She was amazed at how readily she embraced the fact, how clearly she recognized it. She should have been fighting against it, struggling to break free of its grip. She knew that the Elves might be in terrible danger from the second demon and have need of her. She knew that if she continued to lie there, to fail to rise and go on, she would be unable to help them. But a deep and pervasive lethargy gripped her, discouraging resistance to its immense weight, leaving her content merely to lie there and accept the dark hands reaching out to gather her in.

She saw the cloaked figure in her dream anew, the one the ghost of Johnny had taken her to meet. Death was waiting patiently for her to come, and now she was almost there. She thought again of the four-legged horror that had brought her to this, a thing of chameleon shapes, first a woman with spiky blond hair and finally a monstrous cat, but always a demon with an insatiable need to destroy her. Which now, it seemed, it had.

She was tired. She was so tired.

She could feel the tears gather at the corners of her eyes, then trickle down and freeze on her face. Her hand gripped the carved surface of her black staff, but she could feel no life in it. The warmth that marked its magic was gone and the runes that signaled its readiness, dark and unresponsive. What should she do? She could continue to crawl forward through the snow, searching for the ice caves and shelter. But she had no idea where they were, and in the darkness there was nothing to show her the way. Her wounds from the battle had drained her of energy and strength, of willpower and purpose. It all felt so hopeless. She knew it was wrong to feel this way, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. The dream, she thought suddenly, had been a premonition of what was coming. She was going to meet Johnny. She was going to where he waited for her, away from this world, away from the madness.

¿Tienes frío, Angel? she heard him asking from the darkness. Are you cold? ¿Tienes miedo de morirte? Are you afraid of dying?

“ Estoy muy cansado, ” she whispered. So tired.

She would go to him. She would let go of what held her tethered to this world, to her hopes and plans and sense of obligation to the Word and its order. She had done what she could, and she could do no more.