No matter, she thought. She would kill the archmage. Matron Mother Yasraena would die with at least that satisfaction.
The words poured out of her, and power gathered with every syllable. The vrocks continued to attack, harrying Gromph from either side. He comported himself well with the axe. He fought back the vrocks and looked up at Yasraena. His expression went wide-eyed.
He shouted something but she could not hear it over the shaking temple, over the boom of her own voice.
She finished the spell, pointed her holy symbol at the archmage, and let its energy take root in his body. She knew he would be warded, but she also knew his wards would fail him. She had put all of her power into the spell. No one could resist it.
Still staring at her, the archmage began to shake. His entire body quaked as much as the temple and the rest of the fortress. Sounds poured from his mouth but Yasraena could not understand them. The vrocks backed off, unsure of what had occurred. Yasraena touched her
House brooch and used its levitation magic to lower herself to the shaking temple floor. She wanted to watch Gromph die up close.
"You are but a male, Archmage," she said. "And I will watch you did before Lolth claims me."
The magic took deeper root. Gromph struggled to say something to her but could not control his body. His tongue flopped between his lips. He gagged, bit down on his tongue, and sprayed spit and blood. A horrible gargling noise escaped his lips as his body began to shrink in on itself.
For a moment, as the body collapsed, Yasraena saw Gromph's features contort to reveal. .
"Larikal?" Yasraena rushed forward and took the archmage's imploding body in her hands.
"Larikal!"
She could see the archmage-no, her daughter-trying to nod through her spasms. The quaking grew more and more intense.
Yasraena could not stop the spell. It was too late.
Mother, Larikal croaked through the connection of their telepathic amulets.
Yasraena could not respond before her daughter's mental voice became a prolonged scream,
then turned into an incoherent, pain-riddled gobbling. With a wet, tearing sound, her body folded in on itself over and over and over again until it was nothing more than a densely packed ball of flesh at Yasraena's feet.
Yasraena stared down at her daughter's remains and clenched her fists in rage. The archmage had deceived her again.
Above her, the dome began to crack. She stared up and looked into Lolth's eyes.
Blood-spattered and gasping for breath, Halisstra stood on the landing outside the doors of
Lolth's pyramidal tabernacle. To her left and right lay the corpses of Danifae and Quenthel.
Halisstra had killed them both, cut them nearly to shreds with the Crescent Blade. In her rage,
she had left Danifae little more than a pile of bloody, shapeless flesh.
She had stopped them both from entering the tabernacle. Neither would be Lolth's Yor'thae.
She unstrapped her shield and cast it to the stone landing. The rattle sounded loud in the silence. Except for the occasional sigh of the violet fires on the Planes of Soulfire behind and below her, the entirety of the Demonweb Pits seemed to be holding its breath. Even Lolth's wind had died down.
She looked up at the massive, pyramidal structure before her-Lolth's tabernacle, composed of black metal and acrawl with spiders. At its base, the towering double doors stood open and beckoning. Violet light leaked from within. Halisstra saw arachnid silhouettes in the light-huge,
predatory forms.
Now she would do what she had come to do.
She paused.
What had she come to do?
She shook her head-her thoughts were confused-and stepped across the threshold.
Webs covered the slanting walls of the temple's interior, their collective pattern suggestive of something disquieting but indiscernible. Spiders of all shapes and sizes skittered through the webs.
Columns dotted the structure, slender spires fashioned of hardened, twisted web strands. She could not see the source of the violet light.
At the far end of the web-strewn temple, standing on a raised dais of polished, black granite,
stood the eight bodies of the Spider Queen.
Seeing her former patron goddess in the flesh, Halisstra found it difficult to breathe.
Lolth was in her arachnid forms and appeared as eight giant widows, graceful and deadly-one goddess, eight aspects.
Seven of the widows crawled over each other, hissed at each other, as though fighting for position. But all of them stood behind the eighth, the largest, who sat quiescent in her web. The eyes of the eighth impaled her.
A yochlol stood to either side of the dais, their forms like melted wax, their waving arms like ropes.
Creatures that Halisstra had never before seen lined a processional directly between Halisstra and Lolth. Their tall, graceful forms-nude drow females sprouting long spider legs from their torsos-loomed over Halisstra. Halisstra felt their eyes on her too, and the weight of their expectations. She marveled at the grace of their forms.
"I am not the one!" she shouted, and the webs swallowed her voice.
The eighth spider stirred.
A rustle ran through the ranks of the temple.
As one, the drow-spider creatures responded, "But you could be. The eighth awaits the
Yor'thae."
"No!" she answered.
They hissed and bared their teeth, revealing a spider's fangs.
The eight bodies of Lolth clicked as one, and the widows fell silent.
They cocked their beautiful heads, listening to their goddess.
Halisstra brandished the Crescent Blade, drew in a deep breath, and took another step into the temple.
The doors swung closed behind her with a boom. She stopped for a moment, uncertain,
trapped, alone. She looked down the aisle at Lolth and somehow found a reserve of courage.
"I will face you for what you have done to me," she said.
The widows rustled. The yochlols waved their ropy arms.
You have done it to yourself, Lolth answered in Halisstra's mind.
The goddess's voice-voices, for Halisstra heard seven distinct tones in the words-nearly drove
Halisstra to her knees.
Holding the Crescent Blade in both sweating hands, her knuckles white, Halisstra took another step, then another. The blade shimmered in her grasp, its crimson fire a counterpoint to the temple's violet light. Halisstra might have no longer served the Dark Maiden, but Eilistraee's sword still wanted to do the work for which it was designed.
The strange drow-spiders eyed her as she walked between them but made no move to stop her.
They shifted uneasily with each step that she took nearer to Lolth's forms.
Halisstra was shaking, her legs felt leaden, but she kept moving.
Seven sets of mandibles churned as Halisstra got closer. The eighth body of Lolth stood still,
waiting. Halisstra stepped to the base of the dais, before the bodies of Lolth, and looked into the emotionless eye-cluster of the eighth spider.
She saw herself reflected in those black orbs and did not care for how she appeared. Her heart pounded in her breast, so hard it surely must burst.
Sweating, gritting her teeth, she lifted the Crescent Blade high.
Lolth's voices, soft, reasonable, and persuasive, sounded in Halisstra's mind.
Why have you come, daughter? Lolth asked.
I'm not your daughter, Halisstra answered. And I've come to kill you.
She tightened her grip on the Crescent Blade. Its light shone in Lolth's eight eyes, reminding
Halisstra of the satellites in the sky of the Demonweb Pits that had watched her from on high.
The yochlol to Lolth's sides slithered toward Halisstra, but Lolth's forms stopped them with a wave of their pedipalps.