The Ruin Part 7

Then, however, the wyrm shifted her away from its mouth to regard her with its luminous eyes. "You have scents on you," it said. "Karasendrieth, Jivex, Taegan Nightwind, and the sun priest-where are they?"

Joylin took a deep breath. Even so, her voice shook. "They told me to find their dragon friend. Is that you?"

"I'm Brimstone," the reptile said. Seeing she didn't recognize the name, he added, "I am their ally. I've been seeking them for two nights. Where are they?"

"If you truly are their friend, put me down and promise not to hurt me. Then I'll tell you."

Brimstone bared his fangs, and Joylin realized how little inclined he was to release prey, or to bargain with the likes of her. Still, after a moment, he deposited her back on the ground.

"a.s.sist me, and I swear to spare your life," said the dragon. "Now speak."

She did her best to explain what had happened. Telling the story made her feel a fresh pang of shame at her people's treachery, and renewed anguish at her father's death. She blinked, trying not to cry.

When she finished, the wyrm said, "I should have stayed with them, no matter how we grated on one another. I might have sensed your people's intentions. In any case, I would have had no desire to eat your tainted feast, and could have protected my helpers. Curse it, anyway! Where does Iyraclea live?"

"In a ..." Joylin strained to remember the exotic word. "A castle castle made of ice." made of ice."

"I haven't noticed such a thing hereabouts."

"Neither have I, nor anyone in my tribe. It's just what her servants told us. It's not anywhere nearby."

"Yet your father somehow summoned the Ice Queen's minions, and they arrived the same night?"

"Yes."

"That means they travel by aid of magic. Even if I was certain of besting a gelugon-"

"A what?"

"An ice devil. The baatezu you call an Icy Claw of Iyraclea. Even if I knew I could defeat it, giants, and human soldiers all at the same time, I have no hope of overtaking them on the march. They've reached the citadel already." He shook his enormous wedge-shaped head. "Why have I never heard of this Ice Queen? How is it that Raryn Snowstealer evidently knew nothing about her?"

"She wasn't always here. She came after Uncle Raryn left. Anyway, even though she's called herself queen for a long while, it's only this year that everybody started obeying her."

Brimstone's mouth twitched into a bitter grin. "Of course it is."

"What are you going to do?"

"Find a suitable patch of ice," Brimstone said, "and scry. Perhaps I can determine where the fortress stands, and what's become of the prisoners."

"Be careful," Joylin said. "They say the Ice Queen can feel things happening a long way off. That's part of the reason everyone follows her orders."

"Rest a.s.sured, child, I have my own tricks and powers." The crimson eyes burned brighter. "Now, what am I to do with you?"

She goggled at him. "You promised not to hurt me!"

"It wouldn't be the first oath I've broken, and your blood would be the sweetest I've tasted in a while. I know, I can smell it through that bandage." He glided forward.

It seemed that everyone practiced betrayal. Joylin felt a surge of disgust powerful enough to eclipse even her terror. She scuttled backward, s.n.a.t.c.hed up her harpoon, a.s.sumed a fighting stance, and shrilled an ululating Inugaakalakurit battle cry.

Brimstone hesitated as if astonished that she hadn't run, frozen, or collapsed in fear. As he well might be, for she recognized that in relation to his hugeness and prodigious fangs and claws, she was like a rabbit striking combative poses in front of a bear.

He turned away from her. "Go home," he whispered.

She blinked, scarcely daring to believe it. "Really?"

"You're too small," Brimstone said, keeping his eyes averted. "Your blood would be tasty, but it takes more than a few drops to slake my thirst. Now flee, before I change my mind."

Pavel's eyes flew open. Above him danced something he'd never before beheld, though he'd read of it. Veils of green and purple light shimmered across the night sky.

For a second, he smiled at the miraculous sight, then recalled the ice dwarves and their poisoned feast. He bolted upright and cast about.

