For a few seconds, the pressure built in Bernt’s head so much that he saw spots in his vision. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. The pain disappeared with it, as if it had never been and the sand that had felt as though it were cooking his face just a moment before now felt nothing so much as pleasantly warm.

  Something was moving inside his body, tickling uncomfortably as it progressed downward from the crown of his head.

  Bernt shuddered at the odd sensation, realizing only after a few seconds that he could sense mana moving through the affected areas. It was the elemental’s investiture, and it was pushing its way into his spirit.

  The complex mess of channels had stretched through his arm, up through his neck and latched onto a broken channel in his head. The alien investiture slowly unraveled from there, connecting to the ragged edges where his mana network had been torn apart. Each time a connection was made, a part of the new investiture melted into Bernt’s spirit, creating the odd sensation that had drawn his attention.

  Every time this happened, entire sections of alien-looking runes near the points of contact would unravel before splitting and branching over and over as they wormed deeper and deeper into Bernt’s flesh and organs, reaching across to his left side without forming any additional connections to his normal mana network. His instincts screamed at him to try to push the invading power out, but he ruthlessly suppressed the urge. A moment ago, he was as good as dead. He’d seen one chance to save himself, and now he was committed. Even if he could remove it, he would be crippled, unable to cast. He would die, either to the heat or to the demons.

  Eyes blinking open, Bernt saw the hellhound approach through the searing heat. It wasn’t hurrying, which suggested that it didn’t think there was going to be a fight. They thought he was dead already.

  That should be an advantage, but whatever the elemental’s power was doing to him, it wasn’t doing it quickly enough. The annoying tickling sensation was traveling down his body, but it had only just passed below his navel. New channels were digging into his guts there now, forming a dense web. But the hellhound would be on him in a few seconds.

  He didn’t know what the elemental had done, exactly, or what it would mean for his spellcasting. But he could sense the mana moving through him, and he could physically feel it pouring through his sorcerous channels – both those in his arm, and the new ones that were still unfolding side him. The mana network’s system wasn’t properly closed yet, but still, his mana flowed. That shouldn’t have worked, but Bernt wasn’t in a position to analyze it now.

  Carefully, he let his eyes close again, tried to ignore the annoying sensations and began to visualize the spellform for banefire. He needed to buy as much time as he could for his spirit to finish whatever it was doing. As an afterthought, he tried to activate his belt, only to find that he couldn’t – something was wrong with it.

  The soft crunching of sand under demonic paws reached his ears as the hellhound reached him. The tickling sensation had only reached his knee – he wasn’t ready, but it would have to do. Gritting his teeth, he opened his eyes and swung his arm around, blasting a bolt of banefire directly into the hound’s face.

  At least, that was what he tried to do.

  The spell came out nearly transparent, sorely underpowered – but it still struck the thing in the face. It reeled back with a very un-doglike hiss and shook its head back and forth as if trying to fling the fire off. A voice called out, and Bernt felt the warlock’s attack on his mind almost like someone physically scratching at directly on his brain. He flinched back, horrified, but the magic didn’t take. His eyes locked on the possessed Duergar, who narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

  Just then, something hit Bernt in the back so hard that he ended up right back down on the ground. He gasped and pain stabbed through his chest. What was that? A soft hiss sounded and an arrow whizzed by, flying through the spot where he’d just been.

  They had archers? Had he been shot?

  He rolled over and raised his head, looking for the attackers to find the two cultists he’d seen skirting around the confluence earlier. One of them was holding a bow, knocking another arrow, while the other spun what looked like a bit of rope in his hand. Was that a sling? Who still used slings?

  Cursing to himself, Bernt scrambled up as he cast a force shield in front of himself. It was slow, but attacking would be worse. He couldn’t hit both of them at the same time, so striking one would expose him to the other without a proper defense. As the force barrier materialized in front of him, Bernt spared a glance for the warlock, who barked a few words in a foreign language to his goons.

  They spread out hesitantly around the depression that surrounded the confluence. They looked like a sorry lot, armed with rusty spears and knives, and the occasional bit of armor, but there were quite a few of them – ten, he guessed at a glance. None of them looked eager to take a run at him, but Bernt remembered the dwarf from his first encounter earlier. He needed to be careful.

