Black shape in blacker shadow, cloaked in blackest darkness. So silent when he wished, the drow ghosted behind the duergar tribe with nary a whisper. Just like before. Almost as if nothing has changed. He stumbled over a stone, which clacked and clattered away into obscurity, and then fled from the revealing sound. Behind him, the gray dwarves milled about in confusion. Nothing had changed, except him.

For drow do not stumble.

As soon as the strange elf entered the great cavern, he found his feet speeding him almost unwillingly nearer and nearer his destination: a shimmering spire of black opal that danced with inner ebony fires. It wavered before him like a candle flame, flickering in the space between Sorcere and Melee-Magthere. Just like its lone occupant—nestled between two worlds.

The mysterious drow stopped before the midnight-hued wall of the tower and whispered a phrase, too low for any eavesdropper to catch. Immediately one of the bas-relief carvings lit up with twinkling emerald faerie fire. The telling glow illuminated him fully, revealing his identity—had anyone been there to see it—in the form of his trademark clothing: a shimmering cloak, dark trousers, high black boots, a high-cut vest, and a belt laden with wands and daggers and all manner of magical trinkets. Bracelets and tinkling jewelry fell silent at his unspoken command; an eyepatch covered his right eye this day; and an outrageous plumed hat sat rakishly upon his shaven head. But all of this was hidden beneath his shielding piwafwi as the dark elf reached a hand—his left hand—out to tap the hidden switch. He suppressed a slight wince as a silvery flicker flashed from his palm.

A portal yawned wide in the solid stone. This, too, is the same, he though as he walked down the hallway and turned right. The same passwords, the same entrance, the same corridors. Only I am different.

The sound of whistling blades reached his ears, and he stopped. Suddenly his mind was in turmoil. He had been gone so long…and so much had happened to him…what if she…if she—no longer loved him?

The thought was too awful to bear, and he banished it from his consciousness without further contemplation. But what if…?

The drow shook his head and shed his protective piwafwi. He would not—could not—hide any longer. And so, concealing his uncertainty behind the mocking, clever mask that was his usual demeanor, he straightened and strode into the hall. The sight that confronted him stole his breath away.

A furious mock battle was taking place between two combatants: a well-dressed male manipulating a sword and a dirk, and a female wearing combat leathers and wielding twin sabers. They sparred, coming within inches of each other with their deadly blades, each twisting out of the way just in time.

The strange drow's heart nearly stopped. I knew it. She does not l—she has a new lover. I can never call her my own again. Oh, my velsharess…why do you do this to me?

Just then, the female turned toward him and froze in shock, lips parting in a soundless gasp, jade eyes widening. But her partner apparently did not realize this was a break in the match. He slashed with all his might at the seemingly oblivious female. Yet somehow she sensed the oncoming blade and bent out of its path at the last instant, going backwards from the hips. Then, catching the hapless male's wrist in one strong hand, she whipped herself upright, pulling his arm across her body, and snapped her leg up to smash into his elbow. There was a loud crack of bone, and he dropped writhing to the floor.

Nueldaiel did not even give a second glance to her latest victim, for she had eyes only for the mysterious drow standing in the doorway to the training hall. Her gaze roved over him—he looked exactly as she remembered. For an instant she simply could not believe it. Jarlaxle? she mouthed silently. Then she took one step, and another, her blades clattering to the ground as the pair ran to each other.

Jarlaxle clung to her, embracing her tightly as though he would never let go. He buried his ebony hands in her moon-white hair and tilted her face up to him. She was tall, but not as tall as he was. Those emerald eyes…'Dragoneyes' some called her, because of their color and because of the dangerous gleam that sometimes inhabited them. Not now, though. Now they were soft as a fawn's, clear as crystal. Jarlaxle had never dreamed he would see them again.

A deeper, more desperate need took hold of him, and he kissed her passionately, pulling her to him and running his hands down her back. Nueldaiel accepted the kiss and returned it, opening her mouth to receive his tongue. With one hand Jarlaxle caressed first her cheek, then her throat, and went lower still.

