Then, without a word, Tlork stumbled back, wrenched away.
The troll gave a shriek as he went, his slowly reknitting limbs flailing on all sides, but to no avail. The blade ripped free and scythed about, cutting Tlork's torso in two. Over the edge the halved troll went, shrugged from the blade, into the twin pits of Demogorgon's throats. The troll screamed and roared and babbled all the way down, until the beast thudded to a rest, shaking the chamber. There he lay coughing and retching, impaled on a dozen man-high spikes.
Foxdaughter blinked up at her savior.
'Should not,' said Gargan, fighting for breath, 'gloat.'
At the lip of the tunnel that led out of Demogorgon's depths, Twilight shut her eyes against the fearsome desert wind. Gargan, bruised and bleeding from dozens of wounds, limped at her side, his arm wrapped protectively around her slim shoulders. His face, despite a single eye that had swollen shut, shone with serenity, as always.
How Twilight envied that, and always would.
'You pause,' the goliath said, looking away. 'Come.'
'Where?' Twilight asked softly, tonelessly.
'I do not know,' said Gargan. 'But we must go.'
Twilight's eyes closed. 'Ever onward,' she whispered. 'Ever away.'
Even when they had climbed the stones and stood at the edge of the desert, with nothing around them for as far as they could see, the elf could still feel him-still taste his lips, sense his fingers tracing her spine, hear his loving whisper. Twilight wanted to struggle, to break away from Gargan's grasp and run back down that tunnel.
'You set him free, Foxdaughter,' said Gargan, as he embraced her tightly.
Twilight bit her lip, uncertain.
'Why did you come for me?' She looked at him. 'Your pattern? Your fate?'
Gargan shrugged. 'You are the Fox.'
Then he began to hum-a song of goliaths, she realized- and sing. His voice carried her away, far from darkness and blood, toward the distant, white horizon.
He put out his hand.
She smiled.
EPILOGUE
At the bottom of the deepest shaft, broken into thousands of pieces, impaled on dozens of gnarled spikes, the fiend-stitched troll slowly, painfully regenerated.
Yes, it would take days before the bits of torn, greenish flesh could find their way back to each other and grow together once more, but as Tlork lay neither in acid nor in flame, he would eventually be reborn. Only a few universes of pain awaited him in the meantime, but Tlork was used to it. With stoic, brute will, the troll would endure.
For when it was done, Tlork would find that gray-faced thing and his little elf pet and smash them both. Yes, that's what he would do.
If only he could remember what they looked like.
Standing at the top of that shaft, the new master watched the agonizing process, his thoughts dwelling upon this labyrinth built over the fallen Negarath-the halls Demogorgon blessed, the darkness in which vileness dwelt, the depths of madness.
'The Depths of Madness,' he said, his voice no longer slurred from missing teeth-teeth that had regrown, thanks to his fiendish powers. 'A fitting name, perhaps.'
His crimson and black robes were torn, but his wounds had largely healed. His fingers had grown back, too. Even his hair, formerly wild and tangled beyond the hope of redress, lay slicked back about his temples, except for a few stubborn spikes that hung over his eyebrows. His hands ached, but they would function fully with time, thanks to the potions he had found in Gestal's chambers.
More important was the red-purple flame that brewed around his fist-a reminder of enduring power. The gift of a devil, bought at the price of a soul.
Davoren Hellsheart allowed a tiny smile to play across his gray face. He could still hear the brute Gargan and the cruel Twilight shuffling, leaving the Depths of Madness behind them for the desert. Well, he was rid of them; they had served their purpose by destroying not one, but both of the Depths' former masters.
'I don't need them,' he said to himself. 'I don't need anyone.'
Despite his faith in his lord Asmodeus-his confidence in success-Davoren was a bit relieved at the demise of both Gestal and Ruukthalmuramaxamin. He had thought for certain that he would have to challenge one or the other-preferably Gestal, he had thought until he had seen the powers of chaos triumph over the sharn. But the murderess and her thrall had secured for him a victory beyond his expectations. Somehow, he convinced himself that it had been his victory-that he'd manipulated them. He had won the spoils, had he not? This dungeon-the Depths.
As for Twilight and Gargan, he hoped the desert would kill them-he did not relish facing either again. Not because they could beat him-oh no-but because he hated them both so much.
'They are weak,' he assured himself. He did not need them. 'Let them die if they will. They shall not return.' He had other concerns.
Asmodeus demanded power, influence, and worship, and he intended to give the devil lord all that and more. His first sacrifices would be the servitors of Demogorgon that had survived Lord Gestal's fall-the lizardmen. Then he would enslave the golems that had survived the sharn. They would make excellent servants. The grimlocks, as well, even if they did not understand order. As for the abeil-sacrifices.
And by the time he used up all the eligible sacrifices, Davoren intended to have reasoned out the magical operation of the portals that led into this place. Why waste good slaves when innocent, naive, goodly treasure hunters could so easily be had?
They deserved this. They all did, for what they and their kind had done to him.
'M-M-Master?' an echoing voice came from the shaft.
The troll had pulled himself together sufficiently to speak, though Davoren found that unpleasant. Soon enough, Tlork would be whining for food.
Davoren thought. Food was not a small matter. He was not about to stoop to the sludge the lizardfolk ate. The abeil, he doubted, would do any better. But Gestal had survived in this place, so there had to be some source of food and water. Davoren hoped he would not be forced into cannibalism. That turned his stomach. Perhaps the strange mushrooms he had glimpsed deeper in the city, with Twilight…
Davoren winced. Twilight. His groin still ached where she had kneed him.
How cruel she had been. She'd always thought herself better than him, never recognizing his talents, never even admitting his usefulness. Instead, she'd used him, like the spiteful bitch she was. And there had been nothing he could do about it. Nothing.
They would have laughed at him. All of them. His mother, his sisters, the other children, but Davoren didn't fear that. He'd made sure they would never laugh again. All of them. The stilettos he carried in his gauntlets still smelled of that blood-the one he had left, anyway. The other…
'Come to think of it,' the warlock mused, 'what happened to that knife? Shouldn't leave something like that lying around where…'
Then it occurred to him. Davoren had always possessed a quick and powerful mind, and it was a credit to the depth of this mystery that he hadn't reasoned it out.
