Banishment, to the Phoenix, was building an escape route and pointing to it. Nothing that lived wanted to be trapped in an unwinnable fight. No one wanted to die. The Phoenix cast no spell. It did not even think of an array. It only lifted Walden’s right arm—her fingernails were glowing gold—and pointed; and where it pointed, a dark road seemed to appear in the fabric of the demonic plane, an obvious and unmistakeable path out of Walden’s—the Phoenix’s—solidly claimed territory.

Go, it said to the monstrous, deadly shape of the red-and-white minibus creature. Walden thought the words were more for her benefit than for the archdemon’s; it understood the Phoenix on a different and deeper level, the way a fox understood the cry of the hounds. No way to go on here. Turn back, try another life, be something else.

Before Walden’s eyes, the archdemon shrank. The steel-and-aluminium shape it longed to wear disintegrated into red mist. Underneath was something smaller, and more afraid, and—she could already tell—an order of magnitude less powerful. A sixth-order demon at most. The Phoenix turned Walden’s hand over and held it palm out. The gesture was not a command, but a magnanimous offer of mercy. The former archdemon fled along the dark road laid out by the Phoenix’s banishment, and Walden could already tell it would not be back.

And now we eat, the Phoenix finished—the final step of the lesson. The magic-siphoning spells on Walden’s other arm prickled briefly with heat. The ruddy mist left behind by the archdemon’s diminution faded, and she felt the warmth of new power settle into her bones.

It was over. Walden lowered her arm, rather shaken. The golden glow was already fading from her fingernails as the Phoenix resettled itself, sated.

“Mark?” she called. “Are you all right?”

“Over here!”

Mark had shielded himself, but the shield flickered out of existence as Walden got close. He’d peeled off his Barbour and there was a nasty, bloody gash through the expensive wool of his chunky jumper. His jaw was clenched tight with pain. “Oh my goodness,” Walden said, “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“Just a scratch,” said Mark, but his cheeriness had a taut edge to it. “That was a big bastard, wasn’t it? Sorry to be no use.”

Walden had a first aid qualification, though she didn’t use it often. “Let me see.”

Mark waved her away. “Really, it’s a scratch. Just needs disinfectant and a big plaster. Maybe a few stitches. I’ll get someone to drive me to A&E.”