Pool of Twilight

in the fiend's imagination, the consequences would be very real and quite fatal.

In its frenzy, the fiend did not see the ebony warriors- its own allies-who died screaming under its clawed feet. Soon another of the fiends began to shriek in terror, lashing out wildly with its talons. The others soon followed suit. In seconds, all nine spinagons were whirling about the courtyard, slicing onyx-armored warriors to ribbons with their blind flailings.

Listle stared in surprise. She hadn't expected her spell to affect all of them! She was no expert on the art of summoning-illusion was her preferred school of magic-but she remembered that a group of fiends called into the world through a single spell were inextricably linked. She hadn't realized how deep that nexus ran. Not that she felt like complaining.

The fiends turned on each other, and in less than a minute all of them were dead. They'd torn each other to pieces trying to combat foes that didn't really exist.

'And some people think illusionists aren't worth anything in battle,' Listle said with a sniff.

The remaining black-armored warriors were quickly dispatched by the clerics. Disheartened by the grisly spectacle of the dying fiends and by the apparent desertion of their leader, Slayer, the last warriors did not put up much of a fight.

But the threat was not over.

'A foe in the temple!' came a shout from within. Recognizing the voice as Tarl's, Kern and Listle rushed into the temple behind Anton and Rialad. Inside, they found the blind cleric guarding the table that held the magically warded Oracle of Strife and swinging his hammer at a foe only he could see. Two clerics lay dead before him, victims of the invisible enemy.

'Show yourself, coward!' Tarl growled. 'Your enchantments won't hide you from me.'

Suddenly a shadow form materialized before the white-haired cleric. It was the huge abishai, Slayer.

'Out of my way, weakling cleric of Tyr,' the fiend snarled. 'The Oracle is mine.'

'On my honor, you are wrong on that count,' Sir Rialad cried, leaping forward. With a snarl, Slayer conjured a crimson ball of flame, hurling it at the brave paladin. It burst against Rialad's breastplate, covering him with searing fire. Howling as his flesh began to singe and wither, Sir Rialad sank to his knees.

Kern moved to counterattack, but a fierce look from Slayer stopped him in his tracks.

'One step closer, and this fool cleric is the next to go up in flames.' The fiend was pointing a gleaming talon at Tarl. The white-haired cleric abruptly froze, unable to move, magically bound by chains no one could see.

Kern halted, unsure what to do.

'The Oracle is mine,' Slayer hissed, reaching out for the tome.

'By Tyr, you will not have it!' a hoarse voice croaked.

Sir Rialad, his flesh dark and cracked, lurched forward and fell onto the table, clutching The Oracle of Strife to his still-burning chest. Crimson fire licked at the ancient parchment, then flared, consuming book and paladin together in a gout of flame.

Slayer screamed in outrage and spun around, only to be blocked by Kern's hammer. The paladin-aspirant stood protectively in front of his father.

'You've lost, fiend,' Kern growled, amazed at the steel he heard in his own voice.

'You don't know who you're dealing with, cub!' the fiend shrieked, beating its leathery wings.

'I don't care who-or what-you are!' Kern shouted. For a moment he forgot that he was only a paladin- aspirant. With a fierce battle cry, he swung his hammer in a bone-crushing arc.

The fiend reached out and grabbed the weapon, jerking Kern's arms to a halt. The young man tried to yank the hammer free, but all his strength was nothing against the monster.

'You think you have won, but you are mistaken, Hammerseeker,' the fiend hissed. 'You have gained a little time, that is all. One day soon, my mistress will own you. Of that you can be certain.'

Slayer's hand glowed a blistering red. The head of Kern's battlehammer shone white-hot in the fiend's grip, then melted. Molten fire splashed against Kern's gauntlets as he quickly dropped the hammer's haft.

The monstrous abishai spoke a guttural word of magic. There was a clap of thunder, and the fiend vanished in a cloud of thick, foul-smelling smoke. Gradually the acrid haze dissipated. The monster called Slayer was gone.

'I don't know, Kern,' Listle said wryly, 'but something tells me you didn't make any friends today.'

4

Perilous Summonings

'Why, by all the bloodiest gods, must I always endure such fools around me?'

A bolt of magic streaked from Sirana's fingertips. It ricocheted wildly around her circular spellcasting chamber, deep in the subterranean warrens of the thieves' guild, pulverizing priceless sculptures and blasting antique furniture to ashes before finally dissipating against the porphyry walls.

'How could they lose?' Sirana shrieked, her hands clenched into fists. But no human being could answer her. The last three thieves who had entered her chamber were now scuttling around the floor in the form of cockroaches, doing their best to avoid being crushed by her boot heels. 'How could they have lost to a band of doddering holy men? All that blasted abishai had to do was bring back an old book and a foolish boy!'

Sirana caught a glimpse of her reflection in a mirror of polished bronze. She liked what she saw-a tall, shapely woman with dark hair and smoldering eyes, clad in a thin white shift belted by a heavy braid of gold. Yes, she thought, even in her rage she looked supremely beautiful. She enjoyed this human form she had taken. Not a hint of her fiendish heritage showed beneath the sultry, feminine exterior.

She sank into an ornately carved chair-one of the few items in the room that had escaped her magical wrath- and bit delicately on a knuckle. It was time to put rage aside and calculate a new course of action. Revenge was best planned with a cool head. Sirana knew that well. After all, she had made revenge her specialty.

It was obvious that a direct attack on the clerics of Tyr would not avail her. She had spent months taking over Phlan's thieves' guild, perverting it to suit her purposes. Then she had summoned Slayer to be her servant. Slayer was a baatezu abishai, a magical creature of fearsome power, but he had failed miserably. No matter the armored horde of thieves and the pack of feral spinagons she had sent to help him.

She picked up a small black-lacquered box from a table beside the chair. It was her most precious possession, a gift from her beloved mother on the day Sirana had murdered the old crone. It was a box full of magical memories. Carefully, Sirana opened the lid. Gradually an image began to form in the darkness within.

An image of a lofty tower, hewn of crimson stone.

Though Sirana had never gazed upon the tower with her own eyes, it was nonetheless a familiar sight to her. The tower had belonged to her father, Lord Marcus, a powerful Red Wizard from the eastern land of Thay. Once it had been a citadel of awesome power built above a legendary pool of darkness. Marcus had managed to imprison the entire city of Phlan in a cavern underneath the tower, intending to drain the life-forces of the citizens in order to transform himself into a demigod.

'But it was all for nothing,' Sirana whispered mournfully. 'If only I could have been there to help.'

She watched as history replayed in the images of the black box. She saw the defilers come to the tower: a ranger, a sorceress, a barbarian who could assume the form of a great cat, and finally the one who always sent a shiver of fear through her-a skeletal paladin, his empty eye sockets glowing with horrible, holy blue light. The undead paladin had been the cause of her father's demise, and for that she despised him most of all. The paladin had turned to dust at the end of the battle, so he was beyond the reach of revenge. But the others were not.

She watched as the tiny tower inside the black box began to topple and fall. She watched as the invaders fled the scene of destruction. For long moments, the images were still. Nothing moved. Then Sirana could glimpse her mother, the beautiful, fiendish erinyes who had served the human, Lord Marcus, crawl from the ruins, bleeding, wings twisted and broken, yet alive.

The erinyes had given birth to Sirana not long after the defeat at the red tower. Because of her half-fiendish blood, Sirana had grown quickly. Early on, her mother had sown the seeds of enmity in Sirana's heart, teaching her