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with a heavy bronze sceptre. When next he looked, he could see nothing of Jacob at all.
    More of the dead warriors closed in on him, forcing him to turn constantly, defending his flank and back. Rings howled a challenge that was swept away by the voiceless wind, smashed a hulking warrior to the ground, then turned again to put the stone of the old wall to his shoulders. His outstretched fingers felt nothing but emptiness behind him; there was a breach in the wall, and no foes in the gloom beyond.
    Rings didn’t waste a moment; he turned and ran for his life, hoping that there was nothing worse in the gloom than the horror of walking dead he’d left behind him. He floundered past blank stone and hissing sand, scratched and clawed in a dozen places. “Belgin! Miltiades! Jacob!” he called, staggering through the ruins. “Belgin!”
    There was no reply.
    The paladin and the sharper advanced cautiously into the Netherese palace, tendrils of sand shifting and dancing around their feet as the wind howled through the doorway and clutched at their cloaks. The room beyond was a shallow portico, with tall columns carved into the image of ancient warriors supporting a low ceiling of heavy stone block. Three passageways led into the building, dark and dusty in the deepening gloom.
    “Which way?” asked Belgin.
    Miltiades turned his head from side to side, concentrating. “Straight ahead,” he replied. They moved down a long hall decorated with ancient frescoes that still held a hint of their color, showing cryptic scenes of bronze-skinned people in cotton kilts. Some fought in great battles; others worked in broad fields of grain; a few stood above the others conjuring mighty spells out of the air. The passage came to an abrupt end at an archway framed by rough-dressed stone. A narrow flight of steps ran down into the darkness beyond. “She’s down there somewhere.”
    “Great,” muttered Belgin. “Another dungeon, or crypt, or subterranean hall of horrors. Why don’t creatures of irredeemable evil ever set up house in some pleasant, sunny spot?”
    “You wouldn’t take them seriously if they did,” Miltiades replied.
    Hammer at the ready, he advanced down the stair, crouching to avoid striking his head on the low ceiling. Belgin followed, trailing his free hand along the wall. After twenty or thirty steps, the passage opened in a broad hall lined with rows of plain stone columns. Around the perimeter of the room dozens of blank stone archways were evely spaced along the wall, each surrounded by an intricate ring of rune-etched stone. The long, low chamber extended into the darkness.
    “These look familiar,” breathed Belgin quietly.
    “Aye. More portals,” Miltiades agreed. “Where do they all go?”
    The sharper moved closer to the nearest portal and carefully brushed the dust from its circle of runes. He traced the inscription with one finger, whispering under his breath, then stepped back. “This one goes to Chessenta, I think. Or an old Mulhorese ruin that I’ve heard of that lies in that land.” He moved over to the next one, scrutinizing it carefully. “Here’s one that goes to a place called Myth Drannor. Ever hear of it?”
    “Don’t open it!” Miltiades barked quickly. “It wouldn’t make things any better.”
    I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to. Gates such as these often need very specific keys to open. Unless the builders of these archways were kind enough to hide the activating phrase in these inscriptions…” The sharper turned back to study the archway.
    Miltiades watched Belgin for a long moment. The ancient hieroglyphs meant nothing to him, preceding the ancient days in which he’d led his first life by thousands of years. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as Belgin moved to the next archway and softly traced the stone carving. “Hold, scoundrel!” he cried, darting forward to catch the sharper by the wrist. “You worked magic to comprehend these runes!”
    “Tyr has no problem