Resurrection

Still occupying Larikal's stout body, Gromph pulled closed the temple doors and stripped off the priestess's chain mail hauberk, shield, and mace. They would interfere with his spellcasting.

Unencumbered, he cha

His magic passed into the bronze slabs. The spell would make the doors impossible to open without first dispelling his dweomer, a difficult task for any of Yasraena's House wizards. And the lichdrow's dimensional lock would prevent Yasraena and the Dyrr forces from using teleportation or similar magic to get into the temple. They would have no choice but to enter through the doors-which Gromph had since warded himself-or the windows.

The archmage turned, looked up, and examined the windows. Four of the half-ovals lined each wall of the nave, about halfway up the stone walls. They were large enough that a drow could easily pass through them. Gromph would have to seal them off.

From his robes, he withdrew a small piece of granite. With it in hand, he spoke the words to a spell and summoned a wall of stone. Its shape answered his mental command, and it formed up and melded with the stone of the temple wall, filling in the window openings in the process. He did the same with the windows on the other side.

The temple felt like a tomb.

The wall of stone would hold a skilled wizard or a determined attacker for only a short while,

though, so Gromph took from his robes another component, a pouch of diamond dust. Casting on first one side of the temple then the other, he reinforced the walls of stone with invisible walls of force. Yasraena and her wizards would have to bypass both to get in through a window.

"That should give me enough time," he muttered in Larikal's voice and hoped he was right.

Gromph started up the aisle and stopped about halfway. The spider golem stood behind the altar, dark and forbidding. The pulsing master ward extended through Gromph and into the golem's thorax like an umbilical cord. They were co

Gromph knew golems. He had created several over the centuries. Mindless and composed of inorganic material, even the most ordinary of them were immune to virtually all forms of magical attack.

And the spider golem was no ordinary construct. Composed of smooth jet, it was the guardian of the lichdrow's phylactery. Gromph had no doubt that the lichdrow had augmented its immunities to magic. He knew that the spider golem could be destroyed only by physical attacks with enchanted weapons.

Unfortunately, Gromph was not a highly skilled fighter-his battle with Nimor had demonstrated that amply-but he nevertheless pla

At least it was Larikal's body that would suffer, he thought, but the realization gave him only small solace. He occupied the body, so he would feel the pain.

And he was growing weary of pain.

Gromph unbelted the axe and got comfortable with its heft. Eyeing the golem, he took a piece of cured lizard hide from his robes and cast a spell that sheathed his body in a field of force-

essentially a suit of magical armor. Next, he spoke the words to a spell that caused eight illusionary duplicates of himself to form around him. The images shifted and moved-it would be difficult for the golem to determine which was the real Gromph and which an illusion. He followed that with a spell that formed a shield-sized field of force before him that would deflect attacks. An illusory shield appeared before all of the duplicates.

Almost ready, he thought.

He took a specially prepared root from his robe, chewed it-the taste was sour-and articulated the words to a spell that sped his reflexes and movement.

He had one more spell to cast-one from his scroll-but after casting it, he would not be able to cast another until it had run its course. Most mages were loathe to use it. Gromph had no choice.

First, he had to awaken the golem.

He held the scroll ready in his hand, took a wand from his pocket, aimed it at the spider golem, and discharged a glowing green missile of magical energy. It struck the golem in its chest,

below the bulbous head. While it did no harm, the attack animated the construct.

The huge stone creature stirred. Light animated its eight eyes. Its pedipalps and legs stretched.

Gromph unrolled the scroll and read the words to one of the most powerful transmutations he knew. As the words poured from him, the magic took effect, bringing with it an understanding of how to use the duergar axe, an understanding of how to fight. Gromph felt his skin harden, his strength increase, his speed increase still more. A vicious fury seized his mind.

By the time the spell had transformed him fully, Gromph felt nothing but a powerful compulsion to chop the golem into bits. He reveled in the spell-induced ferocity. The knowledge imparted to him by the spell crowded out his understanding of the Weave, but he did not care. He would not have cast spells even if he could have. Spellcasting was for the weak.

The axe felt weightless in his hand. He crumbled the suddenly blank parchment in his fist and spun the axe around him with one hand, so fast it whistled.

The golem fixed its emotionless gaze upon him and bounded over the altar. The creature moved with alacrity and grace, unusual for a construct. Its weight caused the temple floor to shake.

Gromph brandished the axe, roared, and charged the rest of the way down the aisle.

Quenthel sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, praying by the light of a sanctified candle,

asking for some revelation that would explain this absurdity. She clutched her holy symbol in her hand and ran her thumbs along its edges.

Lolth did not answer. The Spider Queen was as silent as she had been immediately before her rebirth.

Merely thinking of that obscenity caused Quenthel to shake with rage. The serpents of her whip, laying by her side, sensed her anger and swirled around her in an attempt to comfort their mistress.

She ignored them, rose, and took the whip and candle in her hand. Quenthel threw open her door, exited her chambers, and stalked the great hall of House Baenre, seething. Her wrath went before her like a wave and cleared her path.

Servants saw her coming, bowed their heads, and scurried into side halls and off chambers.

Her forceful strides caused her mail to chime and the candle flame to dance.

How could Lolth have chosen another? Quenthel was-had been she reminded herself with heat-the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. Lolth had brought her back from the dead.

But the Spider Queen had chosen her, an upstart whore!

The serpents of her whip offered soothing words in her mind but she ignored their soft hissing.

You are still the First Sister of House Baenre, K'Sothra said.

True, Quenthel acknowledged. But she was no longer Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. She had seen to that.

Quenthel knew it was blasphemous to think ill of the Yor'thae, but she could not stop herself.

Quenthel would have preferred the dignity of a clean death to the shame of being removed from

Arach-Tinilith. Triel regarded her differently since her removal; everyone in the House did.

Why would Lolth have cast her so low? After all she had done and endured?

No one had been better suited to be Lolth's Yor'thae. No one. Especially not her.

A cobweb caught Quenthel's eye. Her rage subsided, and she stopped in the middle of the hallway. She saw nothing unusual about the web, but it seemed meaningful to her.

It hung in a corner, strung between two tapestry-covered walls, silvery in the candlelight. It was big.

A stonespider's web, Quenthel decided. She had seen stone spiders grow half as large as her hand.