Penthos’s face was that of a man caught at the edge of ecstasy or madness, or death. As his feats were so far beyond the human, so what he must feel in exercising those powers was surely no more suited to a human face than the desires of his creature Enth.

And at last Dion forced herself to look on Enth’s face, because to do otherwise would be cowardice, and a failure of her leadership.

His eyes boiled and flared with the energies that shone back from their depths. His mouth was a tight line, and she saw the muscles of his jaw clench and ripple asymmetrically. His hands were knotted fists, and every muscle she could see was taut and tensed beneath his gray hide. At any moment she thought he must fly at Penthos to break the spell, so fierce—so human—was the rage that roamed up and down his body. But the strictures held, and so he was stiff with fury and yet unable to vent it.

Can I feel sorry for him? What a time for such a thought, when the firestorm raged on every side! And yet, though she could not find a human being anywhere in that manlike frame, she felt a stab of sympathy nonetheless. Better to kill the creature and put it out of its misery. Better to turn their backs on what they had done. And yet those were the coward’s way too; nothing more than an abrogation of responsibility. She had caused this miserable monster to come into being. She must live with what she had done.

And then the fires were dying, ebbing, for all the force Penthos was still apparently cramming into their creation. Moments later, shockingly swiftly, they had guttered and died, as though the whole vast blaze had been nothing but a candle, magnified to outlandish size. They were left only with the faint bluish swirls of Penthos’s shield, and her own softly glowing disc.

The magician let out a long sigh, and Lief was already moving out, passing through the shimmering field with his spear ready. A moment later he staggered, eyes bulging, and dropped to one knee. His spear clattered away and his hands went to his chest. In a move swift as striking, Enth had snared him and yanked him back.

“Augh!” the thief gasped, choking. “The air’s poisoned!”

“Smoke,” said Harathes dismissively, although Dion could see precious little of it.

“It is not smoke,” Penthos intoned solemnly. “The wise know that there is that within the air that sustains life: remove it, and though there is air—and not poison air—no living thing can prosper within it. This same quality sustains the fire. When it is gone, so the flame perishes as any living thing. This shield you see about you is not to save you from the flames, but to save that part of the air that the flames would otherwise devour.”