"I wonder if any of the others have found a way down yet," Pharaun muttered.

As if in answer, Valas Hune appeared from out of the forest, emerging from a tangled clump of underbrush with a silence that was only in part due to the enchanted chain mail the scout wore. A pair of magical, curved kukri daggers hung at his hip, and to his vest was pinned a miscellany of enchanted talismans fashioned by more than one Underdark race. The mercenary, his amber eyes watering slightly as he squinted against the sunlight, had a squared-off jaw that seemed permanently clenched. He habitually held himself tensed and ready, as if he expected to take a punch. His ebony skin was crisscrossed with dozens of faint gray lines, fading legacies of two centuries' worth of battles.

Valas jerked his head in the direction from which he'd just come and said, "There's a ruined temple a short distance away. It's built around a cave."

Quenthel's eyes glittered, and the serpents in her whip froze in rapt attention.

"Does it lead to the Realms Below?" she asked.

"It does, Mistress," Valas said, offering a slight bow.

Pharaun strode forward and clapped an arm around the scout's shoulders.

"Well done, Valas," he said in a hearty voice. "I always said you could smell a tunnel a mile away. Lead on! We'll be back in Menzoberranzan in no time, quenching our well-earned thirst with the finest wines that?"

"I think not." Quenthel stood with hands on her hips, the serpents in her whip matching her venomous stare. "The goddess is missing, possibly under attack. We must find her." Her eyes narrowed. "You are not suggesting, are you, Pharaun, that we turn our backs on Lolth? If so, I'm sure the matron mother will see to it you receive proper punishment."