Tweedle "Light Fingers" Booginsfoot approached the enormous double doors with great caution. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. A short distance behind him stood his adventuring companions, tense and ready. Glister Bucklebutz, their illusionist, had already determined that no magic had been placed on the doors. Now his stubby gnome fingers were nervously practicing the motions of a spell. Behind him, guarding the rear, stood Ragnor Wolfwind, a human barbarian from frozen wastes far away. The light from the torch he held high above his head made his blond locks glow in the dim hallway. It also revealed the sweat on his brow as he sporadically checked hack down the hall for any fell creatures that might have followed them. To the right of Ragnor stood Hundar Ironbeard. His hard fists clutched the silver hammer holy symbol of his god tightly as he beseeched a blessing with whispered words and bowed head. In the forefront of the party, Tythrillian Woodswater crouched in his green leathers. His amber elven eyes met with Tweedle's and he nodded. Tweedle turned back to the doors, calmed somewhat by the assurance that Tythrillian was ready to save him should any evil befall.

As Tweedle padded toward the doors, the hair on his bare feet began to stand on end. He could not remove from his mind the screams of their less fortunate half-elven companion. The druid had died in agony during an ambush by ores. Hundar had pleaded with his god for aid but there was simply nothing that could he done. Tweedle shed a silent tear. She had made fine pies, he thought as his belly grumbled. He shook his head to bring his mind back to the task at hand, then looked up at the doors.

They stood a good ten feet tall, each five feet across. In deep has-relief, the image of a screaming skull dominated the center of the doors, the scam between them visible only as a dark line thinner than a hair. On the surface of the metal around the skull, images of demons and other horrific apparitions seemed frozen in a writhing dance around thorny spikes which projected from the door. Inside the skull's wailing mouth was the lock, a large construction as complicated as it was ancient.

Tweedle hesitated - just attempting to reach for the lock could be dangerous. He noted with dread that the spikes seemed to be pushed through the surface of the doors rather than part of their iron surface. Tweedle swallowed and gritted his teeth. If they were to succeed in their quest, they had to make it through these doors. To ease his mind he mumbled quietly to himself as he tentatively crossed the last few steps.

"With practiced ease, the skilled thief removed his lock picks from their pouch. Then, with the confidence of years of experience, he reached up to the lock..." Tweedle paused his narrative. The lock was a good foot above the comfortable reach of his short arms, and at least double that length above his field of vision. Tweedle dropped his arms, looked to the side and then hack at the door. He bit his cheek in embarrassment then shrugged off his travel pack. After leaning it carefully against the door, he clambered nimbly up the backpack and continued his monologue.

"Uh yes, um, as I was saying... with practiced ease... no, with unconscious ease, the skilled and worldly thief drew fourth his... artfully crafted lock picks to pick the lock that lay in the most hideous of doors before his... experienced person. He viewed the lock with a critical eye for just a moment. It would be a challenge for any thief, any normal thief that is."

"Stop mumbling and get on with it!" harked Hundar impatiently.

Glister shushed the dwarf emphatically, "Shhh! He needs silence to work!"

Tweedle smirked in gratitude without turning hack to his squabbling companions. "But this thief was no normal thief. To him this was just another lock on an outhouse door. Its antiquity was not at all daunting. It made the lock seem quaint to the... master of thieves who stood confidently before it. The quick glance he gave it was all he needed to see its hidden flaws and subtle secrets."

Tweedle took up a lock pick after a moment of hesitation, "This should do nicely," the thief said as he placed his chosen weapon gently into the lock. "Subtly and skillfully, the thief twisted the small piece of metal through the intricacies of the machine which barred his... regal passage through the doors. After a few scant moments of work... no, wait... after a few scant moments of play, yeah that's it, play..." The halfling nodded to himself in satisfaction with this last bit of witticism. "...he reached the critical moment. This was the last deft turn his hand would need to make before the doors opened before him." Tweedle stopped and took a deep breath. He had two choices. "Fifty-fifty odds. The Janus Point of thievery. With a short prayer to all the gods of thievery and scuttling shadowy things in the world, Tweedle `Light Fingers' Booginsfoot chose."

"From the limitless possibilities, from all the subtle twists and nuances of the hand, the thief of thieves chose the perfect one. The only one which would open the doors and allow his companions to finish their grand and glorious quest. All that was left now was to do it."

