Keleios woke instantly, staring up into the darkness, gasping for air. A scream, half-formed, died as she recognized her surroundings.

"Safe," she whispered, "safe, only a dream." Even as she said it, she knew better. The last had been very real. There was still something wrong. Her magic sense pulsed with the nearness of magic, and not her own. The tower room was bare of human magic. The thought came to her: if it wasn't in the room, there was one more place it could be.

Keleios pressed fingers to her chest and searched herself. A touch of magic was there, someone else's magic. There had been a spell tied to the phantasm like a tail on a kite. Fear slid down her spine like ice. Keleios had not known such a spell was possible. How could she protect herself against something she did not understand? Keleios forced herself to breathe past the fear.

"I am alive and sane. I conquered the phantasm. I am all right," Keleios whispered. She was not all right, and she knew it. The spell was dormant, but it was still there, and Keleios could not tell exactly what spell it was. She swallowed hard, and refused to be afraid. Fear would not help her now.

So there was a spell inside of her coiled like a snake, but she was alive and sane. She had her dream. Unlike most dreams this one would remain vivid, each retelling bringing the terror fresh and horrible. She had to tell someone. Already, the compulsion to share her prophecy was upon her. It would only grow worse.

She sat up in the narrow bed. The night breeze from the open window played coolly on her sweat-soaked body. The covers were drenched as if she had had fever in the night.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet dangled helplessly above the floor. There were good points and bad points to being half-elven. In most households she would have had no problem, but the Astranthians were a tall race.

Her clothes were wrinkled from the hours of sleep. Most dreamers wore gowns or bed shirts, but Keleios felt unprepared in nightclothes.

Most dream prophets strode the hallways, spouting prophecy to all who were near. Keleios appeared in rumpled men's clothing, quiet, waiting to tell only a select few. She was unimpressed with hysterical dreamers. Visionaries could sometimes be excused; the immediacy of vision was often too much even for the trained prophet. Visions did not stay with the prophet the way dreams did, but evaporated into wisps of sun-ruined fog. There was no excuse for lack of control in dreams.

She retrieved her boots from beside the bed and sat down to put them on. In another room was a five-year-old girl who dreamed. For such in age with such a talent there were excuses. Keleios frowned; there was something wrong. She should have been worried about Alys but couldn't think why.

She padded over the cool stone floor to the water-filled basin. She spoke, "Thanks be to Urle, god of prophecy, that I have pierced the veils once and seen that which is to be, that which has been and that which is now." She splashed the water on her face and arms. It fell in cool splendor down her chest. Keleios hesitated, feeling especially reluctant to finish the ritual tonight. "Thanks be to the Shadow Lady, god of evil dreams, that I have pierced the veils once and seen that which is to be, that which has been, and that which is now." She splashed more water upon herself and added as she turned away, "Even the shadows deserve their duty."

It was an ancient phrase used without meaning or magic in the world. In the tower, magic is different. There was a quiet surge, as if the stones drew a breath. The air was suddenly cool. A pleasing dampness touched her skin as if of unseen fog. Her pulse pounded in her throat, and she couldn't breathe the cool air.

Something was here, something beside the stinging shadow of prophecy and long-cast spells, something powerful.

A woman's voice entered the silence, a deep rich alto, not unpleasant. "Thanks be to the prophet who worships the shadows still."

Keleios tried to say, "I don't," but she could not speak.

Warmth began to creep into the room, and the unnatural dampness stole away. The spells of the tower resumed with a rush, a surge, that she could hear with the inner ear of magic. Keleios leaned against the table, suddenly weak. It was not easy to be brushed by the minion of a god. Even a dethroned god had her power.

Keleios drew in careful breaths of the dry, warm air. The smell of jasmine was still strong through the window. She stood away from the table, afraid. Keleios shook as if with fever, her breath coming in gasps. The Lady's messenger had been preventing her from thinking, and it had not even been a spell, only will and power. Shadow messengers were not that uncommon in unprotected towers. Until the symbol of law was placed upon the tower, many things could come and go. She had to spread the alarm before more monsters came.

Alys had been in the tower with a phantasm loose. What chance did a five-year-old have? How many others had been in the tower when it came?

The dream struggled with her fear. It tried to force itself upon her. She had to waste time in calming herself, fighting for control of the dream. If she started prophesying now, she would be useless for a time. There was no time for weakness.

Keleios listened to her own breathing, concentrating on the simple flow of her own body. When she opened her eyes, she was no longer trembling. The dream was contained, for now.

She opened the outer door, but the dream struggled beneath the calm. It was a calm not of placid waters but of carved steel.

The outer chamber was dark; the dying embers of the fire glowed, popped, and flared. The flash of light shone on Selene's hair, crow-wing black, and Melandra's upturned face. Selene was a journeyman herb-witch and card prophet. Neither girl stirred at her entrance. The prophet keepers had changed, perhaps many times tonight. Keleios stopped just in front of a ward sprinkled in a semi-circle before her door. It would not let her pass. The wards protected the prophet keepers from surprises from the dreaming rooms. It allowed them to get some sleep without having to set watches. Sometimes a prophet came out temporarily mad, without aid of a phantasm. Once they had only had sound wards but a journeyman dreamer killed one of the keepers and a ward of enclosure was added.

The prophecy spoke to her sorcery, her magic, and it whispered, "Cross the barrier. We are powerful, we will not be harmed."

Keleios knew the feeling of invincibility was a delusion. The power offered was real enough. Her left hand itched and burned, it too felt the power of dream. The palm of her hand was safely covered by stiff leather, the thongs that held it in place traced a webbing across the back of her hand to her wrist. It was a mark of power to some; to others, corruption; to Keleios, an unfortunate accident. The left reached for the ward. She clinched it into a fist and placed it rigid at her side. Most of the she could ignore it, but after dreaming, all power was magnified. Though she had once held the rank of master dreamer, her control was strained and leaked round the edges. Tiny sparks of magic flitted through the room.