The situation in which he found himself was so strange and unexpected as to seem almost unreal. Someone had removed his clothing, all but the sun amulet, and lain him on a bier atop a tower. To all appearances, both the pedestal and spire were made of carved and polished ice. Yet despite his nudity, he felt warm. He experimented by removing the pendant, and at once cold pierced him and made him gasp. A spellcaster had plainly cast an enchantment on the pendant to protect him from the chill, and he hastily replaced it.

He moved to the parapet and looked around. The tower was only one portion of an enormous castle that had been hewn-or magically raised-from the glacier.

He couldn't see any way down from his perch, but a table, likewise shaped of sculpted ice, caught his eye. Atop it sat a pewter pitcher, goblet, and platter of food. The sight of the items gave him a pang in his stomach, and for a moment he feared he hadn't yet recovered from the poison. But it wasn't that. He was simply hungry, and thirsty too, his throat scratchy and dry.

He walked to the table and helped himself. The pitcher proved to contain a tart white wine. The pink b.l.o.o.d.y pieces of rothe meat on the tray were raw, but tenderized and seasoned in a way that rendered them palatable even so.

"Do you like your meal?" asked a dulcet soprano voice.

Startled, Pavel jerked around. Before him stood a slender, fair-skinned woman, not tall, but imposing even so, by virtue of a flawless beauty and an air of utter self-a.s.surance. She wore only a light white gown with blue embroidered borders, evidence that she too was the beneficiary of some magical protection against the cold. At her back, a round hole pierced the roof. Evidently it had opened to grant her access.

Pavel had always had an eye for attractive women, and beholding such perfection, felt a stirring of desire despite the wholly inappropriate circ.u.mstances.

"The food is good, thank you," he said. "May I ask whom I have to thank for it?"

"My name is Iyraclea," she said, "and my palace holds many pleasures in addition to savory food. My retainers are free to enjoy them all."

"Why am I here?" Pavel asked.

"To enlighten me," Iyraclea said, sauntering closer.

"About what?" He wondered what would happen if he grabbed her by the throat. Could he force her to take him to Will and the rest of his friends, then set them all free? No, she surely wasn't as vulnerable as she appeared.

Besides, the thought of laying hands on her brought another pang of irrational excitement, as if he himself didn't truly know whether his intentions were aggressive or erotic.

Iyraclea smiled. Pavel had encountered some brutish folk and sordid circ.u.mstances during his travels, but rarely an expression so rich with l.u.s.t yet devoid of any trace of warmth. He wouldn't have imagined a lovely woman's face could look like that, at least not with a sane mind behind the eyes.

It frightened him, but didn't dampen his steadily heightening desire. He realized he was trembling.

"You can touch me if you wish," she said. She took his hand, raised it to her lips, and kissed his palm. Her tongue caressed his skin.

Her mouth was cold as a corpse's. With any other woman, it would have been repellent, but instead it seemed delightful.

"Do you want to kiss me?" she asked.

Tell her no, he thought, or shove her away. You don't really want it. She's casting a spell on you.

"Yes," he said. He took her in his arms.

In another minute, he was fumbling at the fastenings of her gown. Over the years, he'd grown adroit at undressing women, but he needed her so fiercely it made him clumsy.

She laughed, a.s.sisted him, and the garment fell away. She was bare underneath, her silky alabaster skin painted with gray and white sigils.

He saw they were diamonds with snowflakes inside. Emblems of Auril, malevolent G.o.ddess of winter, ice, and cold. That too failed to extinguish his ardor.

He guided her to the bier, or perhaps she led him. They writhed atop it, tangled together, first kissing, then caressing, and finally joined.

Chill soaked into the core of him, but the sensation was pleasant, an aspect of the tide of pa.s.sion lifting him high. The only unpleasant thing in his universe was the amulet brushing and b.u.mping against his chest. It felt too hot, as if someone had dangled it over a flame. It almost made him want to toss it away.