Tweedle took three sharp short breaths then held the last as his stubby but dexterous fingers twisted the pick in the lock.

CLICK.

"Oops," Tweedle said and froze.

Behind him Hundar slapped his hand over his hard dwarven forehead and the halls resounded with a crack like the sound of stone striking stone. Glister Bucklebutz fainted dead away and dropped to the floor with a muffled thud. Tythrillian slumped to the floor and groaned as he rolled over onto his back.

"Not again!" the elf cried in dismay.

"What?" said the uncomprehending barbarian. "What? I thought `click' was good when opening locks."

"Not when the thief says 'Oops'!" came the elf's muffled and exasperated explanation from beneath arms which he now had crossed over his face.

"For the love of the stones, boy! Why did ya have to screw up on this one?" the dwarf fairly yelled at the halfling, who was now standing with his head in his hands by the door. 

"Well, what does a bad click mean?" Ragnor queried to no one in particular.

Tweedle ignored the confused barbarian and turned to the dwarf, hot anger making his plump face red. "Listen, boulders-for-brains! I didn't mess up on purpose! That's not exactly the lock on my sister's diary, now is it? See the skull? The sharp teeth? The demons? Dancing in little circles?" The halfling quickly pantomimed a jerky little dance.

"That's no excuse for sloppy workmanship, boy!" the dwarf bellowed in reply.

The halfling looked at the dwarf as he would a troll in a dress. "No excuse for sloppy..." the halfling sputtered. Thrusting his lock picks into his pouch, he moved forward to stand toe to toe and nose to chest with the dwarf.

"Alright, you ugly excuse for an orc! What do you do for the party? I got us this far! What have you done but pray to rocks and kiss that insipid little hammer? I made one little mistake, but at least I did something! And how many times have your loud feet bungled perfect plans, hmm? Maybe if I had been able to hear anything but them, I'd have known those orcs were coming. Flint-for-feet! Limestone-for-legs! Pumice-fora..." His last insult was muffled by Tythrillian's hand as he stood between them to push the two apart - well... to push Tweedle, anyway.

"Tweedle, please be quiet now," spoke the elf in sweet tones made tense with worry as he looked back to the dwarf, who was biting his silver hammer holy symbol and leaving teeth marks. "Now gentlemen, I think we can resolve this without bloodshed. Tweedle, apologize to the dwarf. We don't need inner party fighting right now. Now, calm down Hundar, he's just mad that he screwed up again," the elf said with urgency.

Tweedle heard the undue stress put on `again' and leaped upon the inferred insult, "And you! You sorry excuse for an elf! What have you accomplished besides leading us down dead end halls and straight into ambushes? You might be a good tracker in the forest but down here you aren't worth bat guano!"

The elf turned an incredulous gaze down at the livid halfling. "Hey look shorty, without me you would have lost the trail of the wizard long ago!"

The halfling barked a harsh laugh. "Shorty? Is that the best you can come up with, tree-hugger? My grandmother throws worse insults at her chickens when she feeds them! And if we had a competent tracker, we probably would have caught that wizard before he entered this godsforsaken place!"

"Uh guys, what does a bad click mean?" Ragnor interrupted.

"Shut up, barbarian!" the three arguing adventurers shouted in unison. Ragnor took a step back, startled by the combined rage of his companions. He watched, wideeyed, as the argument rose to a fever pitch before him. He bent down quickly to the gnome's unconscious body and gathered his wineskin. If weapons were drawn, he would splash them with it and perhaps that would bring them out of whatever strange magic had made his friends turn against each other.

"And that stupid barbarian is no help either! I'm the only one who does any real work around here!" the halfling screamed above the shouted curses and insults of his companions.

Perhaps, thought Ragnor, I should splash them now.

The wine splattered over the elf, dwarf, and halfling, cooling their hot faces. It had a miraculous result. Simultaneously, each of the three raging demi-humans turned and slammed a balled fist into the barbarian.

The elf's fist clipped his jaw, as the impact of the dwarf's fist in his midsection sent air whooshing up through his body. A high-pitched scream filled Ragnor's throat; a scream instigated by a pudgy halfling fist landing painfully bellow his belt. This combined effect sent the barbarian flying backwards stumbling over the gnome's body, as he toppled with a crash of plate and chain armor, his shield rattling like a coin dropped on the floor.

