And saw a handsome elf, with golden skin and hair the color of the morning sun.
Entreri fell back a step.
"Although the hair suits you well, I prefer the drow image," Ilnezhara said. "Exotic, mysterious, enticing…"
"Dangerous," said her sister. "That is always the lure for you, dear sister, which is why we are farther into Dojomentikus's domain than I had desired. Come now, it is time for us to be gone."
"Dojo would not strike out at the both of us, sister," said Ilnezhara. She turned back to Entreri and Jarlaxle. "Such a petty beast, like most males. Imagine that just a few trinkets could invoke such wrath."
"A few trinkets and your refusal to breed with him."
"He bored me."
"Perhaps he should have donned a drow disguise," Tazmikella said, and Entreri realized that that should have been his line—except that he was hardly listening to the conversation, for he remained transfixed on Jarlaxle.
"You should close your mouth," Ilnezhara said, and it took Entreri a moment to understand that she had directed the comment at him. "The sand will blow in. It is most uncomfortable."
Entreri shot her a quick look, but turned back to his companion.
"Kimmuriel is often difficult in his dealings," Jarlaxle explained. "He conceded quite a bit, but demanded of me that I wear this mantle beyond the Bloodstone Lands, for all the rest of my days on the surface."
"Agatha's mask," Entreri realized, for he had once worn the magical item, many years before. With it, he had assumed the mien of Regis, the troublesome halfling, and had used the disguise to infiltrate Mithral Hall before the drow invasion. He shook that memory from his mind, for from that failed invasion had come his servitude in the city of drow, a place he did not like to think about.
"The same," Jarlaxle confirmed.
"I had thought it lost, or destroyed."
"Little gets lost that cannot be found, and no magic is ever truly destroyed for those who know how to put it back together." He smiled as he spoke, reached behind him, and brought forth a familiar gauntlet, the complimentary piece to Entreri's mighty sword.
"Kimmuriel managed to piece it back together; he is no fonder of magic-users than are you, my friend." He tossed the gauntlet to Entreri, who studied it for a moment, noting the red lines shot through the black material. He slipped it on his hand and clutched the hilt of Charon's Claw. The gauntlet minimized the magical connection. Kimmuriel, as always, had done well.
"Well now, I'd say that's better, but it'd be a lie," Athrogate said, walking up to join the group and taking a long look at the transformed Jarlaxle. "Any elf's but a girl making ready to cry. Bwahaha!" The dwarf waggled his bare toes in the hot sand as he laughed.
"And if you keep rhyming, you're going to die," Entreri said, and Athrogate laughed all the louder.
"No," Entreri said, his voice deadly even. Athrogate stopped and stared at the man and his undeniably grim tone. "There is no joke in my words," Entreri promised. "And the rhyme was coincidental."
Athrogate winced, but at the burn on the soles of his feet, not at the threat, and he hopped about. "Well, tell that one to quit inspiring me, then," he blustered, waving his arms at Jarlaxle. "Ye can't be expectin' me to behave when he's springin' such surprises on me!" He walked around Jarlaxle, inspecting him more closely, and even reached up with his stubby fingers and pinched the drow's cheek, then fiddled with the golden hair. "Bah, but that's a good one," he decided. "Good for getting into places ye don't belong. Ye got more o' that magic? Might be that if we find some orcs, ye can make me look like 'em so I can walk in before bashing?"
"That wouldn't take magic," said Entreri. "Just trim your beard."
Athrogate shot him a dangerous look. "Now ye're crossing a line, boy."
"I should have eaten him," said Ilnezhara.
"No, and all is quite well," said Jarlaxle. "Well met and well left, good ladies. I… we are most grateful for your assistance, and I speak truly when I say that I will miss your company. In all of my travels across the wide world, never before have I encountered such beauty and grace, such power and intelligence." He bowed low, his outrageous hat sweeping the desert sands.
"So you believe the tales that proclaim that dragons are weak for flattery?" said Ilnezhara, but her grin showed that she really was quite pleased with the drow's proclamation.
"I speak truly," Jarlaxle insisted. "In all things. You will find the Bloodstone Lands an interesting and profitable place upon your return, I believe."
"And we will see you again," said Tazmikella. "And I warn you, your disguises do not fool dragon eyes."
"But I cannot return, I fear," the drow replied.
"Dragons and drow live longer than humans, longer even than the memories of humans," said Ilnezhara. "Until we meet again, Jarlaxle."
As she finished, she leaped and turned, her great wings going wide and catching the rising heat of the desert sands. Her sister leaped after her, and though it only took one great beat of their tremendous wings to spirit them swiftly away, the downdraft of that action sent a storm of sand flying over the three companions.
"Durned wyrms!" Athrogate complained.
By the time the three got the sand out of their eyes and managed to look back, the sisters were no more than small spots in the distant east.
"Well, I won't be missing them two, but I'm not for walking on this ground," Athrogate muttered. He plopped back down on his butt and began pulling on his boots. "Too soft and unsure for me liking."
"I don't walk," Jarlaxle assured him. The drow-turned-elf reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a curious red figurine. He offered a wink at Entreri and tossed it to Athrogate.
The dwarf caught it and sat staring at the item: a small red boar. "Sculptor forget to put the skin on the damned thing?"
"It's an infernal boar," Jarlaxle explained. "A creature of the lower planes, fierce and untiring—a suitable mount for Athrogate."
"Suitable?" the dwarf asked, obviously perplexed. "Why, if I sat on it, I'd lose it up me bum! Bwahaha!"
"The figurine is a conduit," Jarlaxle explained, and he pulled out his own obsidian statuette and dropped it on the ground beside him. He called to the hellish nightmare, and in moments, the fiery steed pawed the soft ground beside him.
Athrogate gave him a crooked smile, then likewise dropped the red boar to the ground. "What do I call it?" he eagerly asked.
"Snort," Jarlaxle said.
Athrogate snorted.
"No, that is its name. Call to 'Snort, and 'Snort' will come to your call, if you see what I mean."
Watching with little amusement and no surprise, Entreri brought his own mount, Blackfire, to his side. At the same time, Athrogate did as instructed, and sure enough, a large red-skinned boar appeared beside the dwarf. Steam rose from its back, and when it snorted, as it often did, little bursts of red flame erupted from its nostrils.
"Snort," Athrogate said approvingly. He moved beside the creature, which, like the nightmares, appeared with full saddle, but he hesitated before lifting his leg over it. "Seems a bit hot," he explained to his companions.
Entreri just shook his head and turned his nightmare around, starting off toward a distant oasis at a gallop.
Jarlaxle and Athrogate came soon after, and the smaller mount had no trouble pacing the nightmares, its little legs stepping furiously.
Entreri stayed in front of the others all the way to the last high dune overlooking the oasis. He stopped his mount and waited there, not out of any desire for companionship, but rather, because the sight below gave him cautious pause. He knew the ways of the desert, knew the various peoples who roamed the shifting sands. That particular stop along the trade route was classified as "everni," which translated, literally, as lawless. An oasis such as that was under no formal control, with no governing militia in place, and by edict of the pashas of both Memnon and Calimport to the south, "unavailable to claim." Anyone who tried to set up a residence or fortress in such an oasis would find himself at war with both powerful city-states.