His hands and arms altered, becoming a gla.s.sy blue-white, perhaps even translucent. It reminded him of the moment when Kara began her shift from human to song dragon, and he realized he too was undergoing a transformation. It frightened him, but the fear didn't matter. It was feeble compared to the urgency of his desire.

Something faded and frayed inside him. At first, he didn't know what it was. Then he realized his mystical bond with Lathander was attenuating.

Pavel's earliest memory was of gazing at a rose-and-gold sunrise above the steeply pitched roofs of Heliogabalus, and feeling as one with the power behind it. He'd adored his G.o.d his whole life long. Their communion anch.o.r.ed him and defined him. He could sacrifice his will, his very humanity, perhaps, but the thought of losing his priesthood was intolerable.

Iyraclea kissed him, twined around him, held him tight and close in every way a woman could embrace a man, and another surge of rapture threatened to drown his newfound desperation. He silently cried to the Morninglord for aid, and likewise groped for the sun amulet. Iyraclea reached to capture his hand, but not quite quickly enough. His fingers closed on the garnets and gold plating.

The pendant burned him like metal fresh from the forge, but denying the pain, he gripped it tightly. He sought for Lathander once again. This time, the deity's response was unmistakable. An inner light warmed Pavel's heart, driving out the chill.

He was still too drunk with pa.s.sion to channel that infusion of strength into the precise articulations of a spell. But he could cast it forth in the same sort of raw blast sufficient to wither and repulse the undead. Maybe a servant of the Frostmaiden would find it similarly obnoxious.

He released the power, and the flash painted Iyraclea's ivory skin gold. She cried out. The spell of love she'd cast on him shattered, and she seemed but an enemy clutching at him to do him harm, and he only wanted to stop her. He pulled back his fist, preparing to strike.

Hands grabbed him and pulled him away. Their strength was prodigious, and he struggled helplessly in their grip, meanwhile looking about to see what had taken hold of him. Whatever it was, it was invisible, some infernal or elemental spirit. No doubt it had hovered protectively around Iyraclea the whole time.

It dangled him over the bal.u.s.trade of ice. It would be a long fall to the snowy courtyard below. Standing, Iyraclea glared at him.

"If your lackey drops me," he said, "I'll no longer be able to 'enlighten' you."

"I have your companions to interrogate."

"Suit yourself. I understand the wrath of a spurned woman. Not that I've spurned many myself. I certainly could never have found it in my heart to say no to a lady as beautiful as you, if you'd been content to couple and let it go at that."

"Your faith is strong," she said. "In time, you could grow into a truly accomplished priest. Since my deity is at war with yours, that gives me all the more reason to kill you. But I suspect that you, with your learning, may understand things the other prisoners don't."

The spirit dumped Pavel back on the roof. He still couldn't see it, but he knew it was there, and he could feel the ogre-sized bulk of it floating in the air behind him.

"Tell me who you are and why you came to the glacier," Iyraclea continued, "and perhaps you'll survive the night."

"As you probably know," he said, "Raryn, one of my companions, was born in the village where the ice dwarves poisoned us. He simply wanted to visit his kin-"

The spirit gripped his forearms with all its strength. He gasped in pain.

"You have one last chance," Iyraclea said. "What do you know about Sammaster and his schemes?"

He studied her. "I'm surprised to hear you mention that name, and suddenly very curious to hear what you you know." know."

"You're not here to question me!" She sighed in an exasperated way that, just for an instant, made her appear a hair less cruel and imperious. "But perhaps if I explain, it will show you it's pointless to lie."

20 Eleasis-17 Marpenoth, the Year of Rogue Dragons Iyraclea contemplated the wizard standing before her throne. His white face, composed as it was of living ice, was stiffer and less expressive than features made of flesh. Still, as he sensed the depth of her displeasure, his colorless eyes widened in dread.

He expected punishment, and well he might. Though she'd shackled his will, his mastery of magic and a measure of his intelligence remained intact. With the troops she'd placed at his disposal, he should have proved capable of defeating a tribe of frost giants. Yet the creatures had driven him away.

