Moreover, it's hardly a revelation to me that you concern yourself overmuch with the ladies. What randy o1j) he-wizard doesn't?
My impatience grows. I think a little lesson is in order.
And in hell we teach with pain.
***
"All Faerun bows before the beauty of the-the queen of Aglarond" the Purseroyal of Tantras said tentatively, the sweat of fear glistening at his temples. Did one daresay "Witch-Queen" to the Simbul's face? Or call her "the Simbul"? Indeed, what at all did one dare do in the presence of a lady who could be a purring kitten one moment and a castle-shattering tempest the next?
The Simbul lounged barefoot on her throne, clad in a plain robe that hung open from her shoulders to the sash at her waist, and fell away from her magnificent legs high on her thighs. In both cases, the Tantran ambassador could tell with distressing clarity that the fiery ruler of Aglarond carried not an ounce of spare flesh on her body. Why, he could see every muscle and tendon, rippling as she shifted lazily, clear down to... Holy Sune! Guard my thoughts----
"An appropriate wish," the Simbul murmured, loud enough for just the ambassador to hear. "Know that your musings do not offend me, but know also that I am in some haste, and would hear with rather less formality and more speed the wishes of Tantras toward our fair realm. In plain speech, get on with it, man."
"Wah-I-ah, that is-" the purseroyal began auspiciously enough. Irritation and then anger stole across the regal face before him. The blood drained right out of his own face. His mouth trembled in uncontrollable terror.
One slim, long-fingered royal hand rose in a clawing, sweeping motion, as if to rake him away.
The Tantran was suddenly aware that he might have only moments longer to live. The courtiers of Aglarond, ranged tightly around the walls of the throne room, had fallen tense and silent-and were leaning forward in unison to see every detail of his fate.
He whimpered once, wondering where to run and knowing that such flight was doomed, and-and-
Then it was all too late. The Simbul lifted her head almost in defiance, stiffened, her face going dark and her eyes starting to blaze. Abruptly she rose and turned away from the quaking ambassador. She strode a few catlike paces across the open stretch of floor around the throne, clawing at die air in frustration.
What was it? Thrice now, whilst this fool gabbled and shook before her, it had touched her, stirring something in the depths of her mind. Oh, so faint a touch, but troubling, setting her nerves to jangling and the silver fire to flowing impatiently. When this happened, it always betokened something bad. It always made her restless, too. Part of her wanted to hurl off her clothes and fly, shifting from shape to shape, dragon and falcon and wyvern and pegasus, on and on as the spirit moved her, as she tore across the skies of Faerun, seeking... something. Something she knew not what.
Alassra Silverhand stood silent, motionless except for the shivers running up and down her body. She was clenching her hands so tightly that her fingernails pierced her palms, and blood began to drip through her fingers. She stared at the floor as if her gaze could burn through it.... From one courtier, a tiny, hastily stifled shriek ran around the throne room as smoke curled up from the floor tile that bore the brunt of the Simbul's regard.
The Purseroyal of Tantras shrank back, weeping as quietly as he could, visibly struggling to keep control of himself. Writhing in the icy claws of his own fear, he was on the brink of screaming his headlong way back to his ship, through closed castle gates, plate-armored guardsmen, and all. In a moment or two he might be blasted by the Witch-Queen of Aglarond in one of her fits of destructive fury- or as some folk called it, "insanity."
There was fear on many of the faces along the walls now. When the Tantran ambassador saw that, his nerve broke. With a raw wail that would have done justice to a banshee plummeting down a long, long well, the purse-royal whirled and fled for the door.
As his despairing cry rose to its height, the Simbul looked up-and froze, astonished. The throneroom was almost deserted, with only a few of her most faithful retainers trembling by the door. Their eyes were on her, their faces white and set.
"Whatever-? Oh," the Witch-Queen said, stopping in midsnarl as she caught sight of her image in one of the tall, narrow mirrors on the throne room walls. Silver fire licked forth from her eyes and her mouth. Blue lightning crackled from her fingertips.
"Mysira," she murmured aloud," but this is serious. Either grave matters are stirring, somewhere-trying to reach me, I'd say-or I'm finally going as mad as folk say. Well, one way or another, El will tell me soon enough."
She moved her hips restlessly and laughed and waved reassuringly to the sorceresses by the doors. "I'm growing to need him," she announced, "and that's a weakness I cannot indulge further. Thorneira! Phaeldara! Fetch back that screaming Tantran fool, and soothe and clean him up if he's no longer presentable! Bring me envoys and treaties and wrangles to settle! It's not nearly time to take ease and dine yet!"
With uncertain smiles, her apprentices scurried to obey. After they'd gone, the Simbul stood alone amid deserted splendor and frowned down at her empty palms. The lightnings were gone now, but fire still surged and roiled just below the surface.
What-or who-could have brought on that troubling touch? It was so distant, so... strange, like a horn-call from Hell....
Shaking her head, the Witch-Queen of all Aglarond went back to her tlirone, and to the decanter of mint-water that rested beside it on a bed of ice. Well, if it was like all the other troubles that had flailed her with thorns all her life, 'twas a stone cold certainty that if she ignored it now, it would come back to smite her all the harder soon. And "soon" would become "right now" whenever its arrival would be most inconvenient.
***
Elminster threw back his head and screamed again as the imps tore away all of his fingernails and began gnawing on the bleeding ends of his fingers.
Mortals who presume to waste my time should expect to pay for their effrontery.
Nergal's mind-voice seemed almost to hold a sigh or a yawn. His rage amid El's memories, this time, had been brief, leaving behind a fiery headache. Blood still ran from El's ears and nose and welled up in his throat... but at no time in this last torment had he lost awareness of who and where he was.
No, he'd been spared that blessing. The endless brawl and slaughter that was Avernus raged around him unabated. El and the swarm of imps were writhing together on a rocky height whose stains and scattered bones attested to its usual use as a feasting-perch. From this height he could see far across the land of tortured rock. At least three dragons were flying across the blood-red sky, surrounded by swarms of winged devils that sought to slay the wyrms even as they savaged and devoured devil-flesh.
They'll have your toes next, then your hand and feet. I think the disobedience of even the great elminster may he tempered by a little time spent crawling and dragging along on raw stumps.
El did not bother to muster his will for a mental reply. He was too busy spinning a maelstrom of remembrances to deceive his captor into thinking his sanity was failing-to hide the slow seepage of healing silver fire he was releasing, oh so gently, within himself. El had to keep the pleasure of its healing relief out of mind, so Nergal wouldn't see it and pounce on what he so hungrily sought.
Something large and dark and terrible suddenly rose over the edge of the rock. The imps fled with frightened squeals. Naked and holding up bloody stumps in futile array, Elminster faced the pit fiend. Nothing but the vapors of Avernus separated them.