Rasaad was feeling uncomfortable about Viconia. He had known that sacrificing still-beating hearts to an evil goddess had once been her day job. But it was one thing to know it as something that had happened in the distant past and another to see it in the flesh. Or out of the flesh as Valas' heart had ended up.

Nor was he the only one rattle by the event. The other men were discussing it too as they settled into the cramped, uncomfortable accommodation that the priest of Waukeen had arranged for them. He had given Jaheira and Viconia his own room which left him sleeping under the altar, but the chapel was small and impoverished. There wasn't much space to spread out but at least they could lay down their heavier belongings while they decided what to do. Those wearing armour were especially grateful for the chance to shed it and leave it behind while they explored the sweltering village.

"It was not an easy cut to make, straight through the breastbone," Sarevok remarked. "There are butchers back home in Baldur's Gate who would have struggled to do what she did."

"It was still pulsing after she cut it out," Anomen shuddered, "And it's a good thing she always keeps her hood up when we go into town. Her hair is red with blood."

"Am I the only one who's a bit turned on by that?" ventured Coran.

NOPE. SO, SHALL WE MOVE ON THEN?

Sarevok glared at Bhaal's petite avatar and took another long, welcome gulp of water. It was unpleasantly warm but at least it was wet.

"We will take a short rest and then scout out Balthazaar's keep," he said. "It would be prudent to see it for ourselves before we decide whether or not to walk into it."

IF HE DISCOVERS YOUR PRESENCE YOU WON'T GET A CHOICE. YOU SHOULD GO NOW!

Bhaal was quite insistent, but it was no secret that he wanted Sarevok to die as quickly as possible. This did not make the man inclined to listen to his advice.

"I'd have thought whatever Balthazaar is offering would be the least of your worries. If Amelyssan's job was to perform the ritual to bring you back, doesn't that leave you in a bit of a pickle?" Jaheira asked smugly. She had appeared at the door with Viconia in tow. Both women were looking at the bare stone floor the men had to sleep on with superior expressions. "There's nobody left to do it now."

ACTUALLY, IT HAS ALREADY BEEN DONE.

"Oh," the druid looked rather put out.

The women searched around for something to sit on. Coran eyed his own lap hopefully but in the end they both crouched down. Viconia's hair was dripping. She had rinsed out the blood in a small basin with moderate success. It was now more of a pale hint of ginger than an unpleasant reddish-brown.

EROWAN STARTED THE RITE WHEN SHE SUMMONED ME AT THE TWOFOLD TEMPLE, AND CORAN HAS BEEN REINFORCING IT IN DRIBS AND DRABS EVERY TIME HE SUMMONS ME.

"Wait, I've been doing what?" Coran yelped.

Friendship with Bhaal was questionable enough in the eyes of his own gods, but actively reviving the Lord of Murder might well put him beyond the pale. Would the Seldarine forgive one of their followers for that? Forget Freya; the elf was starting to have serious concerns about his own afterlife.

I'M PRETTY MUCH WHOLE NOW. ALL IT TAKES IS ONE MORE SUMMONING AFTER THE LAST BHAALSPAWN DIES, WHICH SHOULD BE SOON WITH ANY LUCK.

"I'm standing right here," Sarevok reminded him through gritted teeth.

"Mate, no! I don't think I can do that!" Coran told Bhaal shakily. There were few things he would not have done for Freya, but single-handedly reviving the Lord of Murder was one of them.

YOU MIGHT AS WELL. SOMEBODY IS BOUND TO TRY IT EVENTUALLY. I STILL HAVE FOLLOWERS.

"Fine! Let one of them do it!"

Bhaal put his paws up on Coran's knee, tucked his scrawny tail between his legs and whined. It seemed like he was going for cute puppy but there was nothing remotely appealing about him.

THAT COULD TAKE DECADES. CENTURIES EVEN! COME ON CORAN, I'M FED UP WITH THE ABYSS! ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS-

"I'm serious, I'm not doing it! My gods will reject me, I'll go to hell!"

NAH, IF THEY DO THAT YOUR SOUL CAN HANG OUT IN MY DOMAIN INSTEAD!

"You mean the Abyss? No thank you!" Coran replied shrilly.

"Good call," nodded Sarevok with a shudder.

He had spent a relatively short time in the Abyss (compared with eternity) but he was in no hurry to go back. Sure, Coran would not have his entrails ripped out and gobbled in front of him by Freya on a daily basis, but there was still the reek of sulfur, the desolate landscape, the echoing shrieks of Bhaal's victims.

THERE'LL BE SUCCUBI…

Jaheira's lip curled at Bhaal's transparent effort to tempt his shallow friend, and it curled even further when Coran cocked his head dreamily to one side.

"Sorry, still no," he sighed.