The three - dwarf, elf, and halfling - began moving in a circle, each wary of an attack or an opening. Hundar had long had a rivalry with Tythrillian, for much the same reasons most dwarves dislike elves, and thought his fight was mostly with the runt, he saw his chance and went for it. Tythrillian shrieked as the dwarf tackled him at the knees. Hundar bit savagely into a thigh, his stoney teeth pinching soft flesh. In a wash of panic, Tythrillian reached down and pushed frantically at the dwarf's face, his fingers finding purchase in two large holes. With relish Tythrillian pulled Hundar away by his nose, extracted his fingers, and for good measure, poked at the only things on the hard headed dwarf's face not tougher than marble. Tweedle took advantage of the situation to trip the blinded dwarf and with a rumble Hundar fell to the ground and rolled away toward the doors.

The elf turn to the halfling.

"The wizard!" shouted Tweedle as he pointed behind the elf.

Tythrillian spun about and groaned as he realized his mistake. Stubby halfling hands pushed him from behind. His face met the wall with an audible crack.

"My noze! You filthy little kowald! You bwoke my noze!" Tythrillian screeched.

Tweedle allowed himself a moment's amusement before leaping upon the wailing elf's back, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow of the dwarf's shoulders. Of course, it wasn't safe on the elf's shoulders either, as Tythrillian was tackled a second time by Hundar. Tweedle tumbled from the top of the pile and rolled away, stopping as his head banged painfully on the iron doors.

With his ears ringing, and the gong-like sound of his head hitting the door still echoing down the hall, Tweedle didn't hear the elf and dwarf before they tumbled into him, knocking him flat as they rolled over and away. For a moment, the blow to his head had cleared Tweedle's mind and he briefly remembered something about the doors. However, the bruising he took from his companions' beating quickly erased it from mind. With a whoop, he dove on his companions, pudgy thumbs poking hard at whatever he could find. Ragnor rolled, wheezing and groaning, off his gnomish friend and onto his hands and knees. With an amazing show of barbarian constitution, he refrained from vomiting. Hundar has a good arm - two of them actually - thought Ragnor dumbly. Glister blinked awake the moment the barbarian rose from off of him. He looked in horror at his three brawling friends. "We have to stop them!" he said to Ragnor as he slowly, painfully stood up. Ragnor laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. He shook his head and mouthed an emphat ic, no. "Well, we've got to do something! They'll tear each other to pieces!" "You're the smart one. Think," Ragnor barked between wheezes. Glister reached for his wineskin, only to find it missing. "Tried that. Bad idea." With sudden inspiration Glister waved his arms in the complex gestures of a spell. The illusion of the evil wizard appeared near the fighting trio in a flash. "Wizard!" Hundar shouted in warning. His loyalty and love for his friends was rewarded when the elf and halfling clobbered him soundly. The battle continued as if there had been no pause. Glister stared on in dumb amazement. "Now what?" he whispered to Ragnor. "Beats me," said Ragnor. And, as if his words were an omen, his feet were pulled out from under him, and he was dragged into the tumbling chaos by a pair of hands - elven, dwarven. Glister Bucklebutz stood with his jaw slack as his adventuring fellows tumbled about on the floor. So entranced was he by the sight that when the double doors slowly opened he almost didn't notice. Almost. "Wiz..." but before he could finish, Glister was sucked into the pile. The portly wizard looked incredulously down at the heap of bodies rolling before him. Unable to pass up an offer of free booty, let alone helpless adversaries, the wizard chuckled and uttered a short phrase imbued with the authority of magic. With nothing more than three red sparks and a tiny puff of smoke the hall was empty. ...

"You know, there's a moral here somewhere."

"Shut up, runt!" shouted Hundar from his cage suspended above the void of blackness beneath them.

"Oh, and what are you going to do? Spit at me?" said Tweedle.

The glob of spittle that hit the halfling's eye was gritty. He painfully rubbed at it as he sat in his own gently swaying cage. Tweedle heard the muffled laughter of Tythrillian a few yards away.

"Well, elf, I'm glad you can find humor in this. I hope you're the first one he drops into this pit," said Tweedle bitterly.

