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Boxes of rare perfumes that never arrived at the Nobles' Quarter.

A wide gold vessel filled with depthless liquid whose smell hinted at an ocean without bounds.

Paintings of dead masters, bricks of gold, rings of platinum, casks of vintages a hundred years old-the vault held treasures so tempting Gage was nearly overwhelmed. But none compared with the value of the singular magical sword that was his objective. He gained the far side of the chamber; he found that which he sought.

The blade, still in its scabbard, leaned vertically on its tip within a glass cabinet. Blue fire flickered on the pommel and limned the entire scabbard. The blade wanted to be noticed.

He took the time to carefully search the floor around the cabinet, the seams between the glass panels, the wall behind the cabinet, and the ceiling above. He smiled-no dastardly traps waited to pait life from body of an offending thief.

Gage flipped the case open with his right hand and grabbed the pommel of the blade with his left.

His demon-gloved left. The instant he gripped the pommel, the eye on the back of the glove popped open wider than Gage had ever seen it.

Abominations shall be purged, a voice pronounced in his head. Then his left hand disappeared in a nimbus of burning, searing fire.

Gage screamed, as did his glove. He danced back, leaving the sword in the cabinet, waving a fireball of blue agony up and down, back and forth, streaking the air with lines of pain. He tripped, rolled, came to his feet, knocked over the box of perfume. Glass shattered and a pungent mix of odors bloomed. Next to it… he plunged his burning hand into the vessel of depthless water. He thrust as far as he could reach, until his shoulder was submerged. His hand didn't touch the bottom, even though the vessel looked only a foot deep. Was it an interface between Faerun and an oceanic elemental plane? Regardless, its chill liquid swaddled and doused the fire.

The glove was burned to nothingness. The gauntlet with the demonic eye, whose gaze put fear and awe into his enemies… was completely gone. Its destruction had at least served him, providing some protection from Angul's defense, though his hand was red and blistered, and lingering pain tested his composure.

"Didn't like me, or my glove?" Gage wondered aloud. The image of Sathra's burned hand flashed in his mind's eye. Now he knew what had caused it.

The mouth on his remaining gauntlet began to cry and gibber.

"Hello, thief."

Gage snatched his burnt hand from the vessel. He saw that the door was blocked by Sathra and at least eight, perhaps ten bloody-eyed men. Those in the front carried knives, clubs, swords. Those behind aimed steady crossbows his way. The shadows whirling about the woman continued their sad litanies unabated, "… cold… knife in my side… face in the window… lost…"

The woman's hand seemed perfectly whole. She'd apparently found magical healing before retutning to deal with him.

"Sathra! I can explain!" Gage backed toward the glimmering blade, his hands out in front of him as if to ward off an attack. His lone gauntlet continued sobbing.

"Oh, you will explain," she chuckled. "As soon as I strap you into something I've got downstairs. The fellow who sold it to me called it a Sembian Ctadle. Very simple little chair-the cushion's replaced with a point. We sttap you with a belt and hoist you onto the point, and pretty soon you'll be explaining more than you can imagine."

Gage swallowed. Sathra's use of torture devices was legendary. He'd die before he'd allow himself to be taken to hei famous "Red Room."

"It's not like that-I've come to warn you! I-"

One of Sathta's fingers idly pointed. A shadowy form dropped out of orbit around her and charged Gage.

Gage extended his raised hands to arms' length, and hoped.

The flickering shape, a silhouette of a bent, haggard man, reached an astral claw toward the thief. Soul-numbing cold brushed Gage, but the mouth on his gauntlet bit down.

Despite the immaterial nature of