I COULD TAKE THE FORM OF QUEEN ELLESIME?

Though only half-elven herself, Jaheira felt unable to let this slight to her heritage slide and she struck Bhaal over the paws with her staff.

"You would even stoop to prostituting yourself, you revolting pervert?"

Bhaal considered pointing out to her that over the course of his many lives he had been several amateur prostitutes. One of them quite successful given her penchant for poisoning wealthier clients and stealing their wallets. Still, it occurred to him that this disclosure was unlikely to endear him to the druid, so he held his tongue.

I REALLY WANT TO ASCEND AGAIN.

"Besides, some of you have fucked Coran before," Viconia pointed out fairly.

Her scarlet eyes glimmered wickedly at Jaheira's expression. She had mainly been referring to Freya who'd had a short, ill-advised fling with the elf when he had become temporarily trapped in a feminising girdle. However, once Arowan died, Bhaal would absorb the memory of her also sharing Coran's bed. It was not an event that Jaheira was particularly pleased to be reminded of.

"What about Hanali?" Coran asked, his fevered imagination getting the better of him. "Could you do Hanali Celanil, the elfin goddess of love?"

Jaheira's eyes bulged almost as much as Bhaal's. She looked as though she might explode with disgust, like a bursting sewer pipe. Fortunately, the god shook his mangled head regretfully.

PROBABLY NOT WITHOUT STARTING A CELESTIAL WAR. I COULD TRY, BUT IF SHE EVER GOT WIND OF IT I'D HAVE THE ENTIRE ELFIN PANTHEON UP MY TAIL. MIND YOU…

Bhaal padded over to Rasaad who paused shaving to eye him warily. His soft foamy lather dripped slowly from his chin giving the impression of a loosely attached beard. It rather suited him.

SELUNE IS MORE OF A LONE OPERATIVE. I RECKON I COULD DEFEND MYSELF AGAINST HER. SO RASAAD, IF YOU'D LIKE ME TO TAKE ON YOUR GODDESS'S FACE FOR THE NIGHT IN EXCHANGE FOR ROUNDING UP MY RITUAL…

The god was already skittering away before he had finished his sentence, and it was this alone that saved him from Rasaad's downward chop. His claws clicked rapidly across the floor and he leapt into the safety of Viconia's lap. She was laughing so hard that she was squeaking like a chew toy. Unwilling to fight his former lover to punish the insolent monstrosity, Rasaad returned resentfully to his seat and resumed shaving.

"But no Hanali?" ventured the elf.

NOPE.

"Then the answer is still no," Coran replied resolutely.

"It is so nice to travel with a gentleman of such uncompromisable morals," Jaheira told him, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Coran shrugged at her from under his botched haircut. He was who he was.


At first Viconia was content for the others to scout out the monastery without her. She preferred to keep a low profile in human settlements. Yet the day grew hotter, the temple became unbearably stuffy and every so often a worshipper or beggar would meander in anyway. After an hour of kicking her heels, the drow decided that she would be better off under the protection of her party after all and set out to find them.

It was safe to assume that they had looked for high ground so she began to climb, scaling splintering ladders which seemed to be propped up against every dwelling. The houses here were in layers carved out of the rockface. The rooftop of one street was the pavement of the one above it.

As she climbed hot dust blew about her, irritating her eyes and her palms grew damp with sweat. At the top of the cliff perched a mysterious copper contraption covered with gears and levers. A long telescope poked out of it that a muttering old man was training at the skies.

"Why hello there," he croaked. He might have been a gnome but he was so old, his skin so shrivelled and baked by the relentless sun that it was difficult to be sure. "What a lot of visitors I have today. It's not often so many people come up here. It is the reason I chose such a remote location for my research after all."

"What kind of research?" Viconia panted, secretly welcoming any excuse to pause climbing.

"Well no doubt you will ridicule me for my work, as so many others have before. Still, I'm used to it so I suppose I can tell you something of what I do. I make armour and weapons too. Powerful, powerful weapons and armour. It's a process I've been honing for years and years seeking to tap into the power of the metal unit."

Viconia shielded her eyes from the sun.

"What is the metal unit?"

"A legendary armour from the annals of history!" cried the little man. "There was once a self-proclaimed lord who boasted of his immeasurable lower regions until his son, Pantagruel, questioned the accuracy of the ruler. There was a great rebellion. His father warned the boy that the people would cut him no slacks, but he never listened, and had burned his britches behind him. Undaunted, he fulfilled his animus with the robes of his father, as uncomfortable as that might sound, and shaped the Metal "Unit" with his own hands."

That confirmed it. This sort of crazed, non-sensical but above all longwinded rant could only come from a gnome.

