Many things occupied Lolth's mind for the next decade, not the least of which was the complete and utter destruction of the Cult of Vhaeraun in Sschindylryn. There was also a full-scale civil war in Ust Natha, following the escape of several drow from justice. The drow outpost beneath the surface lands of Amn and Tethyr had the distinct misfortune of being right next to the lair of a great silver dragon, who often meddled in their affairs.

Then, of course, there were the day-to-day duties that were required of a goddess. Sacrifices had to be accepted from families seeking to placate her hunger for souls, as well as punishments meted out to those who had incurred her wrath. Yochlols were sent out to the City of the Dead to retrieve faithful souls from the watch of Myrkul, and to bargain for the release of the unfaithful to Lolth's merciless demons.

It was the retrieval of one of these faithless souls that caught Lolth's attention. The secret worship Hezeth Nez-Varniss had harbored for Ghaundahaur had finally been discovered and the foolish young apprentice had attempted to flee the city of Menzoberranzan. He was cornered by a patrol and slain before he'd reached the lake of Donigarten.

Suddenly the dark goddess recalled having bestowed the stolen power of spellfire on the youngest son of the Ninth House of that same city. Her powerful gaze flew to House Do'Urden, but she didn't see Drizzt there. For a moment, she was confused, having forgotten how quickly time passed on the Material Plane, but she soon directed her thoughts to Sorcere. The youngest Do'Urden was not there, either.

Had the youngest son met with his demise? For a moment, Lolth considered the traitorous Zaknafein. Had the weapon master slain the boy in a "training accident?" No, that hardly seemed possible, given the child's apparent innate skill with blades... In growing horror, her consciousness swept back to Tier Breche, the Academy of Menzoberranzan.

If Lolth had been mortal, she would have moaned in dismay. There, fighting with fury in the grand melee at the fighter's school, Melee Magthere, was Drizzt Do'Urden. Though the young warrior's prowess with his chosen weapons was truly heartening--and against students two years his senior!--Lolth felt a stab of anger that her chosen instrument of war was not where she had planned for him to be. Foolish Malice!

Her ire quickly turned to the Matron Mother of the Ninth House. Malice had sent the child to Melee Magthere and not Sorcere, despite her family needing a wizard of greater aptitude than her present patron, Rizzen. Having witnessed the boy's skill at the grand melee, the logical aspect of Lolth could appreciate Malice's choice... but rarely was Lolth logical. Malice Do'Urden had upset her plans, though there still remained the chance they could be salvaged.

Her consciousness raced back to Drizzt Do'Urden, noting in passing his elation at having defeated all his opponents, but in search of something far deeper. The Thread was still as wide as ever, but much of it was darkened and as useless as a vestigial limb. Only a thin line remained bright, allowing for the casting of the three innate spells the young drow possessed, but of this, too, Lolth was barely aware.

At last, she found the tiny spark of spellfire within Drizzt's mind, and was dismayed to note that it had not grown any in size. Perhaps the power was not usable by a dark elf? She dismissed that idea immediately, deciding that it was merely this particular drow with whom spellfire was incompatible. Resolving to transfer the spark to Masoj Hun'ett, whose presence she'd touched in her journey through Sorcere, Lolth reached toward the silver flame and pulled.

The spark did not move. She tried again, but the essence of spellfire hardly even quivered. Exasperated, Lolth "grasped" the mystical energy and tugged harder.. but to no avail. Then, inexplicably, the spark vanished completely. She searched within his mind, but it took her not long at all to determine that it was not there any longer.

Now the Queen of the Demonweb Pits was truly angry, as much at herself as anyone else. In her haste to protect the power of spellfire from being torn from her in the inevitable exile of the gods, she'd allowed herself to gift it to a child who had no desire to learn the arcane arts. Drizzt's words on the day she'd bestowed the power upon him stung her wounded ego even more. "I'm going to be a warrior one day," he'd said, and the spirited child had been right!

Her anger shifted again, this time directed at Zaknafein Do'Urden. Upon reflection, she recalled his softly whispered exclamation in the hallway on the Festival of the Founding.

"My son..."

Lolth hissed in anger. The wretched weapon master had done this! She knew, without doubt, that Zaknafein was responsible for the boy being sent to Melee Magthere--the signs of the elder Do'Urden's training were evident in every graceful motion of the padded poles Drizzt wielded in the grand melee.

Again, she changed focus, enraged that Matron Malice had been so foolish as to heed the advice of a drow who had so often proven himself a blasphemer and traitor. Foolish Malice! Lolth decided, then, that the matron of the Ninth House deserved to be punished, and the wicked goddess soon determined the means of her punishment.

Within Malice's womb were the beginnings of another child--a rarity for a matron just beginning her sixth century, and even more rare for following a mere twenty years after the birth of her last child. The babe would be a daughter, but Lolth's desire to punish Malice was greater than her desire to see another potential high priestess born to the powerful House Do'Urden. Even as she considered the deed, Lolth discovered that the sire was not Malice's husband Rizzen, but Zaknafein! Not wanting to waste an opportunity to punish both of the dark elves who had so angered her, she ruthlessly crushed the embryonic life.

Other deific duties called, and Lolth's direct attention turned once more from Menzoberranzan, her thirst for vengeance, for the moment, sated.