Countless colleagues and friends deserve my thanks, but one above all: Phil Athans. Thanks, my friend.

Eight legs, eight.

Clattering on the stones, ticking, ticking, tapping, tapping impatiently.

They were done with their battle, with their feasting, devouring their siblings, growing stronger with each juicy bite. Bloated and spent, they stood around the octagonal stone, myriad eyes staring into myriad eyes, eight legs eight tapping and clattering.

They could eat no more; they could fight no more. Exhaustion held them in place, as Lolth had desired from the beginning. The thousands became eight-the eight strongest, the eight smartest, the eight most devious, the eight most ruthless. One would fuse with the Yor'thae. One would assume the mantle of a goddess, the deity of Chaos.

Only one, whom the others would serve. . if the One gave them that choice and that chance.

If not, then they, like their thousands of dead siblings, would be devoured.

The spiders knew that they could not influence the choice any longer. The competition was long past, the fight decided, and only She Who Was Chaos could make the final pronouncement.

The spiders did not delude themselves with false hubris. They did not deceive themselves with any thoughts that they might undo that which would be done. The broodling war was over.

Eight legs eight tap-tapped nervously on the stone.

Beyond the cocoon of the inner sanctum, the drow were not so accepting. They basked in pride, they placed self above Lolth, they thought themselves worthy or even beyond that peak.