They finally broke apart, both breathing hard, though neither withdrew from the other's embrace. Nueldaiel spoke first.

"What took you so long?"

Jarlaxle laughed and kissed her again. "It appears that Lloth herself was taken with my irresistible charm. She battled you quite fiercely for my affections for some time."

"And did she succeed?"

"Of course not, velsharess."

Nueldaiel buried her face in her lover's neck, voice dropping almost to a whisper. "I feared you would never return to me."

"I would never leave you, my love. Not even if the goddess herself commanded me. I will always come back to you."

It was then that Jarlaxle made the mistake of brushing her cheek with his left hand. Nueldaiel's emerald eyes caught sight of the silver mark and flashed in alarm as she abruptly broke away from him.

For it was a silver spider, the brand of Lloth, laying claim to her own.

"No!" The word burst from him, a sharp denial that broke through the dam of emotions in his chest. Then his tone changed, becoming softer and more pleading. "No, no, dearest, please no…"

Nueldaiel continued to back away. She was caught by the spell enveloping that brand, one that led any who viewed it to submit to the will of Lloth, whether they would or no. She reached into her shirt for the obsidian medallion engraved with the symbols of the Spider Queen.

Jarlaxle was almost begging now. "Please, my velsharess, do not—oh, please no…"

A twist of the arachnid-shaped ring on her finger, and the female was suddenly clothed in her clerical vestments: black robes edged in bloody scarlet, web designs about the hem and cuffs picked out in silver thread. The pendant was in her hand.

"Dearest, please! I—"

"Harl'il'cik!"

"I beg of you!"

"In the name of the Lady of Spiders, and as a priestess of Lloth, I command you to kneel!"

The obsidian medallion flashed with a black light, and the unholy power of it drove Jarlaxle to his knees.

"Leave this place," the priestess demanded. "By the silver spider you bear, you belong to the Chaos Queen. Return to the Demonweb Pits and your mistress. Now!"

"Has she so conquered you?" Jarlaxle asked in a stunned, broken whisper. "Are you now her creature, so much so that you will condemn me back to the hell that spawned her, which I barely escaped only so I could return to you?" She took two steps and delivered a slap across the face that sent him reeling.

He had his answer. Jarlaxle shook his head to clear it, and stared up into the face of his love. Beautiful and terrible she seemed now, full of Lloth's wrath. A single tear trickled down his cheek. "Then it is good that I leave again so soon. For the Nueldaiel that I once knew is well and truly gone, secreted beneath all the lies and webs that Lloth holds so dear." He stifled a sob and slowly rose to his feet, expecting another slap for his blasphemous comment, but when none came, his emotional dam burst, and words flooded out faster than he could stop them: "Buried under all the deceit, all the treachery! The hunger, the cruelty, the capricious whims, the hatred, the malice, the perversity! Can't you see, my love? You will serve her until she has no more use for you, and then she will dispose of you like the worthless slave you will have become. There is no escaping it! Her contracts are binding, unending, written in venom and signed in blood. Dearest, I beg of you, do not sign! You will damn us both to eternal hell and bondag—"

"Silence, you curséd idiot! I am a daughter of the Spider Queen, and as such, I am hers! You, too, are hers; your entire race is hers! And I will do whatever she asks of me, regardless, as should you!"

"Whatever she asks?" Jarlaxle was shouting now. "Anything? So you are her slave now, at her beck and call, a lowly thrall that has no will of her own or even a spirit?!"

"ENOUGH!" The female raised the obsidian amulet above her head. It began to glow, brighter and brighter, with the contained fury of the Lady of Spiders.

"Will you slay me, then?" the mercenary screamed. Tears flowed unchecked down his face. "Will you murder the only thing you have ever loved?"

Nueldaiel said nothing. The medallion pulsed with greater intensity.

"Kill me!" Jarlaxle cried in anguish. Suddenly he sank to his knees, shoulders slumped in defeat. "Please kill me," he whispered, staring at the floor, watching the tears fall and pool on the stone "and rid me of the agony that is my existence."

