The Second Book of Lankhmar

a half dozen of whom converged on the newcomers, calling low invitations and trailing throaty laughs. The two moved forward as if to hasten the encounter, with gaze unwaveringly ahead.
           And then, without an instant, pause or any collision, except someone recoiled slightly as if his instep had been trod on and someone else gasped faintly as if his short ribs had encountered a firm elbow, the two were past the six. It was as if they had simply walked through them, as a man would walk through smoke with no more fuss than the wrinkling of a nostril. Behind them, the ignored smoke fumed and wove a bit.
           Now there were in their way the Gray Mouser and Fafhrd, who had both risen and whose hands still indicated the hilts of their scabbarded swords without touching them.
           "Ladies — " the Mouser began.
           "Will you take wine — ?" Fafhrd continued.
           "Strengthened against night's chill," the Mouser concluded, sketching a bow, while Fafhrd courteously indicated the four-chaired table from which they'd just risen.
           The slender women halted and surveyed them without haste.
           "We might," the smaller purred.
           "Provided you let Rime Isle pay for the drinks," the taller concluded in tones bright and swift as running snow water.
           At the words "Rime Isle," the faces of the two men grew thoughtful and wondering, as if in another universe someone had said Atlantis or El Dorado or Ultima Thule. Nevertheless they nodded agreement and drew back chairs for the women.
           "Rime Isle," Fafhrd repeated conjuringly, as the Mouser did the honors with cups and jars. "As a child in the Cold Waste and later in my adolescent piratings, I've heard it and Salthaven City whispered of. Legend says the Claws point at it — those thin, stony peninsulas that tip Nehwonland's last north-west corner."
           "For once legend speaks true," the electrum-haired woman in blue and gray said softly yet crisply, "Rime Isle exists today. Salthaven, too."
           "Come," said the Mouser with a smile, ceremoniously handing her her cup, "it's said Rime Isle's no more real than Simorgya."
           "And is Simorgya unreal?" she asked, accepting it.
           "No," he admitted with a somewhat startled, reminiscent look. "I once watched it from a very small ship when it was briefly risen from the deeps of the Outer Sea. My more venturesome friend" — he nodded toward Fafhrd — "trod its wet shale for a short space to see some madmen dance with devilfish which had the aspect of black fur cloaks awrithe."
           "North of Simorgya, westward from the Claws," briskly said the red- and brown-clad woman with black hair shot with glistening dark bronze and gold. Her right hand holding steady in the air her brimming wine cup where she'd just received it, she dipped her left beneath the table and swiftly slapped it down on the arabesquery of circle-stained oak, then lifted it abruptly to reveal four small rounds gleaming pale as moons. "You agreed Rime Isle would pay."
           With nods abstracted yet polite, the Mouser and Fafhrd each took up one of the coins and closely studied it.
           "By the teats of Titchubi," the former breathed, "this is no sou marque , black dog, no chien noir ."
           "Rime Isle silver?" Fafhrd asked softly, lifting his gaze, eyebrows a-rise, from the face of the coin toward that of the taller woman.
           Her gaze met his squarely. There was the hint of a smile at the ends of her long lips, back in her cheeks. She said sincerely yet banteringly, "Which never tarnishes."
           He said, "The obverse shows a vast sea monster menacing out of the depths."
           She said, "Only a great whale blowing after a deep sound."
           The Mouser said to the other woman, "Whilst the reverse depicts a ship-shaped, league-long square rock rising from miles-long swells."
           She said, "Only an iceberg hardly half that size."
           Fafhrd said, "Well, drink we what this bright, alien coinage has bought. I am Fafhrd, the Gray Mouser he."
           The tall woman said, "And I Afreyt, my comrade Cif."
           After deep draughts, they put down their cups. Afreyt with a sharp double tap of pewter on oak. "And now to business," she said cliptly, with the faintest of frowns at Fafhrd (it was arguable if there was any frown at all) as he reached