The Temptation of Elminster

had faced death. Some insidious magical trap had ensnared him so cleverly that he'd never even noticed his fall into stasis. For years, it seemed, he'd hung frozen near the ceiling. Elminster the Mighty, Chosen of Mystra, Armathor of Myth Drannor, and Prince of Athalantar stood in midair, a handy anchor for spiderwebs, acquiring a thick cloak of dust and cobwebs.

Careless idiot. Would that ever change, the hawk-nosed mage wondered briefly, if he lived to be a thousand years old or more?

Perhaps not. Ah, well, at least he knew he was an idiot. Most wizards never even make it that far. El drew in a deep breath, dodged behind the pillar as he saw the elf glaring at him and raising his hands again, and sorted through his memories. These were the spells…and that one would serve. He had a world to see anew, and decades of lost history to catch up on.

'Mystra, forgive me,' he said aloud, calling up the spell.

There came no answer, but the spell worked as it was supposed to, plucking him up into a brief maelstrom of blue mists and silver bubbles that would whisk him elsewhere.

Abruptly, the figure behind the pillar was gone.

'I could have had him!' Iyriklaunavan cursed. 'Just a few moments longer, and…'

'You could've had us killed in a spell duel, right here,' Amandarn hissed. 'Shouldn't we be getting away from here? That man was freed from how we found him, those eyes sprouted from the pillars … what else is waking up, in there?'

Folossan rolled his eyes and said, 'Am I hearing rightly? A thief, walking away from treasure?'

The wealth redistributor eyed him coldly. 'Try saying it thus,' he replied. ' 'Hurrying away from likely death, in the interests of staying alive.' '

The dwarf looked up at the silent warrior woman beside him.

'Nessa?'

She let out a deep, regretful sigh, then said briskly, 'We run, away, as swift as we can on these loose stones. Come…now.' She turned, a hulking figure in blackened armor, and began to shoulder her way around pillars and stub-ends of fallen walls.

'We're barely twenty paces from the strongest magic I've seen in decades,' the elf mage protested, waving a hand at the darkness.

Nuressa turned, hands on hips, and said tartly, 'Hear my prediction: it's not only the strongest magic you've seen…it's the strongest you'll ever see, Iyrik, if you tarry here much longer. Let's get gone before dark.. and while we still can.'

She turned away once more. Folossan and Amandarn cast regretful glances at the hall they'd fled from, but they followed.

The elf in maroon robes cursed, took one longing step around the end of the wall as if to return to the tomb, then turned to follow his companions. A few paces later he stopped and looked back.

He sighed and went on his way, never seeing what came out of the tomb to follow him.

The second torch died down. In the near total darkness that followed, the runes on the steps of the tomb blazed like so many altar candles. From somewhere there came a rhythmic thudding, as if from an unseen, distant drum. The lights winking and playing in the curtain above the dark stone casket began to race about, washing down over the stone tomb as showers of sparks that sank into the runes they touched and caused little flames to flare up briefly from the stone. A mist or wispy smoke came with them, and a faint echo that might have been an exultant chant mingled briefly with the thudding.

The runes flared into blazing brilliance, faded, flashed almost blinding-bright…then abruptly went out, leaving all in darkness and silence.

The embers of the torch gave just enough light, had anyone been in the tomb, to see the massive lid of the casket hovering just above its sides. Through the gap between them, something emerged from the tomb and swirled around the room.

It was more a wind than a body, more a shadow than a presence. Like a chill, chiming whirlwind it gathered itself and drifted purposefully toward where the sunlight beckoned. Living things that had been in the tomb not long ago still walked … for a little while yet.

Book One: The Lady Of Shadows One: A Fire At Midnight

Azuth remains a mysterious figure…sometimes benevolent, sometimes ruthless, sometimes eager to reveal all, sometimes deliberately cryptic. In other words, a typical mage.

Antarn the Sage, from The High History of Faerunian Archmages Mighty published circa The Year of the Staff

'Tempus preserve us!'

'Save the prayers, fool, and run! Tempus'll honor your bones if you don't hurry!'

Pots clanged together wildly as Larando cast them aside, rucksack and all, and sprinted away through the knee-deep ferns. A low branch took his helm off, and he didn't even pause to try to grab at it.

Panting, the priest of Tempus followed, sweat dripping from his stubbled chin. Ardelnar Trethtran was exhausted, his lungs and thighs aching from all the running…but he dared not collapse yet. The tumbled towers of Myth Drannor were still all around them … and so were the lurking fiends.

Deep, harsh laughter rolled out of the trees to Ardelnar's left…followed by a charging trio of barbazu, their beards dripping blood. They were naked, their scaled hides glistening with the gore of victims as well as the usual slime. Broad shoulders rippled, and batlike ears and long, lashing tails bobbed exultantly as they came bounding along like playful orcs, black eyes snapping with glee. They flung away the bloody limbs of some unfortunate adventurer they'd torn apart and swarmed after Larando, shouting exultant jests and boasts in a language Ardelnar was glad he couldn't understand. They waved their heavy, saw-toothed blades like toys as they hooted and snorted and hacked, and it took them only a few moments to draw blood. Larando screamed as one frantically flailing arm went flying away from him, severed cleanly by a shrewd strike.

The competing bearded fiend wasn't so deft, the warrior's other arm was left dangling from his shoulder, attached to his body by a few strips of bloody flesh. When Larando moaned and collapsed, two of the fiends used their saw-toothed blades to lift him in an improvised cradle, and run along with him so the third barbazu could have some sport involving the warrior's innards and carving openings to allow them to briefly see the wider world.

Larando's head was lolling despite the brutal slaps being dealt him, as Ardelnar fled in a different direction. The priest's last glimpse of his friend was of a beautiful winged woman…no, a fiend, an erinyes…swooping down out of the trees with a sickle in her hands.

Giant gray-feathered wings beat above a slender body that was shapely and pale wherever cruel barbed armor didn't cover it. Scowling black brows arched with glee, a pert mouth parted as the she-fiend's tongue licked her lips in anticipation, and she sliced, twisted, and flew on, waving a bloody trophy. Behind her, gore spattered all over the barbazu as they howled their disappointment, a headless corpse thrashing and convulsing in their midst.

'Tempus forgive my fear, I pray,' Ardelnar managed to stammer through white and trembling lips, as he fought down nausea and ran on. It had been a mistake to come here, a mistake that looked very much like it was going to cost all of them their lives.

The City of Song was no open treasure pit, but the hunting ground of fiends. These malevolent creatures would hide, letting adventurers venture freely into their midst to wander the very ruins of the riven city. Then they'd trap the intruders and take cruel sport in slaying them as a sort of hunt-and-run game.

Tales of such cruelty were told in taverns where adventurers gather. That was why three famous and very