must“Damn it, Frost, let me at the motherpricker before—”
The burning again. Frostflower spun, saw him touching beads to hot metal even as he stepped backward. But this time—only pain, no desire to obey him. She snatched, caught his right wrist.
He gave one terrified cry. Then, staring from her face to his own wrist, still tight in her grasp, he slowly relaxed. “You’re not Nimoro,” he whispered. “Can’t be. I’d be crisped by now.”
Well, they had found at least one sorceron in these mountains, though he called himself a Vigen, a maker of glass beads. Thorn was surprised that her friend accepted Halik the Vigen’s apologies so readily. The warrior was less charitable, informing him that he was lucky she hadn’t stopped to fit her spear together, but just gone for him with her sword.
While F
