently it didn't take," Liriel said, throwing up her hands in exasperation.

"We have more important problems," proclaimed a little-girl voice. This came from Hjrene, a tiny, kitten-soft doll of a priestess. With her elegant gowns and silvery ringlets, the delicate drow seemed the most unlikely of battlemasters. Yet with her first word she commanded the attention of every person in the room. "It is confirmed that a deep dragon—in drow form-—walks among the Dragon's Hoard merchants."

A murmur of dismay rippled through the room. "We haven't the numbers to bring against such a foe. How should we fight a dragon?" said Elkantar in dismay.

Suddenly Liriel remembered a promise she'd made not long ago, without much thought or sincerity. With a crafty smile, she turned to the commander. "Give me two hours, and Til show you how! Fyodor, I need the spellbook you've been carrying for me, and Qilue, may I have access to the temple's store of spell components? I need to adapt a known spell to create a new dimensional door. If someone has a spell scroll for a sending, so much the better. It'll save me a trip back into the Underdark."

"The Underdark!" The high priestess, leaned forward and fixed a penetrating gaze upon Liriel. "I think you ought to explain."

The girl smiled into Qilue's concerned face. "What better way to fight a dragon," she said slyly, "than with another dragon?"

The city of Skullport was a trading center unlike any that flourished in the light of the sun. There, in a cavern far below the ports and streets of Waterdeep—deeper even than the bottom of the sea—merchants from dozens of races gathered to ply their trade. No race, no matter how powerful or rapacious, was denied access to the city's ports, and no cargo was considered too illegal, immoral, or risky. Rules of "safe ground" made trade between enemies possible; however, intrigue, even small-scale, outright warfare, was part of daily life. Few denizens of Skullport cared to intervene in the quarrels of others. In the case of the more deadly races—such as beholders, illithids, and drow—the city's residents were more than happy to look the other way. And if two drow females—one of whom was a purple-skinned, button-nosed elf with round, faintly reptilian eyes—wanted to indulge in a round of wild tavern-hopping, no one felt compelled to comment.

"Slow down, Zip," Liriel cautioned her companion, eatch-ing the purple wrist while the goblet was still south of the female's lips. The purple "drow" had downed enough wine to put away an entire battalion of dwarves, and Liriel had little desire to set a drunken dragon loose upon Skullport.

Zz'Pzora pouted, but the sparkle in her round eyes didn't diminish in the slightest. The dragon-in-drow-form was having a wonderful time in this marvelous cesspool of a city. Gorgeously clad in a gown and jewels borrowed from Iljrene, supplied with coins that bought her an astonishing variety of high-potency libations, the dragon was free to wander at will among races who, in the Underdark, would have either fled from her or tried to destroy her. The deep dragon—mutated by the Underdark's strange magic, cursed with two heads and conflicting personalities—had lived most of her life in enforced isolation. When Liriel's magical message came to Zz'Pzora's grotto, the dragon's flighty, left-headed persona seized the chance to mingle with other races, to indulge in adventure and revelry; the practical, more traditionally minded right head kept a firm eye on the promised share of another dragon's hoard. In the hours since she'd emerged from Liriel's portal into the Promenade, the dragon's dual voices had spoken as one. Even Zz'Pzora's drow form, which boasted a single head, seemed to symbolize the creature's rare unity of mind and purpose.

At the present moment, the dragon and the drow reclined on ale-stained couches in a ramshackle tavern known as the Grinning Gargoyle. True to its name, the taproom boasted scores of the ugly, winged stone statues, .perched on every lintel and rafter. Liriel suspected any one of them could take flight at will. Considering the caliber of patron, she'd almost consider this an improvement. The tavern was teeming with rough-mannered dark elves: commoners, former soldiers, riffraff of all kinds.

Zz'Pzora gestured with her goblet to one of several drow standing near the hearth. "That's him. The one they're calling Pharx. Look at his eyes."

Liriel squinted. The male's eyes were red, like those of most drow, but when the firelight hit them just so, she could see that the crimson orbs were slashed by vertical, reptilian pupils. "All right, that's him. Now what?"

The drow-shaped dragon responded with a carnivorous smile. "Now I make the gentleman's acquaintance." She tossed back the rest of her drink and rose from the table.

Liriel caught her arm. "Take this gem with you. If you manage to get into the dragon's stronghold, leave it there."

"Oh, I'll manage," Zz'Pzora said in an arch tone. "Where else could we have the space—and the security—to resume our true forms? Purple or not, I'm the best thing in town! Don't bother waiting up for me." The drow-dragon smoothed the folds of her borrowed gown and slinked across the room.

True enough, the "drow" called Pharx seemed delighted by Zz'Pzora's unsubtle advances. In moments, the pair slipped away through one of the doors that lined the back wall of the Grinning Gargoyle. Liriel lingered in the tavern for a while to watch the dark elves who had been with Pharx, taking note of their number and weapons. When she was satisfied she could learn no more, she returned to the Promenade to study battle spells.

Much later that evening, a smug and sated Zz'Pzora gave her report to a gathering of the Chosen. "There is a hidden tunnel leading from the Grinning Gargoyle to Pharx's lair. It's small—barely big enough for an elf to crawl through—but comfortable enough for a deep dragon in serpent form. Pharx has a lovely home. He gave me a tour of the caverns."

Zz'Pzora smiled and admired her manicure. "It's been a long time since he's enjoyed the company of another dragon."

"The details of your encounter, however entertaining, must wait for another time," said Iljrene in her little-girl voice. The battlemaster spread a sheet of parchment on the table and thrust a quill at the drow-dragon. "Draw."

Not even a dragon was immune to the power behind Iljrene's lilting commands; Zz'Pzora complied without argument. The complex she sketched out was impressive. To the east of Pharx's lair was a series of tunnels leading to three main chambers. The deepest and best protected was the hoard room, a vast cavern filled with the treasures Pharx had collected over the centuries, as well as the bones of those who'd hoped to claim some of the treasure as their own. Above the hoard were two smaller caverns that served the merchants as living quarters and warehouses. Two tunnels led out of the merchants' quarters, one up toward the docks and another, an escape route, winding down to some still deeper dungeon.