But the killing blow did not come. When Jarlaxle looked at the priestess, she appeared to be engaged in some sort of inner struggle. The obsidian medallion held aloft in her hand was blazing now, so bright that it hurt his eyes, with the repressed hatred of the Spider Queen. Nueldaiel's whole body was shaking violently with the effort of holding it in check. Slowly, ever so slowly, her fingers forced themselves to unclench.

The pendant fell…

And shattered on the stone floor. The pent-up energy vanished, along with her clerical vestments.

"I have fulfilled my promise to you, Mother Lloth," the female whispered. "I am yours no longer."

With a cry she turned towards Jarlaxle, but he shrank back, not knowing what to expect, and afraid of what she might do. Sudden guilt and understanding flared in her dragon's eyes. Carefully Nueldaiel drew closer, step by step, until she could kneel and enfold him in her embrace once more. He drew a shuddering sigh and collapsed into her arms, fresh tears—this time of relief—starting from his eyes. "It's all right," the female murmured joyfully in his ear. "The goddess has no more power over either of us."

It took a moment for the realization to sink in, but when it did, he grinned widely. It was a grin that grew into a smile, and from there into full-throated, blissful laughter. Jarlaxle hugged his love closer, and the glint in his eyes sent shivers of anticipation through her. Apparently all was forgiven.

"I think," he said thoughtfully, nibbling her ear "that we need to make up for all that time we were apart. Don't you agree?"

Nueldaiel turned his face to her and kissed him, hard. "I have but one suggestion."

"And what is that?"

"Shut up."

He smiled again, brushed her lips with his tongue, and let his hands caress her body. She pressed herself against him. They sank down to the floor, and said nothing more for a long, long time.

Jarlaxle opened his sapphire eyes, blinking owlishly up at Nueldaiel as she pulled on her combat leathers. "So soon?" he asked, looking at her plaintively.

The female smirked. "My partner" she jerked her head at the still-unconscious drow male that lay on the floor, his arm hanging at an awkward angle "will be quite put out when he wakes, so I'll have to move him." Her mischievous expression made Jarlaxle laugh. He did not envy the poor sod.

The mercenary started to rise as well, meaning to dress and perhaps find a slave to make him a meal, but at a wave of Nueldaiel's hand, some invisible force pressed him down to the floor again. "Stay, my love," she ordered. "I'll be back, don't you doubt."

With that, the female turned to her unconscious opponent and raised him into the air with a flick of her fingers. Jarlaxle's white brows flew up. "You've learned much since I left."

Nueldaiel grinned at him. "And I'm sure you've discovered some new tricks as well?"

"Of course," the blue-eyed drow nodded, smiling slyly as he rose, disregarding her previous command. "Would you like me to…show you some?"

"Later, ssinssrei," she purred, coming over and kissing him on the cheek. Before she could pull away, though, Jarlaxle caught her face and turned it so he could kiss her full on the mouth. Nueldaiel smiled slightly as his tongue slipped past her lips. He moved lower, and she stifled a gasp as he found the sensitive place on her throat, pressing herself to him. Several minutes had passed by the time she pulled away. "Later," she promised again, breath hot in his ear, and left the room with her still-unconscious quarry.

Jarlaxle yawned widely and set about looking for his clothes, so carelessly tossed aside such a short while ago. An amused half-smile touched his lips as he pulled on vest and pants, and then slipped into his boots. Setting his outrageous hat on his shaven head, the mercenary buckled on his belt with its assortment of wands and weapons, followed by his shimmering cloak, and then looked about for somewhere to put his piwafwi. He finally draped it over one of the many ebony statues adorning the room; it wouldn't be needed until later.

Nueldaiel returned, smiling, from her short trip. She unsheathed her sabers and beckoned to her lover. "Shall we see if I am still your better at swordplay?"

Jarlaxle grinned, sweeping off his hat in a low bow and tossing it and his cloak over the statue holding his piwafwi. Standing up straight, he selected two of his magical daggers, one from his boot sheath and the other from his belt. "My lady?" He gestured invitingly.

The female lightly stepped in, smirking. "Don't be formal with me, ssinssrei." Her voice lowered and turned seductive. "It only gets you into trouble."

