creature's body. Finally the sprite let out a high-pitched, whining sigh and collapsed into the water.
Adon dragged Cyric back into the skiff. The thief was badly shaken. The cleric stood over him, smiling, as Cyric rubbed his
bruised head and looked around, trying to remember what had happened to him after the nereid had appeared.
The beautiful white shawl in Midnight's hands gradually grew black, then started to crumble. The mage looked into the water,
but the nereid was gone, returned to the Elemental Plane of Water. Shaking her head, Midnight dropped the decaying shawl into the
Ashaba and watched it float away upstream.
* * * * *
Fzoul Chembryl lay, close to death, upon a rough straw mattress, staring up at the fading amber light of the afternoon sky
through the shattered ceiling of a deserted farmhouse in Zhentilar-occupied Daggerdale. Despite the casualties to Bane's armies in
the Battle of Shadowdale, the dalesmen had not tried to drive the Zhentilar from their neighboring settlement to the west. For the
moment, Fzoul felt safe.
What an ignoble place to call my tomb, the wounded man thought. I, a powerful priest of the God of Strife, leader of the
Zhentarim, second only to Manshoon, am to die in a stinking, burned-out hovel in a captured territory. For a moment, Fzoul wondered
if the Zhentarim, a massive, largely secret organization loyal to the God of Strife, would send someone to search for him. The priest
smiled grimly and dismissed the idea, certain that most of the Zhentarim would be happy to see him dead.
"Our overconfidence cost us everything!" the red-haired priest muttered aloud, although he was alone. "And your greed, Bane.
Your madness and your greed..."
Fzoul attempted to move, but he could not. The pain in his chest was not unlike a huge, vicious watchdog that pounced on him
whenever he was foolish enough to forget the wound he had suffered in the attack on Shadowdale.
The high priest of Bane slipped into delirium, as he had done frequently in the last few days, and events of the recent past
played through his mind. Fzoul suddenly remembered discovering that Tempus Blackthorne, Bane's chosen assistant and emissary,
had died, a victim of the omnipresent instability in magic. Bane then had chosen to split Blackthorne's duties between Fzoul and his
sometime rival, Sememmon of Darkhold.
Filled with plans of how he could exploit his new position and solidify his own power base, Fzoul had accepted the post with an
enthusiasm he had not felt in years. But that enthusiasm faded quickly as he learned the secrets of the god-made-flesh. The Black
Lord was forced to eat, drink, and sleep, like any other man. Wound the god, and he would bleed like any other man. Fzoul, much to
his disgust, was forced to tend to his master's human needs and protect the Black Lord's secrets at all costs.
Fzoul's mind raced ahead. Suddenly the preparations for the Battle of Shadowdale were underway, and Sememmon was
chosen to ride with Lord Bane through Voonlar. Fzoul was assigned the task of leading a five-hundred-man contingent across the
Ashaba bridge to take the town from behind and capture the Twisted Tower.
The defenders of Shadowdale had destroyed the bridge rather than allow Fzoul's forces the easy victory that had been
expected. Worse still, the priest had been trapped on the west side of the bridge when it fell, away from most of his troops. Then the
lean, hawk-nosed, dark-haired leader of the dalesmen at the bridge fired an arrow into Fzoul's chest. The high priest fell from the
bridge to the roiling water below, where the unnatural tide swept him upstream, along with a handful of other survivors. The small
band of soldiers struggled together to stay alive until they got to shore and found a squad of Zhentilar that had been posted to watch
the supply route.
The wounds of the red-haired high priest had made travel back to Zhentil Keep impossible; Fzoul knew that he'd never survive
the journey. The farmhouse was the closest shelter the Zhentish soldiers could find.
"I have spilled my own blood in your name, and you desert me!" Fzoul railed. "Damn you, Bane!"
Now, forced to place his life in the hands of his subordinates, Fzoul lay upon the dirty heap of straw and tried to force his
thoughts away from the near certainty of his approaching demise. As he stared at the amber sky through the ruined ceiling, the high
priest realized that the light was growing brighter and more intense. Finally the color of the sky deepened to blood red, and streaks of
light pierced the darkness of the farmhouse as if the boarded-up windows had been torn open.
