“Fyjjyx would have let her die,” the naj said then.
Liselle watched, half-mesmerized by horror and suspense, as The Rogue’s temper surpassed its boiling point. His aura flared pure red, then sprouted a blackened tentacle of power. That tentacle snaked into a hole in time and space; and when it returned an instant later, it flung another not-shadow at the sorcerer’s feet. The creature grovelled before him like a dog who knew it was about to be beaten.
“Master?” it whined. “How may I serve you?”
“You could have cost me a world,” Malcolm replied, in an executioner’s fell monotone. “I have no further use of you.”
“But—”
The sorcerer began to spit out an incantation. Liselle didn’t recognize any of the words, but their inborn foulness burned her spectral ears just the same. Then, as she lo