Perhaps if she had him whittled into a shape more painful and less convenient, it would incline him to try harder. She drew breath to order one of the Icy Claws to see to it, then felt mystical force pulsing through the air. The sunlight streaming through the round-arched windows dimmed.

The members of her court-a miscellany of human tribesmen, giants, devils, transformed magicians, and others-babbled in surprise. Iyraclea rose, strode to the nearest window, and peered upward.

A huge shadow in the shape of a dragon floated in the sky to dim the sunlight. It was already fraying at the edges, and she inferred it was simply a harmless, albeit impressive, illusion.

It still angered her, though. In light of recent problems, she took it for a taunt. She looked around, looking for the impudent wretch responsible.

She couldn't see him yet. Pale, icy spires and battlements were in the way. But she could hear the cries of gelugons buzzing from the direction of the castle's primary gate.

She wished herself there, and the fortress obeyed. The window dilated, and the patch of floor beneath her feet swelled and thrust itself forward, carrying her out into the open air. Still lengthening, arching and twisting as necessary, the extrusion hurtled across the fortress to fuse itself with the wall-walk above the barbican.

She stepped onto the platform atop the ma.s.sive fore-gate. Then, confident her wards would protect her from any potential threat, she advanced to the battlements to view the scene below.

Staff in hand, hooded brown cloak and robe whipping in the frigid, howling wind, a man stood on the ice. Two of the Icy Claws were down there too, and had leveled their lances to spit him. Yet he hadn't a.s.sumed any sort of fighting stance. Something about his casual posture suggested he was simply talking to the devils, through Iyraclea couldn't catch the words at such a distance.

His nonchalance piqued her curiosity. Whatever he'd done to rouse the Claws' ire-it didn't take much-perhaps she ought to command them to hold off. But before she could give the order, the ice devils drove in.

The hooded man vanished and reappeared in a different spot a few paces farther from the fore-gate. The gelugons' spears stabbed through the empty s.p.a.ce he'd just vacated.

The Icy Claws whirled, orienting on him anew. Iyraclea had the sense he was still talking to them, still trying to avoid taking aggressive action.

The hulking devils glared at him with their bulbous, faceted eyes. Fist-sized hailstones materialized in midair to hammer down on the stranger's head and shoulders. The barrage staggered him and his cowl slipped back, revealing withered skin. Whoever he was, he was undead. Probably a lich, a spellcaster who'd a.s.sumed his unnatural condition to cheat the grave.

The gelugons had their own power to translate themselves through s.p.a.ce, and they used it to pounce at him. Probably they a.s.sumed the hailstones had hurt him, and meant to finish him off before he could shake off the shock.

The lich brandished his staff, and two bursts of bright yellow flame flared into being to engulf the devils. The spellcaster himself stood in the s.p.a.ce where the explosions overlapped, but evidently had no fear of them.

Its pearly carapace blackened, one Claw collapsed. The other, though also bearing ghastly burns, managed to stay on its feet and ram its lance through the lich's torso.

The dead man stumbled and had to catch his balance, but otherwise the stroke scarcely seemed to affect him. He raised his staff and tapped the Icy Claw's brow. The gentle-looking contact smashed the pallid beetle head like a melon, and the baatezu dropped. The magician then ran a skeletal fingertip along the ivory lance impaling him, and the weapon crumbled into dust.

Iyraclea's fists clenched. The Icy Claws were valuable servants. Even more importantly, they were emblems of her power, and the Frostmaiden's. It was an affront for anyone to defeat even one of them, let alone two, especially with half the castle watching.

She looked up and down the battlements, at those who'd a.s.sembled to deal with the disturbance. "Destroy that thing!" she called.

Her barbarians flung spears and shot arrows, and frost giants hurled their own gigantic weapons. The lich planted the b.u.t.t of his staff on the ice, stood still, and suffered them to do their worst. The missiles broke against, or rebounded from, some invisible barrier in the air.