Laira sucked in breath, chest shaking.

Use your curse. Use your disease. She ground her teeth. Use your magic.

She shut her eyes, trying to ignore the pain, to focus, to calm herself and find that inner power. At first it evaded her. The magic lurked deep inside, fleeing from her mental grasp like a mouse fleeing from reaching hands.

Zerra stepped back and raised his torch. "For the glory of Ka'altei!" he shouted. "We will burn the reptile! Shaman of Goldtusk, will you bless my fire?"

Concentrate, Laira. Grab your magic.

Shedah, the crone, stepped forward. Strings of human finger bones rattled, hanging around her neck. Among them hung the silver amulet of Taal—the amulet of Laira's fallen mother, now the crone's prize. The wizened old thing, frail and covered in warts, raised her staff. The painted skull of an ape grinned atop it.

"I name her a cursed thing!" cried the shaman, voice shrill.

Laira reached down deep inside her. She found that secret pool and fished out the warm strands.

The magic flowed through her.

Ahead, Shedah reached into her leather pouch, pulled out blue powder, and tossed it onto Zerra's torch. The powder ignited, spewing orange smoke, and Zerra raised the flame high.

"The fire is blessed with the seed of Ka'altei!" he announced. "The reptile will forever blaze in his halls of retribution."

Scales flowed across Laira's body.

Wings emerged from her back.

Fangs grew from her gums and her fingers lengthened into claws.

Fly!

As her body ballooned, the ropes dug into her growing ankles and wrists, cutting into flesh, and Laira yowled. If she kept growing, the ropes would sever her feet and hands.

I still must shift, she thought as Zerra approached. I still must fly, even without hands and feet. I—

The ropes dug deeper, and the agony overwhelmed her, knocking the magic from her grasp.

The scales, wings, and fangs vanished. She shrank into a woman again, hanging limply from the stake.

With a thin smile, Zerra tossed the torch onto the pyre.

The kindling caught fire, and heat bathed Laira, and she screamed. The flames raced up the pile of wood, branch by branch, heading toward her feet.

What do I do? Dragon stars, what do I do?

She screamed and tugged at her bonds again. She reached for her magic but no longer found it. The fire licked her toes and she screamed. Through the haze of smoke and crackling flame, she saw the tribesmen cheer. Behind them the rocs fluttered madly, snapping their beaks, awaiting their meal. Tears filled Laira's eyes. She could barely see through the heat, and the world swayed.

"Neiva!" she shouted and managed a high whistle. "Neiva, to me!"

The smoke blinded her and filled her mouth. The fire seared her feet.

"Neiva, please!"

She opened her eyes to slits. The smoke billowed. The flames blazed. Through the inferno, she saw wings flapping, talons reaching out, yellow eyes gleaming. She had ridden this animal only once, had bonded with Neiva for only a day, yet today she was her roc, bound to Laira with fire—and now her roc reached into the flames. Talons closed around the stake, tugging, lifting the bole out of the flaming pyre. Laira's feet rose from the blaze.