As the wine begins to clear from your brain you start to see that it might not have been such a wise thing to do. All that bragging about your exploits in the Gr'n Xanth wars would be the death of you one day - and from the look of the place that time might be right now!

"Easy", you'd said, "All I need are my brains and lift up to the castle. I'm more than a match for your fairy stories. All those tales of travelers who have never returned - hah! If there is any treasure to be found then I'm the man to do it." The locals had muttered into their mugs about how fools rush in, which had only gotten your temper up to the extent that you made your rash bet.

And now you look around the dismal throne room and shake your head in disbelief. The dank smell of the dripping, stone walls, the slime on the floor that surrounds the pools of water has a peculiar sheen to it. It is almost as if it were trying to move towards the heat of your body. You remember now how no amount of whipping would river the horses any closer than a mile to the castle and how you'd had to walk the remaining distance.

You jump as a wisp of mist cures round the door to the east. It curves and moves almost as if alive and seems to beckon you towards it. From the distant clock tower you can hear the bell tolling eleven times. One hour to go before the witching hour and you're alone in the castle. Or at least you hope you are. The mist slowly starts to get thicker.