"The rule of Pantagruel was a discommoding morass, his armour eventually suffering a breach in the breech that proved his undoing. As his basket left the pantry, so to speak, his regime fell to insurrection, and so complete was the sacking that not even his Metal "Unit" could be found. The component pieces, a pantaloon triumvirate, were lost in the annals of time."

"You make weapons out of pantaloons?" she hazarded, trying to make sense of the gnome's words against her better judgement.

"Not just any pantaloons! I seek three special pantaloons of legend! One of gold, one of silver and the pantalets of bronze!"

Viconia cocked her head to one side, trying to decide whether she could get away with stabbing the little creature in the throat to make it shut up. She climbed on, thinking that if her party were not visible from the summit she may just have to give up on the universe and pitch herself off it.

"As it happens, I may have come across the golden pantaloons on my travels," she recalled. The gnome stopped wittering and goggled at her. "Stretchy things? Made of golden thread and woven so tightly that they look like molten metal?"

"Truly you have beheld them!" cried the gnome excitedly, leaping from his seat at the telescope. "Where were they?"

"In Athkatla. Some rivvil nobleman was wearing them at the Order of the Radiant Heart," she sniffed indifferently.

The gnome wriggled on his bottom, almost dancing with excitement. His eyes shone out of his crumpled parchment face.

"I must inform Balthazaar! He has promised me his aid in finding them in exchange for my monitoring of the skies," the gnome cried blissfully. He leaped up and began to scamper down the ladder, ignoring the fact that she was already halfway up it.

"I shouldn't bother!" Viconia snapped irritably. "They were destroyed by the Adversary."

"Destroyed?" the gnome echoed in a hollow voice. "How?"

"She tried them on," shrugged Viconia. "They ripped over her sizable rear end. The owner was quite annoyed about it apparently."

Without warning, the gnome burst into shrill tears. He released the ladder, falling dramatically not to his death but onto the rooftop below. At length he got up cursing and limped home, sobbing all the way. The drow would not miss her new acquaintance.

"Viconia! Viconia, hey!" Coran's voice floated merrily down to her. "You'll appreciate this! Come on, check it out!"

Viconia's sweaty hands slipped on the rungs as she climbed the ladder. She paused at the top for a gulp of water, but Coran and Sarevok grabbed her sleeves, tugging her into a crouching position.

"Unhand me dathiir! What the-?"

"Shhh!" Coran grinned.

The three of them commando crawled to the edge of the cliff, into the shade of the mysterious gnomish telescope. Rasaad was already there.

From their vantage point they could see into the courtyard of Balthazaar's monastery. Rasaad was taking advantage of the tactical value of this discovery, to scout out the potential enemy. Judging by Coran's gleeful expression, he was thinking along very different lines.

At least a dozen shirtless monks were training in the courtyard. Two pairs, one male and one female, were sparring each other, while the rest honed their bodies with weights and sit-ups. Even from this distance their muscles gleamed in the sun.

"I could watch this all day," grinned Coran. "Is this how the female monks of the Sun Soul work out Rasaad? If so, why in Hanali's blessed name did you ever leave?"

"Get a grip, ridiculous darthiir!" laughed Viconia.

"Nah, that'd be creepy. Maybe later in the privacy of my own room."

This remark earned him an indignant huff from Anomen, though the knight's eyes had not strayed from the topless fighting women throughout the entire conversation.

"Now Viconia, I have something important to ask you. Sarevok and I have a bet. I'm rooting for the one in the blue belt," whispered Coran, pointing out a lithe young man who was sparring against a much taller opponent. "The stake is thirty gold pieces. Care to place a wager?"

"Your man is somewhat lacking in the muscle department," said Viconia, sizing up the sparring men with an expert eye. "I prefer my males larger."

"My choice wasn't based on aesthetics but if that's what you're after forget his muscles and look at his hands!" said Coran. "You know what they say about men with big hands!"

"What do they say?" asked Rasaad curiously.

"That unseen parts of his anatomy are equally bulky," replied Jaheira flatly. Rasaad blushed. Viconia could not resist it.

"Sadly this has not been my experience," she remarked.

The party's heads turned as one to stare at Viconia and then at Rasaad's hands. Coran shoved his own fist into his mouth so as not to give away their position, crippled by silent laughter. Even Jaheira's lip twitched as she went back to watching the monks.

"You are joking again," said Rasaad stiffly. "That is good."

"After all these months of non-stop angst, I cannot believe you just said that," gasped Coran, lying helpless on his back. "Oh Viconia, you are truly wasted on him! So what about you Jaheira? See anyone you like?"

"Judging by that trickle of drool, I'm guessing either she does or she has succumbed to heat stroke. They're probably all celibate you know," snipped Viconia. Even in the shade she was far too hot. She felt like she was melting.

