Elminster in Hell

me, and give it now. storm seemed to work last time. she's been your lover a time or two, hasn't she? give me storm-and then another of the seven.

Nearby, a heap of twisted Zhentarim bodies heaved, shifted, and convulsed. Out from under it emerged a bloody, panting, wounded Storm.

Aha! More, and not destroyed! I can do it!

Silence fell over the field of the fallen.

[growl] Well, I destroyed only part of it. There's n- But what's this? The shandril wench again?

'Ye must join the Harpers, lass,' Elminster said gravely.

Shandril looked up at him with something like spellfire glinting in her eyes and replied, '1 'must? Why?'

The Old Mage shrugged. 'Somehow,' he said in a dry voice, waving a hand at the smoking destruction around them, 'ye must learn when not to start something like this.'

Bah! You teaching, yes, but what use can I make of it?

[images clawed aside, whirling]

'I can't be bothered wasting spells on them. Hang them, for the citizens to watch.'

'You'll watch from the balcony as usual, Lord?'. 'No. I have work to do, and one death upon order is very much like another. There are things in life that give me greater pleasure… and far greater amusement.'

Who was that?

Manshoon, a mage cleverer than some give him credit for, playing the sinister ruler of Zhentil Keep, some time ago.

And who are these buffoons, here? I've seen them in your mind before….

Adventurers. The Knights of Myth Drannor.

Might they be talking of magic?

Those two talk only of drink, riches, women, brawling, and magic, so ye've a one in five chance….

Hmmph. Better odds than some you've given me.

[chosen image rushing up large and bright]

Torm coughed. 'Ahem,' he began, artlessly. 'By all the good watching gods, lords and ladies gentle, be of good cheer! Tis a mighty day, to be sure. Rathan the Mighty rides again, and I with him. Full five score times ago did I first sally forth, blade in hand (leaden rapier though it's oft proved to be), to inflict this priest upon thee. Thou hast stood up to his sermons both manfully and woman-fully, as thy styles most rich and various bid. Certes, this heartens me, wherefore I bid ye: once more into the hungry, grim-a-visaged fray, b'yr deity whatsoever- once more!'

'Belay that knightly speech,' Rathan replied crisply. 'I'm the clever-tongued orator here!'

'Not with a flagon that small, you aren't,' Torm replied slyly, from just out of reach.

[diabolic snort] Droll, very droll. Is there more of these two?

[silence, image spinning to the fore]

'Furies and gargoyles be damned, man/ Torm said in mock fury. 'I ordered the bridal bed, and paid you well! You said nothing at all about my having to provide my own bride! Why, in Waterdeep, six gold buys you the warm company of a lass betrothed to you for the night!'

Rathan sent a discreet cough over the shoulder of the glowering innkeeper, and to it added the murmured words, 'Bold blade of my heart, ye forget something: We are in Waterdeep. Thy claim rings a mite false.'

The innkeeper rounded on him, still furious, and growled, 'Unless you pay for a bed, sir, you'd best be his bride and share!'

Rathan raised his eyebrows and shot Torm a querying look that widened into astonishment. 'Nay!' He exclaimed. 'Not that!'

The innkeeper wheeled around again to see what had caused this reaction. Rathan coolly raised the hilt of his mace to his shoulder-and brought it deftly down across the back of the innkeeper's skull. The man crashed to the floor like a sack of potatoes, leaving Rathan standing innocently over the wreckage.

'If we carry him out to the stables,' he told Torm. 'I can have your bed-and you can have his and get a bride after all!'

'Oh, no,' Torm said warningly. 'No chance! I've seen his wife-she should be in the stables!' He frowned at his friend's sudden frantic gesticulations and asked irritably, 'What?'

The skillet that felled him made Rathan wince. In the few seconds before the stout priest of Tymora whirled and broke into puffing flight, he reflected on how anger can make even four-hundred-pound, wart-studded women attractive. Being about a dozen pounds lighter, he managed to stay just ahead of the innkeeper's wife all the way out to the horse-trough-where, unfortunately, he slipped in something.

Hah! Hah! These two idiots are a delight to watch! Have you more?

Elsewhere, Lord Nergal-over among my memories of Shadowdale.Just- oh, no.

No. Amusements can wait. I'm not letting you lead me about through every back alley of your mind. You almost tricked me, human-but only almost. Be still and silent. I'll go rummaging again.

[A cloud of whirling images bursts into shimmering fells and fades-and out of it, one image is seized upon and rises brightly.]

The King of Cormyr stood on die battlefield and shook his head ever so slightly, his lips pursed and his face grim. 'My path lies clear before me,' he said to the man at his shoulder. 'That straight and narrow road to the waiting grave.'

The Royal Magician of Cormyr coughed discreetly and observed, 'My king, the path you see is every man's path. Kings simply have a way of not noticing their route for longer than most can ignore it. Something to do with the distractions of more engaging scenery.'

'Ah,' Azoun said, hefting his sword, 'I see. Invading armies, dragons tearing the roofs off fortresses, death spells dropping out of the skies with sharp talons-that sort of 'engaging scenery?'

Vangerdahast nodded. 'That, and the paintings on many a boudoir ceiling,' he told the backs of his fingernails innocently.

If the look Azoun gave him had been just a little sharper, the Royal Magician's life might have ended right then.

But then, the wizard reflected, as their eyes met, Elminster would have considered that he'd taken the coward's way out.

You tutored him, didn't you? I wonder who-aside from your pet goddess, of course-taught you magic? Care to shame any of those memories?

If ye insist, why of course-

No! No, wizard! Just sit quiet, and I'll find my own way. It'll save my temper and save you much