The Second Book of Lankhmar

sinister.
    “To think,” he said, “that tomorrow my people will be masters of Lankhmar Above. For millennia we rats have planned and built, tunneled and studied and striven, and now in less than six hours—it's worth a drink! Which reminds me, comrade, isn't it time for your medicinal draught” Lord Null hissed with consternation, prepared to lift his black mask distractedly, dipped his black-gloved right fore-member into his pouch, and came up with a tiny white vial.
    “Stop!” Skwee commanded with some honor, capturing the black-gloved wrist with a sudden grab. “If you should drink that one now—”
    “I am nervous tonight, nervous to frustration,” the other admitted, returning the white vial to his pouch and coming up with a black one. Before draining its contents, he lifted his black mask entirely. The face behind was not a rat's, but the seamed and beady-eyed visage, rat-small, of Hisvin the grain-merchant.
    The black draught swallowed, he appeared to experience relief and easement of tension. The worry lines in his face were replaced by those of thought.
    “Who is Grig's mistress, Skwee?"’ he speculated suddenly. “No common slut, I'll swear, or vanity-puffed courtesan.”
    Skwee shrugged his hunchy shoulders and said cynically, “The more brilliant the enchanted male, the stupider the enchanting female.”
    “No!” Hisvin said impatiently. “I sense a brilliant and rapacious mind here that is not Grig's. He was ambitious once, you know, sought your position, then his fires sank to coals glowing through wintery ash.”
    “That's true,” Skwee agreed thoughtfully. “Who has blown him alight again?” Hisvin demanded, now with anxious suspicion. “ Who is his mistress, Skwee?”
    Fafhrd pulled up the Mingol mare before that iron-hearted beast should topple from exhaustion—and had trouble doing it, so resolute unto death was that grim creature. Yet once stopped, he felt her legs giving under her and he dropped quickly from the saddle lest she collapse from his weight. She was lathered with sweat, her head hung between her trembling forelegs, and her slatted ribs worked like a bellows as she gasped whistlingly.
    He rested his hand lightly on her shaking shoulders. She never could have made Lankhmar, he knew. They were less than halfway across the Great Salt Marsh.
    Low moonlight, striking from behind, washed with a faint gold the gravel of the causeway road and yellowly touched the tops of thorn tree and cactus, but could not yet slant down to the Marsh's sea-grassed floor and black bottoms.
    Save for the hum and crackle of insects and the calls of night birds, the moonlight-brushed area was silent—yet would not be so for long, Fafhrd knew with a shudder.
    Ever since the preternatural emergence of the three black riders from the crash of waves over the Sinking Land and their drumming unshakable pursuit of him through the deepening night, he had been less and less able to think of them as mere vengeful Ilthmar brigands, and more and more conceived them as a supernatural black trinity of death. For miles now, besides, something huge and long-legged and lurching, though never distinctly seen, had been pur-suing him through the Marsh, keeping pace with him at the distance of a spear cast. Some giant familiar or obedient djinn of the black horsemen seemed most likely.
    His fears had so worked on him that Fafhrd had finally put the mare to her extremest gallop, outdistancing the hoof-noise of the pursuit, though with no effect on the lurching shape and with the inevitable present result. He drew Graywand and faced back toward the new-risen gibbous moon.
    Then very faintly he began to hear it: the muted rhythmic drumming of hooves on gravel. They were coming.
    At the same moment, from the deep shadows where the giant familiar should be, he heard the Gray Mouser call hoarsely, “This way, Fafhrd! Toward the blue light. Lead your mount. Make it swift!”
    Grinning even as the hairs lifted on his neck, Fafhrd looked south and saw a shaped blue glow, like a round-topped, smallish, blue-lit window in the blackness of the Marsh. He plunged down the causeway's slanting south side toward it, pulling the mare after him, and found underfoot a low ridge of firm ground rather than mud. He moved ahead eagerly through the dark, digging in his heels and leaning forward as he dragged his spent mount. The blue window looked a little above his head now. The drumming coming up from the east was