Jarlaxle shook his finger warningly. "Naughty girl," he teased, spinning his daggers about and going into a defensive stance. "Begin."

Slowly, carefully, they commenced circling each other. A feral smile spread across Nueldaiel's lips; she looked not unlike a stalking panther. Suddenly and without warning, she whipped one of her blades forward, aiming for Jarlaxle's heart. With barely a thought, he lifted a dagger and deflected it. A flick of his right wrist, and the same weapon spun end over end at the weapons mistress. She batted it aside, whereupon it vanished and dropped from Jarlaxle's sleeve an instant later. Neither of them was really putting in any effort. This was merely practice; the best was yet to come.

A saber darted in questingly and was pushed aside. A dagger swiped low and fell short. The pair shuffled about: a few steps forward, a few steps back. One, two, came the strikes. They were still testing, still feeling for the other's capabilities, and whether they had changed at all over the years. They had not; if anything, the two had both grown better. One, two.

The first real attack came when Nueldaiel leaped high into the air and launched a combination assault, kicking out at head level and sending one saber in low. The agile mercenary dodged both in one smooth, sinuous movement. Then it was his turn. He stole the idea and sprang up, using his innate powers of levitation to speed his ascent. When he reached a spot he judged as high enough, a stream of daggers shot down at the weapons mistress, all of which were sent spinning from a clockwise circle of her sabers. She too jumped upwards, her blades singing against his twice as she flew past. At the ceiling she stopped and reached a hand into her belt pouch. Placing two white feathers in the palm of her hand, Nueldaiel whispered, "Ar'ikórtanë riplyë!" and blew. The feathers drifted down and then disappeared in a sparkle of white light.

Immediately Jarlaxle felt his body grow strangely light, and he looked up to see his love soaring across the ceiling. He found moving—flying! —to be an act of will and took off after her. The exhilaration took him by surprise, and instead of continuing the battle, he swooped about the room for several minutes, enjoying the thrill of flight.

Nueldaiel laughed silently as she watched him. "Before we grow old," she called, smiling. "The spell is finite!"

The bald mercenary was glad to oblige. He came in with a sweeping thrust and stab, one hand over the other, and was rewarded with a clean miss. He had to pull up sharply as a tall ebony statue loomed ahead. Now where was Nueldaiel? It was as if she had simply vanished. Jarlaxle spun about in midair, looking for her with narrowed eyes and expecting a trick. He was not disappointed. As soon as he turned his back, the weapons mistress dodged out from her hiding place behind the ebony statue and tapped her lover on the shoulder with the tip of one saber. Jarlaxle contorted himself to avoid the coming strike, a straight thrust, and caught Nueldaiel's blade with the crosspiece of one dagger. She dropped the trapped blade and concentrated on the real attack—the thrust had been nothing but a feint—and shouted in glee when her remaining blade slipped past the mercenary's defenses to poke his chest.

But Jarlaxle was not there.

For he had released his levitation spell and dropped like a stone thirty or so feet below her, where he called upon the flying enchantment to stay aloft. The mercenary looked up at the weapons mistress, grinning at his own cleverness. His grin did not falter when he caught the glitter of her falling saber, unintentionally streaking at him point down. Jarlaxle raised both daggers in a ringing cross to intercept the missile.

But suddenly a sheet of silver flame erupted from the spider branded on his left hand, sending the dagger it held spinning away. He cried out in pain and clutched at the burned limb, dropping his other weapon to the stone below. The saber plummeted down.

Nueldaiel saw it happen as if in slow motion: the silvery flare, each of her lover's magical daggers drifting to the floor like fallen leaves…and then his expression as he looked up at her, surprised, confused, and hurt. The smiling lips suddenly made an O of shock and pain as her blade sheared through the blocking arm he put in place. It was so crystal-clear: the sinking, sinking of the drow-sharp edge, deeper and deeper…and the sinking, sinking of his body, the flying spell having been forgotten…and the sinking, sinking of her own heart, as the only entity she had ever truly loved collapsed to the stone with a heavy, unnatural thud. Blood flowed in scarlet rivers, rushing to the beat of his fading heart.

