The Second Book of Lankhmar

for the wine jars. "We speak with the voice of Rime Isle — "
           "And dispurse her golden monies," Cif added, her green eyes glinting with yellow flecks. Then, flatly, "Rime Isle is straitly menaced."
           Her voice going low, Afreyt asked, "Hast ever heard of the Sea Mingols?" and, when Fafhrd nodded, shifted her gaze to the Mouser, saying, "Most Southrons misdoubt their sheer existence, deeming every Mingol a lubber when off his horse, whether on land or sea."
           "Not I" he answered. "I've sailed with Mingol crew. There's one, now old, named Ourph — "
           "And I've met Mingol pirates," Fafhrd said. "Their ships are few, each dire. Arrow-toothed water rats —Sea Mingols, as you say."
           "That's good," Cif told them both. "Then you'll more like believe me when I tell you that in response to the eldritch prophecy, 'Who seizes Nehwon's crown, shall win her all-'"
           "For crown, read north polar coasts," Afreyt interjected.
           "And supremely abetted by the Wizard of Ice, Khahkht, whose very name's a frozen cough — "
           "Perchance the evilest being ever to exist — " Afreyt supplemented, her eyes a sapphire moon shining frosty through two narrowed, crosswise window slits.
           "The Mingols have ta'en ship to harry Nehwon's northmost coasts in two great fleets, one following the sun, the other — the Widdershin Mingols — going against it — "
           "For a few dire ships, believe armadas," Afreyt put in, still gazing chiefly at Fafhrd (just as Cif favored the Mouser), and then took up the main tale with, "Till Sunwise and Widdershins meet at Rime Isle, overwhelm her, and fan out south to rape the world!"
           "A dismal prospect," Fafhrd commented, setting down the brandy jar with which he'd laced the wine he'd poured for all.
           "At least an overlively one," the Mouser chimed in. "Mingols are tireless raptors."
           Cif leaned forward, chin up. Her green eyes flamed. "So Rime Isle is the chosen battleground. Chosen by Fate, by cold Khahkht, and the Gods. The place to stop the Steppe horde turned sea raiders."
           Without moving, Afreyt grew taller in her chair, her blue gaze flashing back and forth between Fafhrd and his comrade, "So Rime Isle arms, and musters men, and hires mercenaries. The last's my work and Cif's. We need two heroes, each to find twelve men like himself and bring them to Rime Isle in the space of three short moons. You are the twain!"
           "You mean there's any other one man in Nehwon like me — let alone a dozen?" the Mouser asked incredulously.
           "It's an expensive task, at very least," Fafhrd said judiciously.
           Her biceps swelling slightly under the close-fitting rust-red cloth, Cif brought up from beneath the table two tight-packed pouches big as oranges and set one down before each man. The small thuds and swiftly damped chinkings were most satisfying sounds.
           "Here are your funds!"
           The Mouser's eyes widened, though he did not yet touch his globular sack. "Rime Isle must need heroes sorely. And heroines? — if I might make suggestion."
           "That has been taken care of," Cif said firmly.
           Fafhrd's middle finger feather-brushed his bag and came away.
           Afreyt said, "Drink we."
           As the goblets lifted, there came from all around a tiny tinkling as of faery hells; a minute draft, icy chill, stole past from the door; and the air itself grew very faintly translucent, very slightly softening and pearling all things seen — all of which portents grew light-swift by incredible tiger leaps into a stunning, sense-raping clangor of bells big as temple domes and thick as battlements, an ear-splittingly roaring and whining polar wind that robbed away all heat in a trice and blew out flat the iron-and-lead-weighted door drapes and sent the inhabitants of the Silver Eel sailing and tumbling, and an ice fog thick as milk, through which Cif could be heard to cry, "'Tis icy breath of Khahkht!" and Afreyt, "It's tracked us down!" before pandemonium drowned out all else.
           Fafhrd and the Mouser each desperately gripped moneybag with one hand and with the other, table, glad it was bolted down to stop its use in brawls.
           The gale and the tumult died and the fog faded, not quite as swiftly as it all had come. They unclenched their hands,