a novice standing watch。 Happily； the dark elf female didn't notice it； though that was scarcely a surprise。 For some reason it didn't fully understand； Gromph had given it the guise of a demon of darkness； and it was all but indistinguishable from the ordinary； empty gloom behind it。 The netherspirit yearned to kill the mortal； but Gromph had forbidden it to do harm to anyone but Quenthel unless she was fool enough to stand between it and its appointed prey。 With a pang of regret； it slipped past the sentry and on down the corridor。 Soon it came upon a row of cells。 Within the square little rooms； students recited their devotions。
So eager for bloodshed was the entity that the hall seemed to last fornotever。 Soon enough； though； the spirit reached the spider's cephalothoraxes。 This was the round； firelit heart of the temple； home to the grandest chapels； the holiest of altars； and the quarters of the temple's senior priestnotesses。
The intruder flowed into a spacious and largely empty octagonal chamnotber； where the air was perceptibly cooler than in the surrounding rooms and hallways。 Statues of Lolth stood between the eight open rectangular doorways； and inlaid lines and curves of gold defined a plex magical sigil on the floor； a pentacle seemingly focused on a nexus of power at the exact center of the room。 The same figure adorned the lofty ceiling； renotinforcing the enchantment。
The netherspirit had no particular desire to discover what that ennotchantment was。 It crawled along the walls； making sure not to touch the edge of the design。
Waves of power beat from the middle of the figure as something woke or became more real in the center of the chamber。 A sharpness tore into the top of the spirit's vapor like body； stunning it for an instant with a burst of unexpected pain。
Something jerked the living darkness toward the middle of the chamnotber。 It realized that despite its lack of solidity； something had caught it with the equivalent of a hook and line。 It also understood that simply avoiding the pentacle hadn't been good enough。 Apparently when one ennottered the room； one was supposed to say a password or something。
The pulling ended abruptly； and the pain diminished。 Shaking off its shock and disorientation； the darkness cast about and discerned the being crouching over it。 The attacker was nearly as amorphous as itself； but the essence of it was fixed； hard； a mass of knobs and angles。
The attacker extruded additional lengths of itself to transfix the darknotness。 The piercing burned； made the spirit shake uncontrollably； and seemed to be leeching out its strength。
This； Gromph's agent realized with a kind of wonder； was the cold that could extinguish a mortal life in a heartbeat。 The intruder had never felt the sensation before…not in a painful way…and shouldn't have been feelnoting it at all； but the prisoner of the pentacle wasn't just cold。 It was the essence of cold； the pure idea of cold given life； just as the netherspirit to some degree embodied the concept of darkness。
Bits of the assassin began to clot； to gum； and to harden to a brittle rigidity； at which point they broke away。 It wasn't truly injured as yet； but if it wanted to keep it that way； it knew it had better strike back at its assailant。
It washed its leading edge over the spirit of cold and discovered stress points； hairline cracks； imperfect junctures。 Of course…the prisoner's structure resembled a mass of ice。
Gromph's agent materialized members like hammers； which pounded at the weak spots。 It slid thin planes of itself into the fissures； then thickened them； forcing the edges apart。
The cold spirit snatched its frigid claws out of its foe。 Its mind babbled a psionic offer of surrender。 The cloud of darkness ignored it and continnotued the attack。
The freezing prisoner of the sigil exploded into motes of frost。 They peppered the spirit of darkness for a second then they were gone。
Pleased with itself； the victor turned； inspecting each of the doorways in turn； trying to see if the battle had attracted anyone's attention。 Apparently not； and actually； that made sense。 The struggle had been relatively quiet； conducted largely on another level of existence。
The darkness reached the entrance to Quenthel's suite without further incident。 Another sentry waited there； a spiked mace all but crackling with mystic force in her hand。 Left to her own devices； she might hear her sunotperior's distress and try to intervene； and the spirit decided to prevent such an occurrence。 It rose around the priestess； blinding her； thickened a length of itself； and whipped it around her neck。
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