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gasped, stumbled, looked around. When he saw Riven, his eyes narrowed and his face burned with embarrassment and anger.
    “You,” he said, his voice a hiss. He leveled the wand he still held.
    Riven held up his hands. “I didn’t remember,” he explained. “There was no way either of us could have known.”
    “Do not fret, Azriim,” said the Sojourner. “He has won a place here. He is much like you, and is a worthy replacement for Serrin.”
    Azriim’s expression showed confusion, but he did not appear displeased. He sheathed his wand with the others he carried in a thigh case.
    “He wants to be transformed,” Dolgan said, mimicking the Sojourner’s words.
    Riven explained, “I want Cale dead. I should be the First of Mask.”
    Azriim grinned a mouthful of perfect teeth. He clapped his hands together and said, “Well, aren’t we all just a joyous family, then?” He turned, noticed Dolgan’s vomit-stained cloak, and asked, “What happened to your clothes? You’re more disgusting than usual.”
    “Puke,” the big slaad said, and pulled his cloak up to his nose to sniff it. He licked at the cloth.
    Azriim wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Yes, well… change it, won’t you? You stink like a sty.” He turned to face the Sojourner. “Meanwhile… Father, we have spoken of Riven’s transformation but not ours. What of that?”
    Dolgan quit licking his cloak and looked expectantly at the Sojourner.
    “My sons wish to be made new as grays,” the Sojourner explained to Riven, though the explanation meant nothing. The Sojourner looked upon his slaadi with a benevolent smile.
    “I promised you transformation when our work was done. There are tasks yet unfinished.”
    Azriim and Dolgan sagged.
    “Still,” the Sojourner said. “You did accomplish much in Skullport. And for that you deserve something.”
    Both slaadi looked up.
    “A partial transformation to gray,” the Sojourner said. “A taste of what is to come.”
    Without further preamble, he held forth his hand and two small black spheres appeared in his palm. To Riven, they looked like peach pits, except that both glowed with energy and spun in mid-air, each on an invisible axis.
    “Assume your natural forms,” the Sojourner said. “And eat.”
    Eagerly, the slaadi began to change. Azriim and Dolgan grunted as their bodies twisted and cracked. The half-drow and human forms stretched, grew, gained bulk. In their eagerness, both had forgotten to remove or loosen their garb. Clothes ripped.
    Skin tore and gave way to leathery green hides. Faces and skulls distended to accommodate cavernous mouths filled with fangs. Claws poked from the ends of fingers and toes. In less than a tencount, the slaadi had taken their natural form, that of hulking reptilian bipeds, both as tall as Cale. Dolgan’s shoulders were nearly as broad as he was tall.
    Riven reminded himself to never forget what they really were, allies or not.
    The Sojourner flicked his fingers and one of the magical seeds floated toward each of the slaadi. Both snatched them out of the air and gobbled them greedily.
    Instantly a silvery glow suffused them both, leaked from their ears, their eyes.
    “It tingles,” Dolgan said, and his voice was deeper.
    Azriim grinned maniacally. He held his arms out before him and studied his hands as they began to change.
    The silver glow intensified, flashed, and the slaadi began again to change. Their hulking green forms diminished. Muscles became leaner, bordered with visible sinew and lined with veins. Heads became sleeker, more angled. Eyes narrowed; eye ridges became more pronounced. Mouths shrank and fangs thinned, lengthened, visibly sharpened. Green leathery hides faded to slate gray.
    Then it was over.
    Both slaadi were smaller but the strength implied by their former bulk had been replaced by something that suggested… predation. They looked sleeker, faster, more efficient. It was as though they had changed from bears to hunting cats.