Jaheira made a low hissing noise and ignored the pair of them. She had not wholly forgiven Coran yet for spending the night with Arowan. Neither, judging by the way he was grinding his back teeth, had Anomen.

"We're just window shopping," replied Coran breezily. "Come on Viconia, your turn. Pick a monk!" Viconia automatically glanced at Rasaad whose eyes were still trained on the courtyard.

"No. Not that one," said Jaheira sharply. "We need you focussed on the job at hand Servant of all Faiths."

Coran leaned close to Viconia and whispered, "Seriously this has gone on long enough. It's over. Time to let go and move on."

He was right of course. Only it was hard. For female drow 'letting go' normally meant either selling her partner or slaughtering him. Viconia took a deep breath and looked, really looked, at the monks. She scanned specifically for one who did not resemble Rasaad. This was problematic because with their shaved heads and tattooed faces they all kind of looked like Rasaad. Even the females bore a passing resemblance.

"Well... I think Balthazaar sent us his best representative to hand Sarevok that invitation. The tall one with the scar over his eye. I wonder where he has got to?" Viconia mused, ignoring Rasaad who was looking like a kicked puppy.

"It seems the only way to find out what Balthazaar is offering will be to head down and ask them," said Anomen simply. "We must make a decision Sarevok."

The Bhaalspawn nodded at the others and they began to head for the ladder. Viconia looked utterly furious.

"But I only just got here!" she wailed.


They were not halfway through their descent when the sounds of an argument floated up the cliff from below. A small crowd had gathered to watch the priest of Waukeen squaring up to two monks. From the looks of things the monastery had spotted the butchered horses and were carrying them away for themselves.

"Your monastery once cared for this town but under Balthazaar you have abandoned us. Now you steal from us as well! The people are starving and your master does nothing."

"Balthazaar is concerned with greater matters, old man," retorted one of the monks. They recognised him as the one who had given Sarevok his invitation. Tall with a scar over his eye.

"Bah!" spat the priest. "He is gathering in mercenaries and wizards for an army. How is that more important than feeding starving children? In the name of Waukeen, I demand a meeting with Balthazaar! He must be made to see the insanity of his callous actions!"

The people were applauding, but the monk was unimpressed.

"You make no demands of me or the monastery!" he thundered. "Go beg your dead god to feed these people!"

"Blasphemer!" howled the priest. "I will stand for the tyranny of your monastery no longer!"

He struck out at the monk with his staff. Perhaps, based on their earlier applause, he expected the people to rise up and assist him, but they did not. They only watched as the monk tugged his staff from his hands and knocked him to the dirt with it.

"You dare attack me old man?" spat the monk. "Your death shall be quick and painful."

It was. He lifted the old man's own staff and ran at him like a pole vaulter while his partner pinned him to the ground. The end of the staff drove into the old man's neck while the monk leaped, forcing all his weight upon it. Even from their height the party heard his spine snap. Nobody from the village attempted to prevent this, nor raised any further objection to the loss of their horses.

The monks barged into the temple and by the time they emerged they were carrying the things the party had left behind and leading their three remaining horses.

"Damnation, Viconia! Why didn't you stay at the temple?" Jaheira snapped.

The drow mopped her dripping brow with her sleeve, livid.

"And what do you think those monks would have done with me if they'd found me there?" she hissed.

"Nothing too dreadful I'm sure. They are monks after all," observed Sarevok. He eyed his companion who was frozen in disgust on the rungs above him. "That said, Rasaad is a monk too and judging by the noises you two make perhaps celibacy is no longer to be assumed in the monastic orders."

"Rest assured I am done with the moon male!" spat Viconia.

"Then finally the rest of us may enjoy the luxury of a full night's sleep without being woken up by screeching," the Bhaalspawn replied sleekly. Rasaad stared ahead furiously trying to maintain self-control but Jaheira's lip twitched. Hating Sarevok, the abomination unto nature, was proving harder than it ought to be.

"You still want to confront Balthazaar?" she asked, amused.

"I fear we no longer have a choice. We won't make it out of this cursed dry land without horses," Sarevok said.

"Sod the horses! They took my armour!" Anomen realised belatedly. Shadow dragon scales. He would never own such a powerful piece of equipment again, save for Casomyr itself. And only that if the Order allowed him to keep it.

So it was that they climbed down and found themselves making their way reluctantly to the gates of the vast fortress carved from rockface. At least the canons were pointed toward the sky, though that would have been more reassuring if it hadn't indicated the imminent possibility of a full blown dragon attack. Sarevok mopped his face on Coran's satchel, dried his palms on his breeches in case he was required to shake anyone's hand and put on his best negotiating face. It was unnerving to Coran that the man could be so charming when he wished it.

Like father like son.