Fafhrd winced, yet stubbornly repeated, “But it is comfortable here.” Rather self-consciously he writhed his great shoulders and restretched his seven feet on the deliciously damp turf. (The “seven feet” refers to his height. He was by no means an octopus missing one limb, but a handsome, red-bearded, very tall barbarian.)

The Mouser persisted, “But what if your Vlana should appear, blue-faced and unloving? Or my Ivrian in like state, for that matter?”

That dire image did it. Fafhrd sprang up, grabbing for the low fence. But lo and behold — there was no fence at hand. In all directions stretched out the damp, dark green turf of the Shadowland, while the soft drizzle had thickened again, hiding Astorian. There was no way to tell directions.

The Mouser searched in his ratskin pouch and drew out a blue bone needle. He pricked himself finding it, and cursed. It was wickedly sharp at one end, round and pierced at the other.

“We need a pool or puddle,” he said.

“Where did you get that toy?” Fafhrd quizzed. “Magic, eh?”

“From Nattick Nimblefingers the Tailor in vasty Lankhmar,” the Mouser responded. “Magic, nay! Hast heard of compass needles, oh wise one?”

Not far off they found a shallow puddle atop the turf. The Mouser carefully floated his needle on the small mirror of clear, placid water. It spun about slowly and eventually settled itself.

“We go that way,” Fafhrd said, pointing out from the pierced end of the needle “South.” For he realized the pricking end must point toward the heart of the Shadowland — Nehwon's Death Pole, one might call it. For an instant he wondered if there were another such pole at the antipodes — perhaps a Life Pole.