Tythrillian held back his anger. "You're right Tweedle," said the elf, trying to keep a straight face. "We should be trying to think of a way out of this."

"How?" spoke Ragnor morosely, "We're hanging... gods know how far above a pit with... gods know what down there. We're in... cages without weapons, or tools... or even magic. I can't bend the bars. Tweedle has no picks. Glister is tied and gagged. You have nothing. And Hundar is a bad mood. I don't think he'd help of us... if he could. It's hopeless."

The elf slumped down in his cage. "If we could just get Glister..." Scratching his gold and green hair, he looked all around. His amber eyes strayed to an area somewhere above the barbarians's cage. With an eyebrow raised, he measured the distance from the ledge to the lone door that seemed the only exit from the pit.

"Tell me something barbarian, do you think your strength could break one of those rusted chains holding us suspended above the pit?" asked Tythrillian curiously.

"Hmm. Yeah, I think so. But I don't think I can reach the chains. The cage will fall when I break the chain." Ragnor looked over the edge of his cage into the blackness and blanched.

"Maybe," the elf replied. "Hundar? Hundar, listen to me. Hundar, I think I know a way out."

The dwarf did not respond.

Tweedle was still rubbing his eye when his keen ears picked up a soft sound. Using his trained hearing, he began to discern what it was. Tythrillian was talking to himself. Tweedle was about to ignore it when he heard his name spoken. He looked over at the elf to find amber eyes gazing into his own.

"Tweedle," the elf whispered, "this is important. I need you to get Hundar mad at you - I mean really mad. Don't stop no matter what he does. Can you do that, Tweedle?"

Tweedle looked to his companions, each sitting deep in their own thoughts.

"Why?" he whispered back.

"You must do this, Tweedle. Our survival will depend on it."

Tweedle grinned. "That's the best thing I've heard all day."

As the halfling began jeering the dwarf, Tythrillian turned to Ragnor.

"Ragnor, this just might work..." ...

Spitting at the halfling was fast losing its appeal and no matter how loud Hundar yelled insults and threats, Tweedle would not shut up. Hundar began to fume. He stomped in his cage until finally his rage exploded. The ancient call of his people - a cry heard on many battle fields when good dwarves know that only theit purest rage will win the fight; a sound like a thousand avalanches - tore from his throat.

The halfling shrunk back in his cage, stunned by the shear brutality of the dwarf's assault. Ragnor clutched his jaw, as his teeth vibrated painfully. Tythrillian looked over at the gnome in apology, as he held his ears.

Then, as the echos of the yell faded, there was a rumbling hum. Tythrillian looked above the barbarian's cage, at a sharp spear of stone that hung from the ceiling. Its vibrations were increasing as the stone absorbed the power of the dwarf's shout.

Suddenly, with a sharp crack, the huge stalactite fell down to smash into the corner of Ragnor's cage. The blow sent the cage flying toward the gnome's prison and then passed it.

"Now, Ragnor!" yelled Tythrillian. Ragnor grabbed the chain of Glister's cage as he swung back. His huge shoulders quivered with the effort of holding onto the chain as his cage pulled away. Ragnor wrenched at the chain that held the gnome's cage until it snapped apart. Like a pendulum, he swung back, still holding the chain and cage of the gnome. With a frightening show of strength, he hurled the cage and its occupant toward the ledge and door. With a crash, the gnome landed and rolled out of the broken cage. A cloud of rust billowed upward as he tumbled into the wooden door.

Tythrillian looked to Ragnor. The barbarian was lying on his stomach, his arms still hanging out between the bars as the swinging cage lost momentum.

"Ragnor? Are you alright?"

In answer to the elf's question the barbarian only groaned.

Tweedle and Hundar watched as Glister struggled to scrape his bonds against a sharply broken bar. The two looked at each other and shrugged; then smiled in satisfaction as the gnome ripped off his gag and began to move his hands in arcane gestures.

Glister picked up a shard of metal that Tweedle thought would make a passable lockpick and floated out to him. In no time, Glister brought them all safely to the ledge.

"No hard feelings, eh runt?"

"You got it, pumice-for-a..."

"Not again! Please?" Tythrillian interrupted.

