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upon Theron that was disturbing to the loyal Kwee, but he said nothing. Instead, he asked, “How did you escape?”
    “As I said,” Theron murmured, “they did in the guide and the bearers. Me and some poor fellow from a neighboring village—a chief’s son named Kwalu—they were saving for a sacrifice to some … thing they worship. Grumog, they called it. I used to hear its roars echoing up from the pit—did I tell you this god-thing lived in some underground cavern? No? Well the goblins intended to toss me and this Kwalu fellow into the pit at the center of their village. We were to be sacrifices to that horrible beast… .”
    Theron’s eyes glazed, and Artus sat back to wait. It had been this way all evening: fits of relatively lucid discussion, followed by periods in which Theron lapsed into silence or incoherent babbling. He’d been at the older man’s side since arriving an hour ago. It had taken until an hour before that to settle the sizeable bill for damages to the society’s library and healers for the unfortunate Ariast. She’d recover from the guardian spirit’s attack—eventually. Fortunately, Hydel had volunteered to write the necessary apology-disguised-as-a-report for the society president. Things would be smoothed over, but at the cost of more than a third of the money gained from their last expedition.
    “Snow,” Theron muttered. “I never in my life thought snow would save me in the jungle.” Artus turned sharply to find Theron staring at him. “That’s what saved me from the goblins and whatever it was they worshiped.”
    Is he rambling again? Artus wondered. Snow in the jungle, in the middle of the hot season? But when he looked at the bedraggled explorer, Theron’s eyes were clear. “Can you be sure they didn’t move you to a mountain village?” Artus asked.
    “When I escaped I was nowhere near the mountains,” Theron snapped. “I’ve been through more jungles than you’ve been through taverns, so I know what I’m talking about.”
    “Someone with an incantation to control the weather? They’re common enough.”
    Theron smiled. “Oh, it was someone with magic all right, but no damned spell. It was the Ring of Winter.”
    “Just because it snowed doesn’t mean the ring’s there,” Artus sighed. Obviously a fever dream had granted this delusion about the ring. He rose slowly. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave? I’ll call Kwee and—”
    “Don’t be such a dolt!” Theron bellowed. The sudden exertion left him coughing. He slouched back on the pillows and caught his breath. “Sit down and listen to this, then tell me the ring isn’t in Chult.”
    Artus did as he was told, surprised to see the Theron of old spring to the fore so strongly. “Go on.”
    “I was standing in the center of the village, tied back-to-back with the chief’s son,” Theron said. “The goblins were milling around before sacrificing us. Then it started to snow. Not just a little dusting or some freak blast of cold, but a real blizzard. In minutes, the whole area was blanketed. The goblins were frightened out of their wits. They scattered, some to grab weapons, others to hide in their huts until the blizzard blew over—which wasn’t for three entire days. No spell can do that.”
    “So it’s some artifact. That still doesn’t prove that the ring—”
    “Patience,” Theron warned. “A man and a woman charged out of the bush and cut us free. Then the goblins who hadn’t scattered fell upon us.” He pointed to the scar across his nose. “I got this in the brawl, but we pretty well sent the little monsters packing. Before I could thank the people who’d rescued me, they were gone, taking that Kwalu fellow with them. They left me a pack with a map, food, and supplies—enough for me to make it back to Refuge Bay. I tried to follow them. Kept moving north, but somehow I got turned around. Really lost.”
    “Did they say anything?” Artus asked. “Who were