Ed Greenwood - Crown of Fire

She ran down it and whirled through another door to find herself in a small, musty, octagonal room, All of its eight walls were doors, She opened one, and cold mist eddied out, rising off black water that lapped at the other side of the doorsill and ran back into starlit darkness. She could not see the other shore of what seemed to be a huge lake, As she looked out, mist damp on her cheeks, a strange, ululating cry echoed from far away across the crater. Shandril shut the door hastily and stepped back.

Another door to her left, opened by itself. She screamed and jumped away-but nothing emerged, Keeping her eyes on that door, she backed hastily away, found another door behind her, and opened it.

Now she was looking into a hall hung with old tapes. At its far end, there was moonlight-coming from somewhere, she couldn't tell-gleaming on something that. Armor! A man in a full suit of plate armor stepped away from the wall as she watched, and he walked to a door, Shandril made a small sound of surprise.

The armored figure whirled around, It took a slow step toward her, then reached up and raised its visor-showing the dark, empty interior of its helm, Abruptly it turned away, walked to another wall, and took up a stance there, hand on spear, as if it had never moved.

Shandril stepped back out of the hall into the octagonal room of many doors, and looked around warily, The door that had opened by itself before was closed again now and several of the other doors had changed their sizes and shapes; they were no longer identical.

Breathing quickly, Shandril opened a door at random and found herself face-to-face with the Zhentarim mage, his hand already extended to open the door from his side, He laughed, and brought his other hand up, reaching forward.

She slammed the door on him, hard, It smashed into his arm with a solid thud, Shandril snatched open the next door without waiting to find out how badly she'd hurt the wizard, The chamber beyond was fiery, She tried the next. The moment she saw a room with a floor in the proper place beyond the doorsill, she fled through it,

This room was small and bare, furnished only with a stool and a single door at the far end. Shandril ran to it and plucked it open in breathless haste, her sword up and ready this time.

"Well met, Shan!" The merry voice on the other side of the door was accompanied by a slim, curving sword that deflected her own blade deftly aside, Then its owner tumbled out, swept her close, and kissed her heartily.

Shandril found herself in the arms of Torm, Knight of Myth Drannor and Engaging Rogue, Behind him loomed the large, bearlike form of Rathan Thentraver, priest of Tymora. She blinked at them, dumbfounded.

"Hey! Save some o' her kisses for me, ye sly dog," Rathan rumbled, lurching into the room to tap Torm's shoulder.

Torm broke free of Shandril to draw breath, then grinned back at his fellow knight. "Why?" he asked innocently. "You've a good reason?"

Without waiting for an answer, lie turned back to Shandril, who still stood dazed, If Torm hadn't kissed her, she'd have thought him some phantom conjured by this place, Perhaps he was some sort of magically disguised monster. The young thief swept her back into an embrace. "What brings you here?" he asked cheerfully, — and where's Narm?"

Shandril's answer was lost in the sound of the door behind her opening, They all turned in time to see the Zhentarim raise his hands, The wizard wore a wolfish grin.

"By the luck of the Laughing Lady," Rathan said in delight, "he's got golden eyes!" An amulet at the priest's throat winked with sudden light.

In response to the priest's words, the wizard's smile fell away in an instant. Shandril watched in horror as the face beneath twisted and bulged, shifting into something fanged and horrid, The man — if it was a man — charged them, waving hands that, as he came, stretched impossibly into long, raking claws.

"Nice nails, too," Rathan observed, drawing a mace from his belt and hefting it as he met the rushing monster.

Torm whirled away from Shandril and waved grandly at the open door he'd come in by. "Your way lies clear before you, Lady," he said. "I look forward to a chance to taste your sweet lips again when next we meet — hopefully at an occasion of rather more leisure-"

Are ye going to fight, Torm?" Rathan demanded, smashing his mace into something that reeled back and promptly grew tentacles, "Or are ye just going to talk us all to death?"

Torm turned back to the fray, plucking something that looked like a gilded rose from his belt, Shandril watched him bound toward the monster, calling briskly, "Next dance, please!"

Rathan struggled amid clinging, tightening tentacles, and bellowed to her, "Run, lass! Through that door — look for banners, and yell be safe!"

Shandril shook her head, still astonished by the speedy appearance of the knights. Then Torm swung the fragile looking rose at the monster-and the room exploded in golden light.

Pulses of radiance spun ever faster and brighter around the three struggling forms, Shandril shaded her eyes against the brilliance, and thought she saw Torm's blade thrust right through the still-changing monster before the knights and the thing faded amid a cloud of rushing golden light… and she was alone again.

The room was suddenly empty-and very quiet, All that remained to mark the passage of the knights were a few golden rose petals. Shandril stared down at them and swallowed. Then, holding her sword ready, she went to the open door Rathan had bid her to use.

It led into another many-sided room of doors. There were six this time, Shandril sighed again and opened one at random, The scene beyond was one of cold, blowing snow, somewhere wintry with mountains in the distance-and the sprawled, gnawed bones of a recently slain orc lying right in front of her, It still clutched a cruel black scimitar, Shandril heard something growling in the distance, and she hastily closed the door.

Banners, Rathan had said, Shandril gently opened the next door to the right. The room it opened into was choked with banners, They hung everywhere, almost touching, and the air was thick with their dust and old smells, Shandril recognized none of them, but she did think one-a black wyvern on purple silk faded almost to pink-was very striking. Another displayed three golden crowns on a royal blue field. It caught her eye because some old enchantment made the crowns move, each one winking in and out by itself to reappear in different spots. Shandril watched it warily as she stepped into the room.

It was small and square; behind the banners she found another door. Opening it, she found a short, featureless hall with another door at the other end, Shandril shrugged and entered. She'd gone three paces into the room when a sudden thought struck her; she turned back and opened the door again, hoping to find Deepingale's colors among the banners, But the room was empty now, a place of dark, polished floors and cobwebs in the corners. She shuddered and closed the door again very carefully.

"Tessaril," she said aloud, almost crying in fear and frustration, "what have you done to me?"

As she spoke, the door at the other end of the hall swung open. Beyond lay the grand hall with the Zhentarim she'd slain lying dead on the floor and Tessaril standing beside him, The Lord of Eveningstar's sootedged face broke into a smile at the sight of her. Shandril ran to her-and then came to an abrupt halt. "Tessaril?" she asked suspiciously, her sword up. "Is that really you?"

The Lord of Eveningstar smiled. "Yes, Shandril." Then her smile turned a little sad, and she added, "I can tell wandering in my House has unsettled you."

Shandril rolled her eyes. "Just a touch… what is this place?"

Tessaril slipped past her blade and hugged her reassuringly. "This is the Hidden House," she said softly. "It's been here a very long time-since the towers of Myth Drannor stood tall and proud and new, at least."