Hundar laughed and clapped a hand on the halfling's shoulder, nearly knocking Tweedle to his knees. The halfling grinned up at Hundar.

"When we get out of here, ye'll share a drink with me," said the dwarf.

"And some food!" Tweedle laughed. They eyed each others bellies respectfully.

"You're buying!" said dwarf and halfling simultaneously.

Glister looked at them both nervously.

"I'm glad to see you've made up, but uh, don't you think we should get out of here?"

"Wait,"said Tythrillian. "Ragnor. He's not well."

"I'll be..." the barbarian bent over with a groan, "I'll be alright, it's just... I think I pulled something."

Hundar winced. Laying his healing touch on that would be awkward... ...

"We need a plan!" whispered Tythrillian, slapping a fist into his palm.

"We need weapons," grunted Ragnor.

"We need magic," said Glister.

"We need to get out of this hall. I think I'm standing in orc dung," mumbled Tweedle as he pinched his nose and grimaced at his fur covered feet. "Did I mention that clothing would be preferable to this loincloth?"

"Seven times," murmured Tythrillian. Hundar raised a hand and covered his eyes in exasperation.

"We need a miracle," groaned the dwarven priest.

"One miracle, at your service!" chimed a small mushroom at Hundar's feet.

"What? By the nine stones?" The dwarf looked down to see a familiar half-elven face protrude from the surface of the fungus.

"Ye look well, Ironbutt," it said.

Hundar took the lusty compliment with easy grace. He had always liked the nature-loving lass despite her mixed parentage. Then he realized exactly what the druid might see from that particular vantage point. He hastily stepped back as his friends crowded in. The half-elf mushroom gave him a conspiratorial wink and the old dwarf blushed in embarrassment at her flattery.

"Hello once again, my friends. I'm glad to see you all so... um..." The druid trailed off as she looked up at her former companions-at-arms. The four adventurers stepped back to the safer distance at which the dwarf stood. The mushroom seemed to pout for a moment. "Well, anyway, I'm glad you're all still alive."

"And you Myllara? What of you?" a deeply concerned Tythrillian asked.

"Oh, quite dead. Dead and loving it! You have no idea how much fun we have on the other side! Well, the good part of the other side anyway. I haven't felt this free in years! I can say what I want and do what I want and it's all so natural. I mean, living was great and all, but well, all that nature love and guiding lost cubs back to their mothers... it was rather stifling."

"Yes," said Tythrillian quietly, "you do seem quite... uh, changed." He turned away, his eyes suddenly wet. It had not been easy for him to put aside his prejudice, but her love of nature and placid strength had filled him with admiration, and more.

Oblivious to the pain that the elf felt, Myllara continued.

"Now what was I... ah yes, your quest! The wizard you seek, he is guarded by the orc tribe that killed me. They bow to him as though he were a god and are quite willing to give their lives rather than have him punish them for failure. The way is hard before you. There are traps, guarding magics, scads of orcs, and to top it off a wizard that can squash any three of you with a mere thought."

"That's it! I'm going home!"

"Not so fast, halfling!" the mushroom scolded. "You haven't heard the good news."

"There's actually good news?" asked the gnome, pulling himself out of an imminent swoon.

"Yes. I can take you directly to the wizard. But think on this before you agree. The gods granted me this reprieve from paradise on the condition that I only transport you. I can aid you in no other fashion. And, for this favor the gods require of you a sacrifice."

"Anything," an awed Tythrillian whispered.

"You must kill all the orcs..." Myllara watched grins spread slowly across faces. "And you must become caretakers of the tunnels and the woods above these caves." The grins faded quickly on all but the elven face.

"Uh, I'm not much of a woodsman," Ragnor mumbled.

"Yeah and I like to get out to the city every now and then," the halfling pointed out.

"I'm not much for woods either. Rocks are my home," Hundar added.

"How am I supposed to research spells in a forest?" asked Glister.

"Hey you guys, woods I let you down. Heh heh. Get it? Woods? A little druid humor. Okay so it was bad, but what do you expect from something that grows in orc dung? Alright, alright, take it easy! Don't give me those `you've been a very bad druid' stares.

