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smacked his lips. “The leader here, Mostias – big centaur. Big. You’ll like him – he makes this one ale that —”
    A loud, hearty shout greeted them as they entered a large dining area. The humans went to mingle with a troop of centaurs, grabbing goblets of ale at a long, wooden bar stretched along one wall. ‘The small warrior cloaked in plaid ordered a mug of fruit juice. The massive centaur behind the bar scowled at him, then poured him the mug and slammed it on the bar. The small man lifted it in salute and grinned lopsidedly at Teldin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cloakmaster, sir,” he said happily.
    Na’Shee approached Teldin, cutting off his view of the small fighter. Her eyes seemed strong and determined, but they glinted with gentle humor. “You did well out there.”
    “Thanks,” Teldin said, “you’re a great shot. I’m sorry about your friends. I owe you all.”
    She shrugged it off and looked away sadly. She changed the subject abruptly. “I’ve seen magic artifacts before, masks that speak, a tempest in a bottle; but that cloak —”
    Teldin grinned. “I’m just glad CassaRoc is all right.”
    “She held out her hand, and Teldin shook it. “I’m Na’Shee. Sometimes I work behind CassaRoc’s bar. You may find it a little tougher around here than you think. If you need anything, you let me know.”
    “Sure,” Teldin thanked her, and he slowly realized that he had somehow made a new friend. Then he turned as a huge centaur strode from behind the bar and trotted up to CassaRoc, towering at least three feet over the warrior’s head. The centaur held a huge, crystal tankard in one great hand; the mug was shaped like a giant boot and filled to the brim with golden ale. He handed it to the human and laughed. “Well fought, little one,” the centaur said. “Sorry we couldn’t meet you fast enough to help with the battle.” CassaRoc forced a smile while the centaur went on. “Damned neogi are an infernal lot. Can’t trust a one of them.”
    “Never have,” CassaRoc said. He took a long pull of his brew, then belched. “Never will. The only good neogi —”
    “— is a dead neogi!” cried the other humans. They raised their drinks to each other.
    “I think they’ve heard your tirade a little too often, my friend,” said the centaur.
    “I see that,” CassaRoc agreed, laughing. “But I’m not wrong, am I?”
    The centaur shook his head. “My friend here needs one of your brews,” CassaRoc told the huge centaur. He clapped Teldin’s shoulder. “Teldin Moore, meet the finest centaur brewmaster in all the known spheres: Mostias.”
    “Ahhh,” said the centaur, “the fabled Cloakmaster.” He bowed his head. “Come on. I’ll draw you an ale.”
    Teldin shook his head. “Just some water, if you will,” he said. “After the crash and that fight, all I’d like is a mug of water and a place to sleep.”
    Mostias nodded and clapped a heavy hand on his back. “Coming right up.” Teldin stared as the fat centaur shambled to the row of taps lined up behind the bar. He could not believe the centaur’s size: his thighs were as big as tree trunks, and his bulbous stomach seemed as large as a cow’s. His thick mane shook as he walked.
    CassaRoc whispered to Teldin, “Lazy creatures. ‘Sorry we couldn’t meet you fast enough,’” he mimicked. “Right.”
    They bellied up to the bar as Mostias finished pouring Teldin a tankard of cool water. “On the other hand,” CassaRoc said, “these centaurs are second only to myself at the refined art of brewing.”
    Teldin finished his water in several gulps. CassaRoc grasped his glass boot in both hands and opened his mouth wide. Twin streams of ale flowed messily down his chin. He slammed the boot down on the bar and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Ahh, Mostias, that’s good!” he cried.
    CassaRoc turned around and spoke to the company. “Now don’t go quaffing all the ale you can. Leth, Spokaad, you, too, Hertek.