  Distracted by the enemies moving all around Bernt almost forgot about the hellhound, whose hisses had turned to screaming yowls as the cold fire ate away its face. It still threw itself from side to side, its eyes now nothing but empty pits surrounded by bubbling skin.

  The weak spell didn’t have the intensity to kill the demon outright, but he’d cast it through his sorcerous investiture, giving it the properties of his perpetual flame. Whatever the elemental had done, that still worked exactly as it should. It would continue to burn until he extinguished it, which meant the hellhound was as good as dead.

  A stone struck the shield with incredible force, pushing through it to plop listlessly against Bernt’s armored robe. The barrier was weak compared to what a skilled force mage like Therion could do, but it worked well enough to rob the projectile of most of its momentum. That slinger really did have terrifyingly good aim, though. An arrow followed, but missed even more widely than the one before it – not even striking the shield.

  He needed to do something quickly. The confluence provided him with some protection, but the other cultists were picking up rocks to throw at him. Unable to think of an immediate solution, he cast another force shield, curving it to connect to the other one protecting himself from all sides. Rocks began to pelt it almost immediately, though these just bounced off, not carrying nearly the same kind of force as those of the slinger.

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  Bernt flinched as the damned warlock called out again, resulting in the same, horrible sensation in his head, but he still didn't lose track of his thoughts. He suppressed an irrational giggle as he looked all around. He was going to be stoned to death by a mob. Like an evil warlock in a children’s story.

  Just as he had the thought, fire engulfed him from the side. Bernt flinched back, instinctively certain that he was about to die, only to realize that nothing was happening. The flames reeked of sulfur, but they passed over his skin like a warm breeze. The hellhound’s still-burning and now half consumed head swept back and forth as hellfire spewed out of its mouth like a dragon. Then something popped with a small wet sound in its head and it collapsed.

  Bernt looked down at the creature in surprise. How had it learned to breathe hellfire? Could Jori learn to do that? And how was he fine?

  He’d been hit with hellfire and felt nothing.

  He coughed out a laugh that quickly transitioned into a chuckle – an expression of pure relief more than humor. Fire couldn’t touch him. The chuckle turned into a shout as more rocks hit his force shields, and finally a roar of rage.

  These people had followed a demon over the mountains. They’d hunted through the Phoenix Reaches to find him, and now they were throwing rocks at him like a pack of angry villagers. And for what? What could that warlock or his masters have possibly promised them for this?

  Bernt lobbed a fireball high over his force shield, aiming for the slinger. He noted absently that the flames looked different than he was used to. It was still mostly white with an unnatural liquid appearance, but the edges were now tinged with flickers of yellow and orange. His target had plenty of time to dodge, but he didn’t care. He was already casting again. As the spell splashed down on the rocks, Bernt cast a basic control fire cantrip and sent the everburning flames careening sideways directly into his target. A second later, he tore them away again, striking the archer, who was already running.

  He didn’t have much time before his first force shield would run out of mana and collapse, so he kept the fireball moving, striking one cultist after another. They started to run when they realized what was happening, but he didn’t stop. Shaped properly, the bolt of flame could vaporize flesh in a small area, killing quickly as long as he hit vital areas.

  He did his best, but gasping screams still rang from those where he failed. He couldn't quite muster pity for them, but he'd go back to put them out of their misery later.

  ***

  Six of Zijeregh’s cultists went down before she admitted to herself that this wasn’t going to work. She released their wills from her control, allowing the survivors to break and run.

  She’d thought it was already done, but the mortal had only been playing dead. He had shaken off her compulsion, somehow.

  All in all, this whole thing was turning out to be a disaster.

  It had been a mistake to rely on mortals and thralls. Her hellhound was already gone, and Aelos and the imp were still missing – they had never returned from their reconnaissance, slowing down her progress and dragging this entire operation out. She didn't know if they'd died of incompetence or if they were traitors, but they would feel her wrath either way.

  Still, it was just a single mortal. She might be trapped in a frail and painfully limiting mortal vessel, but so was he. And now that she'd let go of her thralls, he could receive her full attention.