And she had killed him.

Nueldaiel choked, the catch in her breath seeming as loud as a dragon's roar in the eerie silence. The remaining saber dropped, forgotten, from her nerveless hand. Suddenly her heart caught up to her paralyzed mind, forcing it into action, making it obey now, now, now before it was too late.

Like her love only seconds before, the weapons mistress abandoned the flying spell and her levitation to dive downwards, recalling the magical energies only at the last second to prevent broken legs. The hard drop pained her knees, but she didn't care.

Because Nueldaiel was now at Jarlaxle's side, cradling his too-still form in her trembling arms, whispering his name, begging for him to live and not leave her yet once more. There was no response. She pleaded again, and again, her voice rising in volume until she was shouting in pain and guilt and fading hope. The blood, the blood, it was streaming down her fingers, down her arms, sinking into her armor and cloak, sinking like her heart into darkness. She knew nothing of anything, only that she could not let Jarlaxle die. He was still alive—just.

The mercenary's eyelids fluttered. A soft zephyr issued almost silently from his ebony lips, once, and then again. The female leaned close to hear.

"…not your fault..."

"No, please, my ssinssrei, I beg of you, we have only just found each other again, do not leave me once more and without saying goodbye!"

The blue orbs opened to slits as the mouth curved in an almost invisible grin. "…my velsharess…love you."

Beneath the female's questing hand, his fading heart beat once more and was still. His breath escaped in one long sigh. It sounded like a ghost of the laugh that used to ring so often from those frozen lips. The beautiful sapphire eyes closed forever, and closed also was the door in her heart, through which his love had passed but through which nothing would ever pass again.

In a broken whisper, like his last breath, which may as well have been her last breath, "No." Quietly, forlornly, "No." Recklessly, hopelessly, "No. No! Lloth, no!" In her agony and despair she hardly knew what she did:

"Lloth, Goddess, Spider Queen, I beg of you, as I am your disciple and servant and daughter and as you are my mother and my deity, one favor and I will have done! Grant me this and I will do whatever you desire, immediately and faithfully, and I will not fail, nor will I question. Forgive all my past indiscretions, for I repent of them completely and now desire only to please you. I ask only this: please, my mother, bring him back to me." As Nueldaiel spoke, her fingers scraped at the dust on the obsidian floor. A short cantrip came to her lips as she rose, cupping the dust in one palm, raising her clasped hands over her head as the words hurried out of her mouth. The spell was a simple one, one that Lloth granted even to lower-caste drow. But it remained to be seen if the Mistress of Chaos would answer her daughter's prayer.

The charm began to take effect. Spiders scurried from their niches and crannies and corners of the walls, crawling across the floor, dangling on gossamer strands from the ceiling. They scuttled to Nueldaiel's feet.

The female fell deep within herself, into that place of glowing black fire that was her power and her gateway of communication with her goddess. Prayer after prayer issued from her mouth. Hundreds of chitinous legs prickled her skin as the summoned spiders swarmed over her, until she was garbed in a glinting robe of arachnid bodies. From somewhere above and below her, from within and without her mind, Nueldaiel felt the awakening of a dark conscious, its interest piqued by the supplications and promised sacrifices that continued to tumble forth. No offer had yet been made that would goad it into action—until in one last, desperate plea she made the final promise. Without thinking, her mind crying out to stop the words, to stop even the thoughts, the vow slipped past her treacherous lips.

She could not take it back.

Falling through a darkening mist, the hurt in his chest fading from hellish agony to mere white-hot pain, Jarlaxle tried to focus on his surroundings. His sapphire eyes darted from side to side, but truth be told, there was nothing to see, only mist in every direction, drifting perpetually, ceaselessly. His head felt muzzy, felt as if his mind was fading in and out of existence. The mist kept darkening. First it had been white, but now it was gray…and a darker gray…

And black. Along with his sight, Jarlaxle's consciousness slipped away.

