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least.”
    “Which is to say,” Valas cut in, “that there won’t be any.”
    “What did you have in mind, Valas?” Pharaun asked. “How much are we talking about?”
    The scout made a show of shrugging and turned to Quenthel to ask, “How long will we be away?”
    Quenthel almost recoiled from the question, and Jeggred turned to stare daggers at her back for a heartbeat or two before returning his attention to the captured uridezu.
    “One month,” Pharaun answered for her, “sixteen days, three hours, and forty-four minutes … give or take sixteen days, three hours, and forty-four minutes.”
    Quenthel stared hard at Pharaun, her face blank.
    “I thought your wit had abandoned you, Master of Sorcere,” Danifae said. She turned to Quenthel. “An impossible question to answer precisely, I understand, Mistress, but I assume an educated guess will do?”
    She looked at Valas, her white eyebrows arched high on her smooth black forehead. Valas nodded, still looking at Quenthel.
    “The simple fact is that I have no idea,” the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith said finally.
    The rest of the drow raised eyebrows. Jeggred’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t what any of them expected her to say.
    “None of us do,” she went on, ignoring the reaction, “which is precisely why we’re going in the first place. Lolth will do with us as she pleases once we are in the Demonweb Pits. If we must be supplied, then we will need supplies for the length of our journey there and perhaps our journey back. If Lolth chooses to provide for us while we’re there, so be it. If not, we will need no sustenance, at least none that can be had in this world.”
    The high priestess wrapped her hands around her arms and hugged herself close. All of them saw her shiver with undisguised dread. Pharaun was too taken aback to see the further reactions of the others. A low, rumbling growl from Jeggred finally drew his attention, and he looked over to see the draegloth’s eyes locked on Quenthel, who was successfully ignoring her Abyssal nephew.
    “You talk like humans,” the draegloth growled. “You speak of the Abyss as if it was some feral dog you think might nip at your rumps, so you never rise from your chairs. You forget that for you, the Abyss has been a hunting ground, though you do most of your hunting from across the planes. Are you drow? Masters of this world and the next? Or are you …”
    Jeggred stopped, his jaw and throat tight, and returned his steely gaze to the uridezu. The demon captain looked away.
    “You assume much, honored draegloth,” Danifae said, her clearvoice echoing across the still water. “It is not fear that prepares us for our journey, I’m sure, but necessity.”
    Jeggred turned slowly but didn’t look at Danifae. Instead, his eyes once more found the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. Quenthel appeared, to Pharaun’s eyes at least, to have succumbed to the Reverie. Jeggred blew a short, sharp breath through his wide nostrils and turned a fang-lined smile on Danifae.
    “Fear,” the draegloth said, “has a smell.”
    Danifae returned the half-demon’s smile and said, “Fear of the Spider Queen surely smells the sweetest.”
    “Yes,” Valas broke in, though Danifae and the draegloth continued to stare at each other with expressions impossible to read. “Well, that’s all well and good, but surely someone knows how long it will take us to get there and how long to get back.”
    “A tenday,” Pharaun said, guessing for no other reason than to get on with it so he could rest and replenish his magic. “Each way.”
    The scout nodded, and no one else offered any argument. Jeggred went back to staring at the captain, and Danifae drew out a whetstone to sharpen a dagger. The vipers of Quenthel’s scourge wrapped themselves lovingly around her and began, one by one, to sink into slumber.
    “I’ll be off then,” Valas said.
    “Off?” Pharaun asked. “To where?”
    “Sshamath, I think,” the scout replied.