In its frenzied death throes, the second yeti pulled away, taking the scimitar with it.

The remaining monster bore Drizzt to the ground under its weight. The drow worked his free hand frantically to keep the deadly teeth from gaining a hold on his throat, but he knew that it was only a matter of time before his stronger foe finished him.

Suddenly Drizzt heard a sharp crack. The yeti shuddered violently. Its head contorted weirdly, and a gout of blood and brains poured over its face from above its forehead.

“Yer late, elf!” came the rough edge of a familiar voice. Bruenor Battlehammer walked up the back of his dead foe, disregarding the fact that the heavy monster lay on top of his elven friend. In spite of the added discomfort, the dwarf’s long, pointed, often-broken nose and gray-streaked, though still-fiery red beard came as a welcome sight to Drizzt. “Knew I’d find ye in trouble if I came out an’ looked for ye!”

Smiling in relief, and also at the mannerisms of the ever-amazing dwarf, Drizzt managed to wriggle out from under the monster while Bruenor worked to free his axe from the thick skull.

“Head’s as hard as frozen oak!” grumbled the dwarf. He planted his feet behind the yeti’s ears and pulled the axe free with a mighty jerk. “Where’s that kitten o’ yers, anyway?”

Drizzt fumbled around in his pack for a moment and produced a small onyx statue of a panther. “I’d hardly label Guenhwyvar a kitten,” he said with fond reverence. He turned the figurine over in his hands, feeling the intricate details of the work to ensure that it had not been damaged in the fall under the yeti.

“Bah, a cat’s a cat!” insisted the dwarf. “An’ why isn’t it here when ye needed it?”

“Even a magical animal needs its rest,” Drizzt explained.

“Bah,” Bruenor spouted again. “It’s sure to be a sorry day when a drow—and a ranger, what’s more—gets taken off ‘is guard on an open plain by two scab tundra yetis!” Bruenor licked his stained axe blade, then spat in disgust.