The Second Book of Lankhmar

to the back of his head and a full embrace, with each stroke freeing more of the margins of his eye sockets and ears.
           The Mouser said, "I'll keep my eyes closed, Cif, save when you tell me I may open them," and was emboldened to ask, "And would you be a bit more generous with your perfumed saliva, dear? That is, if you've to spare. I've been without refreshment all of two days (or is it three, perchance?) save for such moisture as I've sucked from stones. Or begged from passing worms."
           "I have," Rill mentioned ingenuously. "I happen to have been chewing mint the past half hour. The smallest leaves."
           "You are a witch, dear Rill," Cif commented cattily.
           Fafhrd's lieutenant Skor chose that moment to appear behind Rill, filling the tunnel with his stooped tall form and reporting past her to Cif as commander of the diggings, "The Captain's returned from wherever he was yesterday and last night, milady. I gather strange things have been happening, some in the sky. He just arrived by dogcart with the Lady Afreyt and with them the child Gale and the Ilthmar cabin-girl."
           At that point he got a good look at what was going on in the tunnel, recognized the Mouser's face and became speechless. (Later he tried to describe what he saw to Skullick and Pshawri. "She was kissing him out of the sandstone, I tell you, kissing and caressing, working a mighty magic whether she knew it or not. While her sister witch worked a like sorcery upon his bottom half, his nether limbs and members. Our captains are fortunate to enjoy the favor of such women of power.")
           Cif turned her head back toward him and straightened up, bringing the Mouser with her out of the tunnel face and shedding sandy debris.
           "Things have been happening here too, as you can see," she said briskly. "Now hearken, Skor. Return aloft and tell the Lady Afreyt and Captain Fafhrd I wish to speak with them down here. But do not tell them (or anyone up there) of Captain Mouser's passing strange return, else everyone will be crowding down to view and celebrate the wonder."
           "That's true enough," the tall man with thinning hair agreed, doing his best to sound rational.
           "Do as she tells you, Skor," the Mouser put in. "There's wisdom in her rede."
           "Don't you return down here, of course," Cif continued. "Take charge up there, maintain order, and keep the dragon breathing." She nodded toward the pulsing white snow-serpent piping. "Here, take the ring of command off my top middle fingers and wear it on your thumb." She held out the hand on which was Fafhrd's ring. He obeyed. She had an afterthought. "Send the two girls down also, Fingers and Gale. Else they'll make mischief while your hands are full."
           "Hearkening in obedience," Skor responded, bowing to Cif as he turned around and made off speedily.
           "That last thought of yours was inspired, my dear," the Mouser said breezily, turning from Rill to Cif. "Mischief? Yes, indeed! — for it turns out that the Ilthmar cabin-girl Fingers is the assassin sent to wipe out her father Fafhrd by reciting an outlandish death spell — sent out by our old enemy Quarmal, Lord of Quarmall, as I learned when I breakfasted there al fresco this morn's morn on cave dew, boreworm bread, and toadstool wine — and spied on Quarmal in his most secret lair."
           "Fingers Fafhrd's get?" Rill remarked. "I suspected it from the red hair. And there's a definite facial resemblance. And something about her cool manner..."
           The Mouser nodded emphatically. "Though, to be fair to Fingers, I don't think she knew what she was doing — old Quarmal had her most securely hypnotized. Fortunately I learned at the same time how to scotch his spells ('twas as easy as snap your fingers, and as hard) by observing him foil at the last moment his son Igwarl's murder by his sister Issa, which he had masterminded for purposes of instruction. (He makes a positive religion of treachery and mistrust, the old man does.) If I hadn't studied his finger-snapping trick and been able to repeat it perfectly, Fafhrd would be dead as mutton by his daughter's unknowing agency. Whereas, if we can trust Skor, he's as fit as a fiddle."
           "My, my," observed Cif, "we have managed to keep busy underground, haven't we?"
           "You do know more about the worser side of human nature than any man I