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mned。 Then； the very next day； she and her kin would wage a war of exnottermination on the thousands who served the goddess and her chosen prophet with false hearts or insufficient zeal。
How glorious it would be； and it could begin as soon as she ferreted out the first weakling。 Her fingers closed on the haft of her whip； or rather they tried and in so doing reminded her that she was in reality holding the thin bone wand。
She'd forgotten all about the magical artifact and the demon as well； and she could only think of one explanation。 Despite her vigilance； the spirit had managed to possess her without her realizing it。
For without its influence； those thoughts would never have occurred to her。 Destroy her own followers？ Try to murder Triel without the vaguest semblance of a strategy； and fight virtually every other House in the city at once？
It wasn't the prospect of wholesale bloodshed that dismayed her…war and torture were her birthright and often her delight…but this was evil without sense； a delirium that would surely destroy her and conceivably even House Baenre along with her。
Yet did it matter？ She sensed the ecstasy implicit in letting go。 If she pernotmitted it； the demon would exalt her； and even if she perished an hour later； what difference would it make？ She'd find more joy in that brief span that in centuries of mundane life。
For what seemed a long while； she wavered； uncertain whether to manotnipulate the wand or cast it aside； take up her whip； and go hunting。 In the end； one consideration enabled her to choose the former。 No matter how sweet the temptation to bee a pure and transcendent being； doing so would be to surrender to the will of her phantom enemy； allowing the faceless spellcaster to dominate； transform； and ultimately destroy her。 Quenthel Baenre could not embrace defeat。
Instead； she snapped the length of bone in two。
An instant later； she felt an extraordinary lightness and clarity in her head； a sign that the demon had departed； as； in fact； her eyes confirmed。 Vaguely visible at last； a misshapen shadow without a source； the entity floated in front of her； then； without turning or shifting any of its amornotphous limbs； receded quick as a bow shot。 It was tiny； a dot； and gone。 Quenthel felt a pang of loss； but it only lasted a moment。 Then she smiled。
Gromph sat before one of the enchanted windows in his hidden chamnotber。 He'd crossed his feet atop a hassock and held a crystal goblet of black wine in his hand。 He'd thrown the strangely carved ivory casements wide and supposed he must look like the soul of ease awaiting some pleasant entertainment。
Well； that was the hope； but despite himself the Archmage of Menzoberranzan was growing used to disappointment。
He hadn't made any progress in finding the runaway males。 His divinanottions were so oblique and contradictory as to be useless。 Apparently some able spellcaster had forestalled his efforts。 His genuine spies had turned up nothing； indeed； had managed to get themselves strangled in Eastmyr by parties unknown。 The only satisfaction； if one could call it that； was that his decoy was still on the loose； still occupying the priestesses' attention。 Why Pharaun Mizzrym had deemed it expedient to slaughter a patrol from the Academy； though； was more than Gromph could prehend。
The Baenre wizard hadn't yet managed to kill Quenthel； either。 For the past few nights； he'd dispatched his conjured minions； then settled before the window to watch them do his bidding。 Impossibly； even stripped of her magic； his sister had disposed of the first three spirits and the traitors he'd inspi