Swords Against Wizardry by Fritz Leiber ...

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there was nothing in them but green ichor.
Hasjarl instantly closed his own eyes, but continued to peer down through the
holes in his upper lids.
Then he heard Gwaay's voice like a silver mosquito by his ear saying, "You
have made a slight oversight, dear brother. You have chosen the wrong weapon.
After our father's burning you swore to me my life was sacrosanct -- until you
killed me by crushing. 'Until I crush it out,' you said. The gods hear only our
words, Brother, not our intentions. Had you come lugging a boulder, like the
curious gnome you are, you might have accomplished your aim."
"Then I'll have you crushed!" Hasjarl retorted angrily, leaning his face closer
and almost shouting. "Aye, and I'll sit by and listen to your bones crunch -- what
bones you have left! You're as great a fool as I, Gwaay, for you too after our
father's funeral promised not to slay me. Aye, and you're a greater fool, for now
you've spilled to me your little secret of how you may be slain."
"I swore not to slay you with spells or steel or venom or with my hand," the
bright insect voice of Gwaay replied. "Unlike you, I said nothing at all of
crushing." Hasjarl felt a strange tingling in his flesh while in his nostrils there was
an acrid odor like that of lightning mingling with the stink of corruption.
Suddenly Gwaay's hands thrust up to the palms out of his overly rich
bedclothes. The flesh was shredding from the finger bones which pointed straight
up, invokingly.
Hasjarl almost started back, but caught himself. He'd die, he told himself,
before he'd cringe from his brother. He was aware of strong forces all about him.
There was a muffled grating noise and then an odd faintly pattering snowfall
on the coverlet and on Hasjarl's neck ... a thin snowfall of pale gritty stuff ...
grains of mortar....
"Yes, you will crush me, dear brother," Gwaay admitted tranquilly. "But if you
would know how you will crush me, recall my small special powers ... or else
_look up_!"
Hasjarl turned his head, and there was the great black basalt slab big as the
litter rushing down, and the one moment of life left Hasjarl was consumed in
hearing Gwaay say, "You are wrong again, my comrade."
Fafhrd stopped a sword-slash in midcourse when he heard the crash and the
Mouser almost nicked him with his rehearsed parry. They lowered their blades
and looked, as did all others in the central section of the Ghost Hall.
Where the litter had been was now only the thick basalt slab mortar-streaked
with the litter-poles sticking out from under, and above in the ceiling the
rectangular white hole whence the slab had been dislodged. The Mouser thought,
_That's a larger thing to move by thinking than a checker or jar, yet the same
black substance._
Fafhrd thought, _Why didn't the whole roof fall? -- there's the strangeness._
Perhaps the greatest wonder of the moment was the four tread-slaves still
standing at the four corners, eyes forward, fingers locked across their chests,
although the slab had missed them only by inches in its falling.
Then some of Hasjarl's henchmen and sorcerers who had seen their Lord
sneak to the litter now hurried up to it but fell back when they beheld how closely
the slab approached the floor and marked the tiny rivulet of blood that ran from
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