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Minolin Fey’s face, and that touch, so impossibly soft, so wondrously calling out to every nerve to bring them forth and lighting them with sensations of pure pleasure, left in its wake a line of pure ecstasy. “Come,” Yvonnel said. “I believe it is time for Quenthel to learn the truth of her niece.”
    “You wish an audience with the matron mother?”
    “You will get me that meeting immediately,” the girl answered. “I give you this one task. Do not fail me.”
    Minolin Fey held her breath then, feeling very trapped. The way Yvonnel had said that made it quite clear to her that it was one task for now, but there would be an endless stream of subsequent tasks later.
    And her personalization of the last remark, bidding Minolin Fey not to fail her instead of simply not to fail, showed the high priestess that this dangerous child would simply not accept failure.
    This strange little daughter to whom she had given birth was the promise of great reward and the promise of perfect pain, tantalizing and terrifying all at once.
    It was bad enough for Minolin Fey that in Gromph’s absence she survived only at the sufferance of Matron Mother Quenthel. But even worse was the thought that her only chance at flourishing might well be this dangerous child, whether reincarnation of Yvonnel the Eternal or avatar of Lady Lolth herself—or some weird mixture of the two. Dangerous. So very dangerous.
    “Who is this that you bring to my private quarters?” Quenthel asked when Minolin Fey entered her chambers in House Baenre unannounced. “Look closely,” the young drow woman said, holding her hand up to silence the high priestess, and surely that, even more than her sheer beauty, tipped Quenthel off to the truth, as was revealed deliciously to Yvonnel by the expression on the matron mother’s face.
    “How . . . How is this possible?” Quenthel stammered. “You were killed in battle by a rogue drow who still lives, and yet you, too, still live,” the young woman answered. “And you would ask me how a few compressed years of aging is possible? Do you think it impossible, Aunt?”
    Quenthel’s eyes flared with anger at that impertinence, being referred to as someone’s aunt. She was the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan!
    “Are you so meager in your understanding of magic, both divine and arcane, that such a minor feat seems impossible to you?” Yvonnel prodded, and she couldn’t suppress her sly grin as Minolin Fey gasped at the insult.
    “Leave us,” Yvonnel told the high priestess.
    “Stay!” Matron Mother Quenthel roared, for no better reason than to counter the demands of the upstart young woman.
    Yvonnel looked over to see Minolin Fey trembling with uncertainty and palpable fear.
    “Go,” she said softly. “I will win in here, and I assure you, if you remain, I will remember your hesitation.”
    “You will remain here,” Quenthel said firmly, “or you will feel the scourge of the matron mother!”
    Minolin Fey wept and shook at the conflicting demands, appearing as if she would just crumble on the spot.
    “Ah yes, the five-headed scourge of Quenthel Baenre,” Yvonnel said. “A fine weapon for a high priestess, but a meager baton for a matron mother. I am sure I will do better.”
    Quenthel’s eyes and nostrils flared as she reached for the scourge and brought it forth; the five snake heads of the whip, each imbued with the life essence of an imp, swayed eagerly and hungrily.
    Yvonnel laughed at her and told Minolin Fey to go.
    Still some dozen strides away, Quenthel grabbed her other weapon from her belt—a magical hammer—and with a growl, she brought it swinging about.
    An image of that hammer appeared in the air behind Minolin Fey as she turned; it cracked her on the shoulder, sending her sprawling. From her hands and knees, she couldn’t help looking back at Quenthel, as did Yvonnel.
    “I did not give you permission to smite her,” the girl said evenly.
    With a growl, Quenthel swung again, more