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hundred miles to the south. Well, she would deprive him of that refuge soon enough.
    A party of four drow waited for her, surrounded by her fey’ri and yugoloths. It was a blazingly hot day, but the dark elves wore long hoods to shade their eyes. Bright sunlight was more than a little uncomfortable to them; they much preferred the gloom of the forest, or better yet, the cool darkness underground Sarya could have invited them to step into the shadows of the keep’s remaining buildings, but she decided that she had no particular need to make the drow comfortable.
    She approached the dark elves, and studied them for a time. “I am Sarya Dlardrageth,” she said. “To whom am I speaking?”
    One of the drow limped forward. A brace of leather and iron encased his left leg. “I am Jezz, of House Jaelre,” he answered. “Sometimes called Jezz the Lame, for reasons which should be obvious. These are my kinsmen Tzarrat, Dreszk, and Zilzin.”
    Sarya frowned in distaste. Before the ancient quarrel of House Dlardrageth with the rulers of Arcorar, before the war of great Aryvandaar against the lesser elf nations, all other elves had stood against the drow. Daemonfey and drow had rarely met, as far as she knew, but she had no reason to think well of the traitorous dark elves.
    “I see you have earned the special disapproval of your spider-goddess,” she said, looking at the clumsy brace. Any highborn drow should have had the resources to have such an injury healed with magic.
    Jezz gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, I suppose Lolth doesn’t think well of me at all, or any of my kin, for that matter. We turned our backs on the Spider Queen centuries ago, and follow Vhaeraun instead.”
    “Ah. You are the drow who hide in the Elven Court, then.”
    “We are. The cursed light-elves abandoned this realm; we decided to claim it for our own.”
    “I think you will find that I have already done so.”
    Jezz shrugged. “We are a practical race, Lady Sarya. We recognize strength when we see it. You are clearly the master of Myth Drannor, at least for now.”
    “For now, and for centuries to come.” Sarya folded her arms and flicked her tail in irritation. “Now what is it that you want with me, drow?”
    “We want to come to some understanding with you,” Jezz answered. “We share a common enemy, after all. Should the Crusade succeed in evicting you from Myth Drannor, we have no illusions about who would be next. It would seem to be simply logical to agree to leave each other in peace … or, possibly, to consider how we profitably might work together against our mutual foes.”
    Sarya snorted. “In other words, you have determined that I hold the winning hand, and so now you hope to share in the spoils.”
    Jezz inclined his head. “As I said, Lady Sarya—we are a practical race.”
    “Why should I share my conquests with you, drow? Why should I not have you thrown from the battlements for your presumption?”
    “How many more enemies do you need, Sarya Dlardrageth?” the drow countered. “We do not have your strength, but we have some strength, and I think you would find us a more difficult conquest than the fat human farmers of Mistledale. If you are so strong that you can crush us at the same time that you fight against Sembia, Hillsfar, the Dales, and Seiveril Miritar’s army, then you should do so, and dictate your terms to us. If, perhaps, you think it might be prudent to save just a little more of your strength for your true enemies, then hear me out.”
    The daemonfey queen measured the drow lord, thinking. Mardeiym would certainly advise her to avoid starting more wars, at least until they successfully concluded one of the wars they already had. The forest drow were not as strong as her fey’ri legion, but they could muster hundreds of skilled and stealthy warriors… at the very least, it would seem to make sense to leave them alone in the eastern forest, if they were willing to concede the rest of