"Attend me!" Fzoul shouted as he tried to rise, despite the pain in his chest. A skeletal hand fell upon Fzoul's chest, gently
forcing him back down. The high priest found himself staring into a face that belonged more to a corpse left on a field of battle than to
a living creature.
"Zhentilar! To my side!" Fzoul yelled as he tried to back away from the horrible, rotting thing that stood before him, its hand on
his chest. The priest's chest convulsed in pain after the effort of shouting.
The skeletal figure smiled a rictus grin. "Alas, Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of Bane, the Zhentilar who were camped outside this
hut are... gone." He removed his hand from the priest's chest. "I trust you know who I am?"
"You've come for me at last, then," Fzoul whispered and closed his eyes.
"No need to be so melodramatic," Myrkul said. "All men know my touch sooner or later. But this need not be your time to enter
my kingdom."
Fzoul tried to hide his fear. "What do you propose?" The God of the Dead raised his bony hand and drummed the tips of his
fingers against his bleached white chin. The sound was high-pitched and sharp. "It is not my proposition you must entertain," Myrkul
sighed. "I'm here as, let us say, an agent of your lord and god, the immortal God of Strife."
A short laugh escaped from the high priest. "Look at me," Fzoul said. "What could Lord Bane want with me? I can hardly
breathe anymore."
"Lord Bane's avatar was destroyed in the Battle of Shadowdale, in the Temple of Lathander," Myrkul stated flatly. "You have
been chosen for the high honor of being host for Lord Bane's essence." The God of the Dead looked around the ruined hut and
grinned again. "But my wounds -," Fzoul began.
"Are as nothing to a god. You can be healed, and you can live out the glory you dreamed about all your life," Myrkul sighed as
he turned to look at the high priest. Concern flashed across the features of the priest. Myrkul shook his head, and a stray, fleshy strip
flapped against his cheekbone. "Spare me your denials. Your self-serving machinations are well known." "Why doesn't Bane just take
me?" Fzoul said. The high priest tried to sit up again, but he couldn't. "Obviously I could do nothing to stop him."
"If Lord Bane simply possessed you, your identity and memories would be compromised. The Black Lord wishes to assimilate
your being into his, but he cannot do so without your cooperation," Myrkul said, yawning.
The pain in Fzoul's chest was terrible now, and the priest was panting hard. "Why - why didn't he come himself?" he gasped
between breaths.
"He did," Myrkul said softly, chuckling. "Look around you."
The blood-red haze that Fzoul had taken for the sky now flowed into the hut through the opening in the ceiling and slowly drifted
toward the high priest.
"Death or life?" the skeletal man asked. "The choice is yours."
Fzoul watched as the red mass grew brighter, then started to pulse in time to the rhythm of his own heart. A black flame
emerged from the center of the red cloud.
"I want to live!" Fzoul screamed as the flame shot through the air. The black energy entered his body through the wound in his
chest.
"Alas, I knew you would," the God of the Dead sighed as he stepped back and watched Fzoul's body writhe. Streamers of black
and red light burst from the high priest's eyes, nose, and mouth.
The high priest felt his flesh become numb as Bane's dark essence coursed through his body. The flow of Fzoul's blood slowed,
then stopped for a moment as it was overwhelmed by the presence of the evil god. Then the priest's internal organs were violated as
the spark of godhood merged with humanity. Fzoul felt the tide of Bane's evil rise within him, and he welcomed the sensation.
The pleasant feeling was short-lived, however. A sudden agony pierced Fzoul's consciousness as his memories and desires
were laid bare to the Black Lord. Then the pain subsided, and Bane's voice eased into the high priest's mind.
Have no doubts concerning who is in control, the God of Strife growled. The god's mind stretched and shifted as it tried to grow
accustomed to its new home. Your tasks will be simple. Fail me, or act in rebellion even once, and I will destroy you.
Muffled sensation returned, and Fzoul vaguely felt the chill of the night air as it drifted in from above. How long has this taken?
he wondered, and he attempted to put voice to his query. Fzoul was only mildly surprised when the words did not come.
The high priest watched from somewhere deep inside his own mind as his hand rose up before his eyes. The hand clenched
and became a fist, then opened and passed over the priest's bloody, wounded chest. Instantly the wound was gone, and Fzoul
realized that he was sitting up.
