The First Book of Lankhmar

might have been partly shaped by human hands and, after that, the notion of a diamond-eyed idol seemed less implausible. At the far end of the saddle, just at the base of the green hill, he caught up with the Mouser, who was studying a flat, dark rock covered with gashes which a moment's glance told Fafhrd must be artificial.
           "The runes of tropic Klesh!" the Northerner muttered.
           "What should such hieroglyphs be doing so far from their jungle?"
           "Chiseled, no doubt, by some hermit frostbitten black, whose madness taught him the Kleshic language," the Mouser observed sardonically. "Or have you already forgotten last night's knifer?"
           Fafhrd shook his head curtly. Together they pored over the deep-chopped letters, bringing to bear knowledge gained from the perusing of ancient treasure-maps and the deciphering of code-messages carried by intercepted spies.
           "The seven black..." Fafhrd read laboriously.
           "...priests," the Mouser finished for him. "They're in it, whoever they may be. And a god or beast or devil — that writhing hieroglyph means any one of the three, depending on the surrounding words, which I don't understand. It's very ancient writing. And the seven black priests are to serve the writhing hieroglyph, or to bind it — again either might be meant, or both."
           "And so long as the priesthood endures," Fafhrd took up, "that long will the god-beast-devil lie quietly ... or sleep ... or stay dead ... or not come up..."
           Abruptly the Mouser bounded straight into the air, fanning his feet. "This rock is hot," he complained.
           Fafhrd understood. Even through the thick walrus soles of his boots he was beginning to feel the unnatural warmth.
           "Hotter than the floor of hell," the Mouser observed, hopping first on one foot and then the other. "Well, what now, Fafhrd? Shall we go up, or not?"
           Fafhrd answered him with a sudden shout of laughter. "You decided that, little man, long ago! Was it I who started to talk about huge diamonds?"
           So up they went, choosing that point where a gigantic trunk, or tentacle, or melted chin strained from the encasing granite. It was not an easy climb, even at the beginning, for the green stone was everywhere rounded off, showing no marks of chisel or axe — which rather dampened Fafhrd's vague theory that this was a hill half-formed by human-wielded tools.
           Upward the two of them edged and strained, their breath blowing out in bigger white clouds although the rock was uncomfortably hot under their hands. After an inch-by-inch climb up a slippery surface, where hands and feet and elbows and knees and even toasted chin must all help, they stood at last on the lower lip of one of the green hill's mouths. Here it seemed their ascent must end, for the great cheek above was smooth and sloped outward a spear's length above them.
           But Fafhrd took from the Mouser's back a rope that had once guyed the mast of their shipwrecked sloop, made a noose in it, and cast it up toward the forehead above, where a stubby horn or feeler projected. It caught and held. Fafhrd put his weight on it to test it, then looked inquiringly at his companion.
           "What have you in mind?" the Mouser asked, clinging affectionately to the rock-face. "This whole climb begins to seem mere foolishness."
           "But what of the jewel?" Fafhrd replied in pleasant mockery. "So big, Mouser, so big!"
           "Likely just a bit of quartz," the Mouser said sourly. "I have lost my hunger for it."
           "But as for me," Fafhrd cried, "I have only now worked up a good appetite."
           And he swung out into emptiness, around the green cheek and into thin, brilliant sunlight.
           It seemed to him as if the still lake and the green hill were rocking, instead of himself. He came to rest below the face's monstrously pouchy eyelid. He climbed up hand over hand, found good footing on the ledge that was the eyelid pouch, and twitched the end of the rope back to the Mouser, whom he could no longer see. On the third cast it did not swing back. He squatted on the ledge, bracing himself securely to guy the rope. It went tight in his hands. Very soon the Mouser stepped onto the ledge beside him.
           The gaiety was back in the small thief's face, but it was a fragile gaiety, as though he wanted to get this done