"The forest and caverns are filled with creatures to test your strength, barbarian, and you will continually have to fight the monsters that will attempt to take residence here. Hundar, it will be your duty to guard the caverns and keep watch on their natural beauty. You may mine and work your metals. Make the caves ring with the song of hammer and anvil. Glister, the wizard's death will leave behind a fortune of magic for you to study. Their esoteric conundrums will keep you busy for years.

"Tythrillian, you know your duties."

"It would be an honor to serve, spirit sister," said the elf, using the private term of endearment. Myllara did not seem to notice.

"So?" said the halfling warily.

"Well Mr. Booginsfoot, a city must be built here, a great city in harmony with nature both above and below the ground. Here will all the goodly races of the world live together. So have the gods decreed. It will be your job to make preparations for the founding of this city."

"But that will take years!" wailed the halfling,

"Well, yes, but I might have something that could tide you over till then; a certain recipe for some pies which I remember you enjoyed greatly?"

"Deal!" laughed the stout halfling, already making plans to put a certain bakery in the center of the business district that was fast forming in his mind.

"Then, you are all agreed?"

The four nodded.

"Wait a minute," said Ragnor. "Why are the gods so interested in killing one wizard?"

"Because success in his work would mean worldwide catastrophe, silly. Now stop playing the curious little monkey and agree to the deal," Myllara quipped.

"Urn, okay."

"Good. Now all we have to do is get you there. In order for the magic to work, one who feels a deep connection with the woods must kiss me."

Tythrillian's amber eyes sparkled like gold as he knelt low to kiss the mushroom face of Myllara. Before his lips could touch the small but beautiful half-elven face, a shimmering doorway appeared in the air above him and the mushroom disappeared with a peel of laughter and a puff of smoke. Tythrillian straightened with what he hoped was a rueful grin on his face and stepped through the magical gate.

Ragnor watched Tythrillian's back disappear and started forward in numb amazement.

"Retirement. I can't believe I'm retiring."

"Hey, like the lady said, take it easy," quipped the halfling at his side. "Think of it as a change of occupation."

They disappeared together with a pop leaving the dwarf and gnome standing alone in the hall.

"That elf has just taken the worst wound he shall ever know," said Hundar.

Glister looked up at the dwarf with the light of new knowledge in his eyes.

"Like the stones, you see much and speak little, Hundar."

Hundar only nodded and stepped forward through the gate, his throat too thick to respond.

Glister began waving his arms in the gestures of a spell as he stepped forward, wondering just what Hundar had seen in his long years and wondering too what sights had scarred the hard heart of the dwarf; scars so deep that his heart could hide such a soft spot for their elven friend.

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neigh..." Thalantor the Bleak continued to hum the song as he worked. As soon as he finished the last of his preparations, he would be ready to kill the wreched adventurers he had lured. His crowning achievement, his great vision, was about to be fulfilled.

When all the moons were in proper alignment he would cast the spell that would slay every last one of them, a complete and utter genocide of the five goodly races. It had taken him three centuries of research to learn how, but now all his effort was paying off.

He hadn't meant to kill the half-elf. The ores responsible for that error had already been punished. He grinned down at the slugs that were rapidly expiring in their bucket of salt. The few half-elves that would remained after his genocide spell, would he no match for the vast forces he would amass. He would rise to rule! Of course, the spell would not claim him - a gift he owed to his mixed parentage would keep him safe. An ogre-mage made an ugly groom for a human princess to marry, but then, he reflected with dark humor, there really hadn't been much time for a wedding.

"Would you be mine, could you he mine, wont you be my neighbor?"

"No. This city wont be big enough for the both of us," said a halfling voice behind him as he felt the searing pain of a dagger being slipped into his hack.

With a roar, Thalantor stumbled away, grasping at a table for balance as motes of magic slammed into his chest. He looked up just in time to see something big with blond hair swing- ing his favorite chair at his face.

Rolling with the heavy blow, Thalantor gathered enough wits about himself to run, but immediately slammed into something stone - hard with a bristling beard. Lithe elven feet connected with the back of his head and sent him falling over the dwarf.

In mounting terror, Thalantor the Bleak activated his teleportation ring and vanished.

