Then a voice sugary and unctuous, senescent though keen — a voice like a quavering flute — spoke from amidst those dimmest glows, saying, “Oh my sons, begging the question of that hypothetical western continent, on which I do not propose to enlighten you, there is yet one place in Nehwon you have not searched for forgetfulness since the cruel deaths of your beloved girls.”

“And what place may that be?” the Mouser asked softly after a long moment and with slightest stammer. “And who are you?”

“The city of Lankhmar, my sons. Who I am, besides your spiritual father, is a private matter.”

“We have sworn a great oath against ever returning to Lankhmar,” Fafhrd growled after a bit, the growl low and just a shade defensive and perhaps even intimidated.

“Oaths are made to be kept only until their purpose be fulfilled,” the fluty voice responded. “Every geas is lifted at last, every self-set rule repealed. Otherwise orderliness in life becomes a limitation to growth; discipline, chains; integrity, bondage and evil-doing. You have learned what you can from the world. You have graduated from that huge portion of Nehwon. It now remains that you take up your postgraduate studies in Lankhmar, highest university of civilized life here.”

The seven faint glows were growing still dimmer now and drawing together, as if retreating down the corridor.

“We won't go back to Lankhmar,” Fafhrd and the Mouser replied speaking as one.

The seven glows faded altogether. So faintly the two men could barely hear it — yet hear it each did — the fluty voice inquired, “Are you afraid?” Then they heard a grating of rock, a very faint sound, yet somehow ponderous.