  As the flames leapt toward her, Zijeregh spoke, reaching out with her voice to seize the will of her prey once more.

  “Calm yourself,” she said, adopting a soothing tone. “Do not resist the inevitable, and do as all mortals must. Lie down and die.”

  The specific words didn’t really matter so much as the force of her will and the intent behind her voice, but Zijeregh still preferred to instruct her prey. It just felt right.

  The spell unraveled and the flames splashed down on the ground nearby, as expected. The human, though, didn’t drop to the ground as he should have. His eyes locked on her with an expression of intense concentration. Light flickered out from behind the right one.

  She took a step back, narrowing her eyes. Something was wrong, here.

  A moment later, he advanced toward her again, raising a hand as if to cast another spell. This was not supposed to happen. Zijeregh could barely remember a time when even other demons could resist her call. This mortal's heart should have stopped the moment she commanded it.

  Zijeregh backed up to create a little more distance and tried again, willing the fool's mind to bend. “It is useless. Why try? Just lie down in the sand.”

  The human stopped once again, looking at his own raised hand as if wondering what to do with it. No fire materialized, but then he drifted forward again as if in a dream. He was resistant, somehow. That shouldn’t have been possible. A mortal was a mortal. Their souls were hers.

  She clenched her vessel's jaw in irritation. Very well. She could crush this sniveling creature in seconds, with or without magic. Zijeregh reached for her dagger, wishing once more that she was here in her own body and continued to speak to the mortal, wearing down his will. It would be like cutting a trussed sheep's throat.

  ***

  Bernt saw the feral grin spread across the Warlock’s face as he advanced on him slowly, dragging his feet as if he couldn't quite remember how to walk. He knew he wasn’t much of a fighter – even less so without his belt, and he could feel his blackened boots crumbling off his feet – but he had to try something. Casting a real spell was totally out of the question. The creature's constant talking made it difficult to move or even think properly, but he could move.

  The possessed Duergar drew a long dagger and dropped into what looked like a practiced stance, speaking at him in its strange language the whole while. The magic scrabbled irritatingly at his mind. If he actually tried to fight this warlock, he was going to get gutted.

  Fortunately, that hadn’t been his plan – what little of one he could think to put together given the circumstances. He just had to make sure the damned creature would be too close to dodge this time.

  Just as the warlock began to move, lunging toward him, Bernt poured mana into his palm unshaped and flung it down at the Duergar as hard as he could. Manaburn wasn’t as good against demons as banefire, but it should do perfectly against a possessed warlock. They had mana networks, after all – spirits that he should be able to ignite.

  What struck the enemy warlock, though, wasn’t the liquid white fire that he was familiar with. The torrent of mostly natural-looking flames that tore from his body was fuelled by far more mana than he intended, and the spell pulled strangely at his spirit as it left his hand. It washed over the hapless dwarf, engulfing him entirely before surging high and swirling to form a pillar, like a miniature tornado of death.

  The dwarf hadn't made a sound.

  In stunned confusion, Bernt stared at the man-sized firestorm in front of him. He could feel it in his mind, a separate rudimentary sort of will, still echoing with the intent and the state of mind he’d been in when he cast it. It wasn’t truly separate from him – no more than the mana that he’d used to cast it.

  Bernt’s mana network felt… thin. It wasn’t strained, as it had been when he’d overused it months earlier, but it was weaker. He was weaker. In a flash of intuition Bernt understood what must have happened. He – or the new parts of his mana network – had somehow infused part of his spirit into his spell. It contained a portion of his magical potential, and his will had gone with it.

  Unwilling to test just how long this effect might last before it decided to wander off without him, Bernt tried to mentally command the… spell? Elemental?... to return to him.

  Nothing happened.

  Carefully, he approached the odd spell creature and, when he didn’t sense any changes from its mind, extended a hand to touch it. As soon as he did, it lost cohesion and its mana dispersed into the environment as the missing bit of his soul simply dissolved back into his mana network, strengthening it again in the space of a few seconds.

  Where the enemy warlock had been, nothing but a light dusting of ash remained.