Gary Gygax - Sea of Death

An eerie tableau was laid out before them in the little glen. A female dark elf was prone upon the grass. It looked like Leda, but Gord sensed right away that it was the high priestess Eclavdra herself. Standing upright nearby, its arms raised, was a very tall, very thin figure that might have been carved from a column of snowy alabaster. The form was sexless. This was evident, for it wore not a shred of clothing. The drow seemed to be prostrate before it, in an attitude of adoration or supplication.

The dazzling white being was no statue — that was evident from the sound that came from its throat. The noise was the same faint, silvery chiming sound the group of seven had first heard a moment or two ago. Somehow, as if the being contained a hundred little bells inside it, the tinkling and chiming issued from its throat, swelling and becoming louder as it issued forth. At the same time, the being held some object above its head with both hands, and this seemed to be the source of the cold wind that whirled through the area.

Only two other figures were visible aside from dead bodies. Off to Gord's right, fifty or sixty paces distant from the white figure and the dark elf, was a male drow — a spell-binder by the looks of him, for he was frozen seemingly in the act of casting some dweomer. The wind rippled his garments, giving the dark elf a semblance of motion. Perhaps he still lived, perhaps not. On the other side of the dell equidistant from the two central figures, a blood-smeared man in battered armor leaned on his sword, staring around in a state of dazed wonder. A few of his comrades were lying nearby, dead. No enemies were in sight.

His eyes fixed on the object the willowy creature of dazzling white held above its androgynous head, Gord came down the gentle slope toward the central pair. After taking only a few steps, he could recognize the object as the Theorpart itself. While part of his mind told him to turn and run, the more sensible portion of his brain won out; certainly, this white… thing… could kill him effortlessly any time it chose to do so. But with every step he took forward, his life became that much longer, so he elected to keep advancing… or was it really his choice?

Gord had closed to within a few paces of the white figure when he chose to, or was caused to, halt. At the same moment, the chiming stopped. The long, thin arms moved, and the Theorpart descended from overhead to waist height. Then the being turned to one side and lowered the object into a coffer of brass as the young thief watched, transfixed by the sight. Without looking at him, the alabaster being spoke.

"You have come as is fated, Gord of Greyhawk," a clear, cold voice said. Take your ease now, while you may, for soon you will be in trial for your life."

"Who are you that claims to know such?" Gord asked.

"Claims?" The white creature turned, looking directly at Gord for the first time with mirthless, red eyes as it laughed. "I, Vuron, make no claims at all. I simply tell you what I know."

At this point Gord first became aware that his six comrades had followed him down the slope into the glen, because he detected a sudden, collective intake of breath from behind him. They, like Gord, had just met the figure's gaze for the first time, and this was sufficient to strike awe, if not terror, into the stoutest of hearts. With great effort of will, Gord managed to prevent any visible display of fear on his part, but could not suppress a feeling of dread that rose up inside him. If this creature before him was not a mockery of goodness, a thing of evil, then no such jape could ever be thus. Handsome in its strange and sexless way, the snowy form exuded a power that made the very marrow of the bones cold. The force it radiated was of malign, frigid evil. So too the face, for despite all its handsome aspects, it embodied the demoniacal in near-human form.

As if reading his very thoughts, the alabaster demon lord Vuron looked down at Gord and said, "There is evil, as your sort name it, and there is Evil. I pose you no physical threat, Gord of Greyhawk, nor any mental one either — unless you believe that reason is baneful…"

"Demon-talk, Vuron, is just that. Yet I confess," Gord went on, "that your actions and words… puzzle me."

"They trouble you. You wonder why I simply do not take up the Final Key, slay you and your associates for the pleasure of seeing you die, and transport myself and the Theorpart to the safety of the Abyss."

At this, the young adventurer knew that the tall demon was indeed reading his thoughts. "And?" was all Gord said.

"We must speak with no reservations, and our time is brief. I do read your thoughts, but the amulet around your neck allows me only to scan the very surface of your mind. I tell you this in order to gain your trust — sufficient trust to consider what I have to tell you now. You are thereafter, of course, free to make whatever decision you choose. What I have just done is- "

"Shut your perverted mouth!" This screeching demand came from Eclavdra. The High Priestess of Graz'zt had sprung up at Vuron's last words, her beautiful face contorted in rage. She pointed a finger and glared up into the red eyes of the towering, thin demon without the slightest trace of deference, let alone fear. "You have done too much already, you pale snake, and I will make you answer to My king for what you seek to tell this mortal now!"

Vuron never blinked, but he did smile a cold, dead smile. "My liege and yours, too, and I have served him for eons… Yet this is not the time for such petty matters. You too have to face the prescribed conclusion of your trial, as it were."

"My trial is you, Vuron," Eclavdra shot back with acidity, hatred still written on her every feature. "I have powers too, and I name you a traitor now and always. The human you seek to treat with is not of the Abyss, and you would give over to him that which is Mine by right!"

"Yours?" the alabaster demon lord said expres-sionlessly. "If you claimed it our king's, I must acquiesce in spirit if not avow it a fact. No matter. You have spent the time allowed you uselessly, it would seem. The moment is gone, and they come… Prepare now, drow — and you too, Gord of Grey-hawk — to face your opponents in combat. You see? The two come now, and with them are their supporters."

Both Eclavdra and Gord looked to where the thin, white demon was pointing. At the edge of the dell was the broad-shouldered Obmi, martel in hand, and with him were Leda and a dozen fierce-looking marshmen.

"Eclavdra, you dark bitch!" the dwarf boomed out. "You have put yourself into My hands by violating the rules of the contest, and I'll close my fists and crush you for it!"

The dwarf rushed forward, accelerating at an unbelievable pace thanks to his magical boots. "Gord," said Vuron as Obmi began his charge, "you must face that one. The life of Eclavdra is not his to take or die trying — that opportunity belongs to her clone, the one you named Leda."

Without pausing to consider the veracity of the statement, Gord drew his sword and leaped to intercept Obmi's rush. Behind him, his six friends moved to defend him from any other foe who sought to interfere in the duel. The wild brigands from the Hool marshes gladly went to meet these opponents.

As for Eclavdra, as soon as she laid eyes upon her clone, she paid no attention to any other, even the onrushing dwarf. In fact, had Gord not intervened, Obmi could have struck the dark elf down with a single blow. Their eyes locked, Eclavdra and Leda closed with each other and squared off.

"I should have known!" spat the high priestess.

Leda smiled at the outcry, shouting back, "Yes, you should have, mother, sister, and self," and she laughed at that even as Eclavdra scowled.

"How could it be? You had a telepathic link — I know that now! — and I had none… or did I?"