The Second Book of Lankhmar

those two (moonspout and sunspout?) battled.
           And then of a sudden it was as if Black Racer had struck a wall. Fafhrd and Mouser were thrown to the deck and when they had madly struggled to their feet they found to their utter astonishment that their leopard-boat was floating in calm water, while in the distance lightning and thunder played, almost inaudible and unseen to their numbed ears and half-blinded eyes. There were no stars and moon, only thick night. There were no shimmer-sprights. Their sail was split to ribbons, the faint lightning showed. Under his hand Fafhrd felt a looseness in the tiller, as if the whole steering assemblage had been strained to breaking point and only survived by miracle.
           The Mouser said, "She lists a little to stern and steerside, don't you think? She's taking water, I trow. Perhaps there's stuff shifted below. Man we the pump. Later we can bend on a new sail."
           So they fell to and for some hours worked together silently as in many old times, nursing the leopard-boat and making all new, by light of two lanterns Fafhrd rigged from the mast that burned purest leviathan-oil, for the storm had entirely gone with its lightnings and the dark clouds pressed down.
           As the cloud ceiling did, indeed, over all Nehwon that night (and day on other side). Over the subsequent months and years reports drifted in of the Great Dark, as it came mostly to be called, that had shrouded all Nehwon for a space of hours, so that it was never truly known whether the moon had monstrously traveled halfway round the world that time to battle with the sun and then back again to her appointed spot, or no, though there were scattered but persistent disquieting rumors of such a dread journeying glimpsed through fugitive gaps in the cloud-cover, and even that the sun himself had briefly moved to war with her.
           After long while Fafhrd said quietly as they took a break from their labors, "It's lonely without the shimmer-sprights, don't you think?"
           The Mouser said, "Agreed. I wonder if they'd ever have led us to treasure, or ever so intended? Or would have led us, or one of us, somewhere, either your spright, or mine?"
           "I still firmly believe there were four sprights," Fafhrd said. "So either pair of twins might have led us somewhere together without parting us."
           "No, there were only two sprights," the Mouser said, "and they were set on leading us in very different directions, antipodean, off from each other." And when Fafhrd did not reply he said after a time, "Part of me wishes I'd gone with my fiery girl to find what's like to dwell in paradise bathed by the splendid sun."
           Fafhrd said, "Part of me wishes I'd followed my melancholy maid to dwell in the pale moon, spending the summer months mayhap in Shadowland." Then, after a silent space, "But man was not meant for paradise, I trow, whether of warmth or coolth. No, never, never, never, never."
           "Never shares a big bed with once," the Mouser said.
           While they were speaking it had grown light. The clouds had all lifted. The new sail shone. The leviathan lamps burned wanly, their clear beam almost invisible against the paling sky. Then in the farthest distance north the two adventurers made out the loom of a great aurochs couchant, unmistakable sign of the southernmost headland of the Eastern Lands.
           "We've weathered Lankhmar continent in a single day and night," the Mouser said.
           A breeze sprang up from the south, stirring the still air. They set course north up the long Sea of the East.

         VII:  The Frost Monstreme
           "I am tired, Gray Mouser, of these little brushes with Death," Fafhrd the Northerner said, lifting his dinted, livid goblet and taking a measured sup of sweet ferment of grape laced with bitter brandy.
           "Want a big one?" his comrade scoffed, drinking likewise.
           Fafhrd considered that, while his gaze traveled slowly yet without stop all the way round the tavern, whose sign was a tarnished and serpentine silver fish. "Perhaps," he said.
           "It's a dull night," the other agreed.
           True indeed, the interior of the Silver Eel presented a tavern visage as leaden-hued as its wine cups. The hour was halfway between midnight and dawn, the light dim without being murky, the air dank yet not chill, the other drinkers