Slowly his hand went to his bosom, and slowly he held aloft the Phial of Galadriel. For a moment it glimmered, faint as a rising star struggling in the heavy earthward mists and then as it's power waxed, and hope grew in Frodo's mind, it began to burn, and kindled to a silver flame, a minute heart of dazzling light.

She was there, who was there before Sauron, before the first stone of Barad Dur; and she served none but herself, drinking the blood of Elves and Men, bloated and grown fat with endless broodings on her feasts, weaving webs of shadow; for all living things were her food, and her vomit darkness. None could rival her, Shelob the Great, last child of Ungoliant to trouble the unhappy world.

And so she lived, delighting in her own devices, and feared no assault, nor wrath, nor any end of her wickedness. Never yet had any fly escaped  from Shelob's webs, and the greater now was her rage and hunger.