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The Temptation of Elminster
Ed Greenwood

Forgotten Realms Elminster Saga 3
1998

Scanned by KiD, formatted and proofed by Dreamcity
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: November, 26th, 2003
Prologue

There is a time in the unfolding history of the mighty Old Mage of Shadowdale that some
sages call "the years when Elminster lay dead." I wasn't there to see any corpse, so I prefer to call
them "the Silent Years." I've been vilified and derided as the worst sort of fantasizing idiot for
that stance, but my critics and I agree on one thing: whatever Elminster did during those years,
all we know of it is...nothing at all.

Antarn the Sage
from The High History of Faerunian Archmages Mighty
published circa The Year of the Staff

The sword flashed down to deal death. The roszel bush made no defense beyond emitting a solid
sort of thunking noise as tempered steel sliced through it. Thorny boughs fell away with dry cracklings, a
booted foot slipped, and there was a heavy crash, followed, as three adventurers caught their breath in
unison, by a tense silence.
"Amandarn?" one of them asked when she could hold her tongue no more, her voice sharp with
apprehension. "Amandarn?"
The name echoed back to her from the walls of the ruin...walls that seemed somehow watchful …
and waiting.
The three waded forward through loose rubble, weapons ready, eyes darting this way and that for
the telltale dark ribbon of a snake.
"Amandarn?" came the cry again, lower and more tremulous. A trap could be anywhere, or a
lurking beast, and...”
"Gods curse these stones and thorns … and crazed Netherese builders, too!" a voice more
exasperated than pain-wracked snarled from somewhere ahead, somewhere slightly muffled, where the
ground gave way into darkness.
"To say nothing of even crazier thieves!" the woman who'd called so anxiously boomed out a reply,
her voice loud and warm with relief.
"Wealth redistributors, Nuressa, if you please," Amandarn replied in aggrieved tones, as stones
shifted and rattled around his clawing hands. "The term 'thief is such a vulgar, career-limiting word."
"Like the word 'idiot'?" a third voice asked gruffly. "Or 'hero'?" Its gruffness lay like a mock growl
atop tones of liquid velvet.
"Iyriklaunavan," Nuressa said severely, "we've had this talk already, haven't we? Insults and
provocative comments are for when we're lazing by a fire, safe at home, not in the middle of some
deadly sorcerer's tomb with unknown Netherese spells and guardian ghosts bristling all around us."
"I thought I heard something odd," a deep, raw fourth voice added with a chuckle. "Ghosts bristle
far more noisily than they did in my father's day, I must say."
"Hmmph," Nuressa replied tartly, reaching one long, bronzed and muscled arm down into the gloom
to haul the still struggling Amandarn to his feet. The point of the gigantic war sword in her other hand
didn't waver or droop for an instant. "Over-clever dwarves, I've heard," she added as she more or less