"Shh, I hear something ahead," Tweedle whispered behind him. As one, the four companions slowed their steps and waited while Tweedle crept silently forward. Bristling with captured magics and recovered items, the companions had cut threw the orc tribe like the hand of a god. The fury in their eyes paralyzed the ores that lived long enough to notice it. Wizard or no wizard, when you hear the death screams of an entire tribe, its time to move out, as many ores fled for an escape route. Some would call it cowardice, but those that saw the adventurers knew it for what it was - wisdom; a trait often reserved for older ores. For years, those wise orcs would tell the story of the Five Deaths. And as any horror story has, this story was complete with a great monster - a towering elf whose eyes spat the hot flames of fury, but held a queer wet sorrow, as though he felt a great pain.

"You know, this hall looks familiar," whispered Ragnor. He was about to say it again, thinking that perhaps his friends had not heard him, but Tythrillian's eyes, glinting and golden in the darkness, locked onto his and all words left the poor barbarian's brain.

"Guys, you have to see this!" came Tweedle's excited whisper from around the corner.

With caution, the four rounded the corner and stopped, stunned by what they saw. There, before them, stood the demon doors that had been the start of it all. More importantly however, the wizard stood before the doors this time. In the dim circle of light, sputtering from a failing candle set on the floor, his seven foot frame was hunched down. In his hands, could be seen a ring of keys, through which he was rifling with growing frustration.

"Aha! This one! It must be this one!" With glee he turned to the door, only to find the key too big. His bearded chin dropped to his chest and he heaved a sigh. He began looking through the keys again.

"Why doesn't he just disappear again?" asked Ragnor quietly.

Tythrillian pointed at the wizards ragged robes and the scorched skin of his hand.

"Item failure," whispered Glister, "Happens to the best of us."

Ragnor began to warily eye the magics he carried, watching for sparks or uncommon glimmers or whatever might forewarn of imminent explosion. His attention was soon stolen by a shout from the wizard.

"This one! I'm sure of it!"

It was at that moment that the wizard noticed the party of adventurers. With frantic haste he slammed the key into the door and twisted it.

There came a muffled click sound from the door.

The wizard grabbed two fangs in the mouth of the great iron skull and began to pull on the doors to open them.

"This is my arsenal of magics! Behind these doors lie enough spell-bonded items to rule a country and ravage an army! Now you will all surely die! Ha ha... Huh?" Thalantor the Bleak trailed off in confusion. The doors were not opening.

In sudden terror the mage attempted to release the fangs, but it was too late. With gutwrenching swiftness the jaws of the skull slammed together, severing his arms just below the elbow. An instant later, the spikes set in the door projected outward, skewering the sorcerer's body. Dumbfounded, the party of adventurers watched as the spikes retracted, pulling the wizard's already lifeless body into the gnashing jaws of the door.

"That was rather anti-climactic," said Tythrillian, muttering the first words he had spoken for hours, the angry light in his gilded eyes dimming.

"That was completely foul," mumbled Glister, looking decidedly green in the face.

"It was a good trap," replied Hundar. He was about to expound upon it's virtues, but Glister and Tythrillian's glares gave him pause.

"I wonder," said Tweedle, "if Myllara has a recipe for meat pies." With a gasp of horror his friends stepped away from him. "A joke! I was just joking! Geeze!"

"Wow," said Ragnor. No one disagreed so he went on. "So that's what a bad click means." he pronounced and Tweedle flinched. "How come it didn't do that before?"

Slowly the others came to realize just what had happened. Their gazes fell upon the unfortunate halfling, stoppinf Tweedle's silent retreat down the passage. Without waiting for a question, he began to speak.

"Well, I was under a lot of pressure!" he said defensively, "And ah... the... the... dwarf was praying too loud... ah... and well, you know, clicks in big echoing dungeons tend to sound similar, so maybe... maybe I made a little mistake?" The halfling pinched his fingers together to show how small it was.

"Do you mean to tell me," rumbled Hundar in ever increasing volume, "that you had unlocked the door and that we could have gotten the wizard's magic, taken him by surprise, and avoided this whole thing?"

"Well, I did mean to tell you, just not yet. I was going to wait until we got back to a tavern or something. You know a funny story, as a joke?"

His companions were not laughing.

"And so, the brave and swift thief dashed down the passage, pursued by hellish demons, with no sense of humor!" Breathing hard, Tweedle paused his monologue to leap over the body of a fallen orc. "His heart sang as he ran, for he was the fastest thief ever to grace the earth..."