After an interminable amount of time, the drow wavered back into reality, like a bubble floating to the surface of a liquid. He managed to raise his head and look around. He was lying on something…Casting his gaze about, the mercenary perceived that he lay atop an enormous object that looked something like a cord, or perhaps a rope. Upon touching it, he found it gave slightly, but was nonetheless strong as adamantite. Otherwise it would have disintegrated under its own weight.

Jarlaxle slowly raised his gaze with a terrible feeling of foreboding. It was all too familiar.

Far ahead, his perch fused at an angle with another such object, which itself was connected to others, and they to still more. The pattern spread out to form a spider web of insane complexity, large enough to make a world. If it was attached to anything, the anchor points were too distant to see. Perhaps it just went on and on forever.

The Demonweb!

Even as the horrible realization found him, the web strand upon which he sat began to tremble and vibrate. Jarlaxle looked up and saw her scuttling towards him: Lloth, the Spider Queen, the mistress that he had left, who doubtless came now to reclaim what was hers. He scrambled to his feet, but admittedly had only two options: run or fight, both of which were equally absurd. He merely froze.

Kneel! came the command, white-hot and searing in his mind. He almost cried out for the pain as he dropped to the ground. There were very few things Jarlaxle Baenre of Bregan D'aerthe was afraid of, but she was one of them. He dared not watch as she approached.

Look at me! she ordered.

Lloth was beautiful and terrible. She had appeared to him this time in the form of a drider, a beautiful, shapely, and deadly half-drow, half-spider. Normally driders provoked nothing but sheer revulsion from any dark elf, because of their pale, bloated, androgynous, repulsive bodies, but Lloth had turned the form into a work of art. Her eight delicate legs tapered daintily to tiny points, her arachnid body a graceful rounded curve narrowing at her waist, and rising into the sculpted torso of a drow female. A crimson mail shirt with long, flaring sleeves covered her upper body, looking for all the world like fresh blood on living ebony sculpture.

A malicious, derisive laugh issued from her mouth, reaching Jarlaxle's ears with the same intensity as her voice: otherworldly, full of wicked and malevolent power such that the highest matron mothers of Menzoberranzan could only dream of. It blazed into his brain with white-hot force, searing words burned indelibly into his mind forever.

You fool! The mercenary nearly screamed in anguish.

Arrogant, noble fool! He could not take much more of this; Jarlaxle could almost feel his sanity slipping away in the wash of agony

Arrogant, noble, idiotic fool! To think that you could leave me! Me, Lloth, the Lady of Spiders, the Chaos Queen, the goddess of your people! The malicious laugh again. You thought you could escape me? I am a goddess! The Goddess! You have no conception whatsoever of the power of my wrath, that you have incurred!

Suddenly she stopped and was calm again, and Jarlaxle nearly cried out in relief. He slumped on his knees, clutching his shaven head in an effort to abate the throbbing headache. In the back of his mind, he recognized how he hated that typical trait of his people, that Lloth now exemplified: so volatile and unpredictable, never letting friend nor enemy know exactly where they stood. He had turned this to his own advantage on occasion, but never before had he been on the receiving end of such capriciousness. Now he realized how much he hated it.

Miserable, arrogant fool, the goddess purred. She stepped closer and took his chin in one delicate, slender hand, tilting his head up to look at her. And now you are mine. Isn't that wonderful?

So. Guys. What do you think? I was just bored this one night. I was over at Lady V's with Sabbrielle…it was about two in the morning or so…I'd just drank like three Cokes and eaten a few handfuls of m&m's so I was good and wired…I don't remember what we were doing, I think we were having a writer's circle sort of thing going on. We all had to write something involving someone else's characters or storyline, or something like that. I had…Lady V, I think. But needless to say, I sort of…broke the rules. Yeah. Because Jarlaxle is SO not hers, and Nueldaiel I just felt like inventing that night. Or should I say morning. Anyways, yeah, this is what happens to me when I'm bored and have nothing to do because EVERYONE ELSE IS ASLEEP. *hint hint, wink wink, whack whack* So just read and review, as always, and if enough people like it maybe I'll get around to writing more. Enjoy!