The Chaos Curse Read Free

continued his scan, the imp came to know the truth, and a great gout of wicked laughter burst from between his pointed teeth.
    Rufo, curious, looked at him.
    “Go to the cabinet,” Druzit instructed.
    Rufo continued to stare, and made no move.
    “Go,” Druzil said again. “The meager wards of the foolish priests have been overwhelmed by the chaos curse! Their magic has unraveled!”
    It was only partly true. Tuanta Quiro Miancay was more than a simple potion; it was magic driven to destroy. Tuanta Quiro Miancay wanted to be found, wanted to be out of the prison the priests had wrapped about it. And to that end, the concoction’s magic had attacked the glyphs, had worked against them for many months, weakening their integrity.
    Rufo didn’t trust Druzil (and rightly so), but he could not ignore the pull on his heart. He felt his forehead’s brand keenly in this place and suffered a severe headache merely from being near a structure dedicated to Deneir. He found himself wanting to believe Druzil’s words; he moved inevitably toward the cabinet and reached for the cloth.
    There came a blinding electric flash, then a second, then a tremendous burst of fire. Fortunately for Rufo, the first explosion had launched him across the room, clear over the altar and into an overturned bookcase near the door.
    Druzil shrieked as the flames engulfed the cabinet, its wood flaring brightly-obviously it had been soaked with oil or enchanted by some incendiary magic. Druzil did not fear for Tuanta Quiro Miancay, for that concoction was everlasting, but if the flask holding it melted, the liquid would be lost!
    Flames never bothered Druzil, a creature of the fiery lower planes. His bat wings sent him rushing into the conflagration, eager hands pulling the cabinet’s contents free. Druzil shrieked from a sudden burst of pain, and nearly hurled the bowl across the room. He caught himself, though, and gingerly placed the item on the altar, then he backed away and rubbed his blistered hands together.
    The bottle holding the chaos curse had been placed in a bowl and immersed in the clearest of waters, made holy by the plea of a dead druid and the symbol of Syl-vanus, the god of nature, of natural order. Perhaps no god in the Realms evoked more anger from the perverse imp than Sylvanus.
    Druzil studied the bowl and considered his dilemma. He breathed easier a moment later, when he realized that the holy water was not as pure as it should be, that the influences of Tuanta Quiro Miancay were acting even upon that.
    Druzil moved near the bowl and chanted softly, using one of his claws to puncture the middle finger of his left hand. Finishing his curse, he let a single drop of his blood fall into the water. There came a hissing, and the top of the bowl clouded over with vapor. Then it was gone, and gone, too, was the pure water, replaced by a blackened morass of fetid and rotting liquid.
    Druzil leaped back atop the altar and plunged his hands in. A moment later, he was whimpering with joy, cradling the precious, rune-decorated bottle, itself an enchanted thing, as though it were his baby. He looked to Rufo, not really concerned if the man was alive or dead, then laughed again.
    Rufo had propped himself up on his elbows. His black hair stood on end, dancing wildly; his eyes twitched and rolled of their own accord. After some time, he rolled back unsteadily to his feet and advanced in staggered steps toward the imp, thinking to throttle the creature once and for all.
    Druzil’s waving tail, its barbed end dripping deadly poison, brought Rufo to his senses, but did little to calm him.
    “You said…” he began to roar.
    “Bene telletnaral” Druzil snapped back at him, the imp’s intensity more than matching Rufo’s anger and startling the man to silence. “Do you not know what we have?” Smiling wickedly, Druzil handed the flask to Rufo, and the man’s beady eyes widened when he took it, when he felt its inner power throb within him.
    Rufo