thing off of me.'
'Well, er, that might be for the best,' the mage said. He turned away from Artus. 'It's just, well, Theron Silvermace is back from Chult and…'
'And what?' Artus prompted.
Pontifax lowered his voice to a whisper. 'He's asked to see you tonight, my boy. He says he knows where you can find the Ring of Winter.'
Two
'It was horrible, Artus, simply horrible.'
Theron Silvermace's features resembled a corpse's more than a fifty-year-old man's. His hair was bone white, and it cascaded in long, wild strands around his head. The skin hung in loose jowls from his cheeks. The jagged scar running across the bridge of his nose was a new wound, as was the pulped mass of one ear. Dark circles rimmed his sunken brown eyes, which only heightened the frantic look in them.
'The goblins were the worst of it.' Theron shuddered, then pulled the heavy blanket up to his chin and shrank back into the pillows piled behind him on the daybed. 'Kwee, can't you get that fire burning any higher?'
'I will try,' came the subdued response from the young man standing at the fireplace. The words sounded hollow and tinny in the cavernous room.
Artus swore silently. It was already as hot as a Flamerule afternoon in the study. He mopped at his brow with a handkerchief and tugged at the collar of his tunic where it was chafing his neck. After the cold evening air, this heat was brutal.
His discomfort was not lost on Theron. For the first time that evening, a tiny spark of mirth lit his eyes. 'This heat's nothing compared to the days in Chult,' he murmured. 'Bearers dropping like coins into a collection plate on a high holy day. You sweat so badly the clothes rot off your back.' He looked almost wistful for an instant. 'I'd suffer it again to get rid of this awful chill.'
'Maybe if you added my cloak to the blankets,' Artus offered, reaching for the heavy wool garment.
'No, no,' Theron said, then paused. 'What was I-oh yes. The goblins…' The haunted look swept over his face again as he renewed his tale. 'It was five days out of the station at Port Castighar, on Refuge Bay. We were searching for the ruins of a lost Tabaxi city-'
'Mezro?' Artus asked.
Theron nodded. 'The heat had claimed a few of the bearers, and Sigerth, the only one from the club brave enough-or foolish enough-to go with me, died from fever. I'm afraid that's what's got me now,' he noted without self-pity.
'The goblins came at night. My guide warned me about them-Batiri, he called the monsters-but we were supposed to be well away from their usual hunting territory.' Theron shook his head. 'Maybe he wasn't such a good guide after all. Anyway, they ate him first, so he got what was coming to him. The bearers went next.'
Now it was Artus's turn to shudder. 'Cannibals? Gods, Theron, I've never heard of an entire goblin tribe… not unless they're realty desperate. Starving, I mean.'
'Not in Cormyr or the rest of the Heartlands, but Chult might as well be another world.' He nodded. 'Yes, that's it. Chult was like another world. Kwee, you might as well give up on that. The fire's not doing me any good.'
Kwee finished dumping an armload of wood into the huge fireplace. It was tall enough for a man to stand in without ducking and twice that in width. The blaze contained in this gaping maw cast a monstrously large shadow of the slight-framed man throughout the room. The darkness fluttered across a mummy stretched out in its glass sarcophagus, the dozens of shields and polearms hung upon the walls, the thick, embroidered drapes covering the glass doors, and the stunning self-portrait Theron had painted. The jewel-encrusted statue of a beautiful, fanged woman crouching opposite the fireplace was never touched by shadow. A light shone upon it no matter how dark the study became. No one knew exactly who the statue depicted-some ancient and long-ago abandoned demigod was the most common hypothesis. Theron liked the woman's looks, so he refused to sell it to any of the collectors or museum curators who bid for it.
Kwee Chan Sen was right at home in the unusual surroundings of Theron Silvermace's study. He was a native of the eastern nation of Shou Lung and had the rounded features, almond-shaped eyes, and night-black hair of those highly cultured people. He wore a silk patch to hide the eye made blind and milk-white by a barbarian arrow. His hair hung in a warrior's topknot, an honor he had gained from five successful campaigns. Kwee had left Shou Lung four years earlier, when his uncle, the former minister of war, was executed for treason. He had joined up with Theron during a trek across the Hordelands; now he lived in the explorer's sprawling home, a setting he found conducive to contemplation of his family's disgrace.
'I am going to make myself some tea,' Kwee said softly as he crossed the room. There was a strange, frightened look on his usually serene face. 'You should take some, Theron. Perhaps it will expel the fever.'
'Tea,' Theron scoffed. 'Better bring me some brandy instead. How about you, Artus?' When the younger man shook his head, Theron said, 'Bring him one anyway.'
After Kwee was gone, Theron pushed himself up on the daybed. 'Odd, but he doesn't like to hear about the goblins,' he said. 'He's fought barbarians and orcs, and all sorts of weird Shou beasts, but these stories really unnerve him.'
Artus was certain it was the effect the goblins had wrought upon Theron that was disturbing to the loyal Kwee, but he said nothing. Instead, he asked, 'How did you escape?'
'As I said,' Theron murmured, 'they did in the guide and the bearers. Me and some poor fellow from a neighboring village-a chief's son named Kwalu-they were saving for a sacrifice to some…
Theron's eyes glazed, and Artus sat back to wait. It had been this way all evening: fits of relatively lucid discussion, followed by periods in which Theron lapsed into silence or incoherent babbling. He'd been at the older man's side since arriving an hour ago. It had taken until an hour before that to settle the sizeable bill for damages to the society's library and healers for the unfortunate Ariast. She'd recover from the guardian spirit's attack- eventually. Fortunately, Hydel had volunteered to write the necessary apology-disguised-as-a-report for the society president. Things would be smoothed over, but at the cost of more than a third of the money gained from their last expedition.
'Snow,' Theron muttered. 'I never in my life thought snow would save me in the jungle.' Artus turned sharply to find Theron staring at him. 'That's what saved me from the goblins and whatever it was they worshiped.'
Is he rambling again? Artus wondered. Snow in the jungle, in the middle of the hot season? But when he looked at the bedraggled explorer, Theron's eyes were clear. 'Can you be sure they didn't move you to a mountain village?' Artus asked.
'When I escaped I was nowhere near the mountains,' Theron snapped. 'I've been through more jungles than you've been through taverns, so I know what I'm talking about.'
'Someone with an incantation to control the weather? They're common enough.'
Theron smiled. 'Oh, it was someone with magic all right, but no damned spell. It was the Ring of Winter.'
'Just because it snowed doesn't mean the ring's there,' Artus sighed. Obviously a fever dream had granted this delusion about the ring. He rose slowly. 'Is there anything I can do for you before I leave? I'll call Kwee and-'
'Don't be such a dolt!' Theron bellowed. The sudden exertion left him coughing. He slouched back on the pillows and caught his breath. 'Sit down and listen to this, then tell me the ring isn't in Chult.'
Artus did as he was told, surprised to see the Theron of old spring to the fore so strongly. 'Go on.'
'I was standing in the center of the village, tied back-to-back with the chief's son,' Theron said. 'The goblins
