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The large circular chamber was in most respects a part of the tower of Sorcere—the school of wizardry over which the Archmage presided—but Gromph was reasonably certain that none of the masters of Sorcere suspected its existence； accustomed to secret and magical architecture though they were。 The place； lit by everlasting candles like the office below； was well nigh undetectable； even unguessable； because its tenant had set it a little apart from normal space and conventional time。 In some subtle respects it existed in the distant past； in the days of Menzoberranzan the Kinless； founder of the city； and in another way； in the remote and unknowable future。 Yet on the level of gross mortal existence； it sat firmly in the present； and Gromph could work his most clandestine magic there secure in the knowledge that it would affect the Menzoberranzan of today。 It was a neat trick； and sometimes he almost regretted killing the seven prisoners； master mages all； who had helped him build the place in exchange； they imagined； for their freedom。 They had been genuine artists； but there was no point in creating a hidden refuge unless one ensured it would remain hidden。
Dusting a few specks and smears of the flying vermin from his nimble hands； Gromph moved to the section of the room containing an extensive collection of wizard's tools。 Humming； he selected a spiralcarved ebony staff from a wyvern'sfoot stand； an onyxstudded iron amulet from its velvetlined box； and a wickedly curved athame from a rack of similar ritual knives。 He sniffed several ceramic pots of incense before finally selecting； as he often did； the essence of black lotus。
As he murmured an invocation to the Abyssal powers and lit a brazen censor with the tame little flame he could conjure at will； he hesitated。 To his surprise； he found himself wondering if he truly wanted to proceed。
Menzoberranzan was in desperate straits； even though most of her citizens hadn't yet realized it。 In Gromph's place； many another wizard would embrace the situation as an unparalleled opportunity to enhance his own power； but the Archmage saw deeper。 The city had experienced too many shocks and setbacks in recent years。 Another upheaval could cripple or even destroy it； and he didn't fancy life in a Menzoberranzan that was merely a broken mockery of its former glory。 Nor did he see himself as a homeless wanderer begging sanctuary and employment from the indifferent rulers of some foreign realm。 He had resolved to correct the current problem； not exploit it。
Except I am about to exploit it in at least a limited way； aren't I？ He thought。 Give in to temptation and seize the advantage； even if so doing further destabilizes the already precarious status quo。
Gromph snorted his momentary and uncharacteristic misgivings away。 The drow were children of chaos—of paradox； contradiction； and perhaps even perversity。 It was the source of their strength。 So yes； curse it； why not walk in two opposite directions at the same time？ When would he get another chance to so alter his circumstances？
He moved to one of the plex pentacles inlaid in gold on the marble floor and traced the tip of the black staff along its curves and angles； sealing it。 That done； he swept the athame in ritual passes and chanted a rhyme that returned to its own beginning like a serpent swallowing its tail。 The cloying sweetness of black lotus hung in the air； and he could feel the narcotic vapors lifting his consciousness into a state of almost painful concentration and lucidity。
He lost all track of time； had no idea whether he'd been reciting for ten minutes or an hour； but the moment finally came when he'd recited long enough。 The nether spirit Beradax appeared in the center of the pentacle； seeming to jerk up out of the floor like a fish at the end of an angler's line。
His centuries of wizardry had rendered Gromph about as indifferent to ugliness and grotesquerie as a member of his callous race could get； yet even he found Beradax an unpleasant spectacle。 The creature wore the approximate shape of a dark elf female or perhaps a human woman； but her body was made of soft； wet； glistening eyeballs adhering together。 About half of them had the crimson irises characteristic of the drow； while the rest were blue； brown； green； gray—a miscellany of the colors monly found in lesser races。
Her body flowing； her shape warping； Beradax flung herself at her summoner。 Fortunately； she couldn't pass beyond the edge of the pentacle。 She slammed into an unseen barrier with a wet； slapping sound； then rebounded。
Undeterred； she lunged a second time with the same lack of success。 Her resentment and malice infinite； she would spring a million times if left to her own devices。 Gromph had caught her； trapped her； but something more was needed if they were to converse。 He shoved the ritual dagger into his belly。
Beradax reeled。 The eyeballs prising her own stomach churned and shuddered。 A few fell away from the central mass to fade and vanish in the air。
''Kill you〃
〃No； slave； you will not；〃 Gromph said。 He realized the chanting and incense had parched his throat； and he swallowed the dryness away。 〃You'll serve me。 You'll calm yourself and submit； unless you want another taste of the blade。〃
〃Kill you〃
Beradax sprang at him again and kept springing while he pulled the athame back and forth through his abdomen。 Finally she collapsed to her knees。
〃I submit；〃 she growled
〃Good。〃 Gromph extracted the athame。 It didn't leave a tear in his robes or in his flesh； which was to say； the knife's enchantments had worked precisely as expected； hurting the demon rather than him。
Beradax's belly stopped heaving and shaking。
〃What do you want； drow？〃 the creature asked。 〃Information？ Tell me； so I can discharge my errand and depart。〃
〃Not information；〃 the dark elf said。 He'd summoned scores of netherspirits over the past month； and none had been able to tell him what he wished to know。 He was certain Beradax was no wiser than the rest。 〃I want you to kill my sister Quenthel。〃
Gromph had hated Quenthel for a long time。 She always treated him like some retainer； even though he too was a Baenre； a noble of the First House of Menzoberranzan； and the city's greatest wizard besides。 In her eyes； he thought； only high priestesses deserved respect。
His antipathy only intensified as the two of them attempted to advise their mother； Matron Mother Baenre； the uncrowned queen of Menzoberranzan。 Predictably； they'd disagreed on every matter of policy from trade to war to mining and had vexed one another no end。
Gromph's animus intensified still further when Quenthel became Mistress of ArachTinilith； the school for priestesses。 The mistress governed the entire Academy； Sorcere included； and thus Gromph had found himself obliged to contend with her—indeed； to suffer her oversight—in this onetime haven as well。
Still； he might have endured Quenthel's arrogance and meddling indefinitely； if not for their mother's sudden and unexpected death。
Counseling the former matron mother had been more an honor than a treat。 She generally ignored advice； and her deputies were lucky if she let it go at that。 Often enough； she responded to their suggestions with a