"Myrkul," the Black Lord said with the voice of the high priest. He sat upon the rough straw mattress and stretched. "Attend me."
"There is no longer a need, Lord Bane," Myrkul said calmly as he bowed. "Once I have delivered you to Zhentil Keep, you will
need to attend to your own needs. It is best you start now."
The Black Lord snarled. "You go too far, Myrkul! I will not stand for this insubordination!" As the God of the Dead bowed once
more and spread his arms wide, Lord Bane considered striking the skeletal god. Or perhaps, he thought, I should cast a spell.
Nothing too powerful, of course, but something strong enough to show Myrkul who is in command.
Looking out through eyes that were no longer his to control, Fzoul tried to scream. Bane would destroy them both if he
attempted a spell and it backfired!
"Remember your place," Bane snapped. Myrkul nodded, and Fzoul found himself tumbling back into the recesses of his own
mind.
"My apologies, Lord Bane," the God of the Dead murmured. "This has been a very difficult and tiring time for me. Are you ready
to return to the Dark Temple in Zhentil Keep?"
Bane ran his hands over the body of his avatar. He had altered his previous incarnation into something more than a man, a
horrible creature with sharp talons and hard, charred skin that only the sharpest of instruments could penetrate. The pale, vulnerable
flesh of the high priest made the Dark God uneasy. Myrkul had argued in favor of Bane's new appearance, reasoning that humans
would trust the god more readily if he appeared to be one of them. Bane had reluctantly agreed. After all, his previous tactics - trying
to frighten his forces into submission - had been a rather decided failure. After the defeat at Shadowdale, he would need to regain the
confidence of his followers.
The God of Strife shivered as he realized that his power in the Realms was nothing more than the sum of all his worshipers.
The thought was revolting. "Yes," the Black Lord sighed after a moment. "Take me to my temple in Zhentil Keep."
Creating a mystical gate, Myrkul stood aside and beckoned to Bane to come forward. Through the opening, the Black Lord saw
the seemingly deserted streets of Zhentil Keep. Bane stepped through the opening. In a moment, the Black Lord was standing in a
dark, rat-infested alley. A cut-purse let out a yell as Bane's avatar suddenly appeared nearby. The grimy thief scurried out of the alley
and ran down the street in panic.
"So it begins anew, Myrkul," Bane said as he gazed at the partially constructed spires of his temple in the distance. When he
received no response, the Black Lord turned to find that the gate had vanished and the God of the Dead was nowhere to be seen.
It hardly matters, Bane thought as he left the alley. Myrkul has served his function for now.
Bane traveled through the city, shunning the poor and homeless people he passed. Sounds that might have come from thieves
or slavers falling upon new victims drifted from nearly every shadow and caused Bane to quicken his step, until finally he was running
through the streets, the spires of his temple fixed in his eyes. As he turned one last corner and approached the temple, Bane spotted
the figures of several temple guards ahead.
"Guards!" the Black Lord shouted with Fzoul's voice, then stood motionless as one of the watchmen stepped forward, his
weapon drawn.
"You'll get no free meals here!" the guard growled, looking out at the tattered clothes of the avatar from under a black hand on a
red field - Bane's own symbol. "Off with you now!"
"Don't you recognize me, Dier Ashlin?" Bane asked, running his hand through the tangle of red hair on his head.
The guard squinted as he examined the tired, grimy man who stood before him, wearing the tattered remains of an officer's
uniform. Blood spattered the redheaded man's shirt, and his face was covered with sweat and dirt. But even the grime and blood
could not hide Fzoul Chembryl from the guard for long. "L-Lord Fzoul!" Ashlin shouted and lowered his sword.
"Indeed," the God of Strife grumbled. "Get me inside. I have traveled all the way from the Dales since the battle."
"The slaughter, you mean," Ashlin mumbled as he turned and headed for the front of the temple.
The Black Lord longed to kill the guard without another word, but something inside him - Fzoul, perhaps - told him that now was
not the time for bloodshed. Now was the time for the God of Strife to rebuild his kingdom.
As they entered the partially finished Dark Temple, Lord Bane was impressed with the amount of work that had been