She called to them, trying to swallow past the building power. Sorcery was the worst for a dreamer to have for it was so much easier to have accidents. Melandra woke first, rolling onto her side and blinking into the near-dark. She clutched a knit shawl across the shoulders of her brown dress. She scrambled to her feet, thick golden-brown hair floating in disarray over her scarred face. She was only thirteen and still had baby fat to lose. Her face was an old face, broken and battered. She was a Calthuian, and they outlawed magic there. So there had been no healer to fix the damage her father and mother inflicted. They had tried to beat the evil magic out of her. Magic will come out one way or another. She was an enchanter and worked in flour, sugar, and spices.

Selene was awake, brown eyes searching the dark, as if this wasn't where she expected to be when she woke up. She stood tall for a Zairdian noble, and slender. The square-cut bodice of her dress was covered in white lace that formed a frill around her neck, traced by black velvet. The only skin that showed was face and hands.

Melandra was already kneeling by the ward, having sensed Keleios' haste, but paused and looked up at the older girl. "Was it the sign of ending, or of infinity that allows safe passage?"

"Could you really trace a symbol of infinity in such a small space? I don't think I could."

Melandra shook her head and mumbled, "No, I suppose not."

The symbol of ending traced through the reddish powder and made the warding neutral until the symbol was wiped away. Keleios stepped over the line, careful not to smudge it. A shudder ran down her spine.

Selene asked, "Are you all right?"

"No, there was a phantasm in the tower tonight."

Both girls gasped. Melandra said, "Keleios, how?"

"There's no time. Is anyone else in the tower besides myself?" She prayed that Alys had gone long ago.

"The child Alys is still here." Selene paled. "Oh, Keleios, do you think?"

"Melandra, go find a healer, preferably a white-robed."

The girl nodded and was gone, running down the stairs. A tic had begun just under Keleios' right eye, a sign of stress. The dream tugged at her to be gone; no time, it cried, no time. Her back rippled, and she covered her face with her hands. "I control my powers; they do not control me." When she felt steady once more, she put down her hands.

"Keleios, you are too full of dream tonight."

"If she isn't already gone, time is precious. Open the ward to me."

Selene did as she was told even though as a fellow journeyman she could have argued. Keleios stepped in front of the child's room and paused with her hand upon the doorknob. She gathered her will one last time. There was no way to tell what sort of power lurked in the room. The visit from the Shadow messenger was still vivid and close. Evil was abroad tonight, and if one spell could enter the tower, there could be others.

She pushed the door forward, fighting an urge to use magic on it. She was constantly urging the apprentice sorcerers not to use their power on trivialities like opening doors.

The room was as dark as her own had been. The furniture was the same. Almost lost in a full-size bed, a small figure tossed, crying out, one tiny hand flung upward as if avoiding a blow.

Keleios hurried to her side. The wavy froth of pale brown hair was plastered darkly to Alys' head. The child murmured words in her sleep, words she couldn't know, ancient phrases of great power. She was fighting with magic she did not yet possess, in a battle fought long ago.

The phantasm had not gotten her. Alys had hidden herself in one of the tower's dreams. It had taken great talent for that. Now she was trapped. The important question was: How long had she been like this? How long had she been fighting to break free? If it were too long, it could be fatal.

Keleios sat upon the bed and grabbed the flailing hands, her own delicate hands encircling the tiny fists. She spoke quietly at first. "Alys, Alys, can you hear me?"

The child whimpered and called out, "Keleios! Keleios, help me, save me!"

"Wake up, Alys, it is a dream. Awake!"

The child struggled, the effort showing on face and flowing in tension through her hands. She was trying, but something was holding her. It took only a moment to find the twist of spell on the child, not a full binding, not even active. It was not holding her to the dream yet, but it was there.

Where were all the Verm-cursed spells coming from?

Keleios dragged the child into her arms and shuddered, holding the girl to her. There was too much power tonight. She was going to have to use sorcery, but an awakening spell was simple enough. She calmed herself and held tightly to her straining power. Too much, and she would wake all the sleepers in the keep. "Awake, Awake!"

Alys moved fitfully in her sleep but did not obey.

"Loth's blood, I'm going to have to enter her mind."

The small body writhed in her arms as if trying to escape, but her struggles were not much. She was tired and losing the battle. If she should give up or die in the dream, unable to break it . . .

"Selene!"

The girl rushed through the door, questions ready, but there was no time.

"Sit on the bed." Selene did as she was told, staring at the thrashing form of the child. Keleios shoved the unresisting girl into Selene's arms. "Hold her tightly." Even as they watched, the struggles grew less. She was shivering, limbs twitching, skin cooling.

Selene said, "Keleios, you aren't going to enter her mind? It isn't your best spell."

"There is no time for anyone else to come. May Zardok guide my power this night, but we're out of time."

Keleios pressed her fingertips against Alys' skull. Sorcery came to her, neck-ruffling, stomach-tightening power. She concentrated and held back. Lightly, lightly, or you shatter the mind you probe.

She entered Alys' mind, the child's thoughts tumbling round but through all was fear. Keleios called quietly, "Alys, do you hear me?"

A soft sobbing came from far away. "Keleios, help me."

"Show me the dream, Alys."

A touch, a butterfly's wing of power, and she entered. The world was the chaos of battle, weapons ringing, magic blazing. Keleios knew this dream. It was the battle of Ohi-elle. The shorter blond natives fought mostly with weapons. The conquering Astranthians used both. A fireball threw the field into high relief, screams. It was twilight; the old gods would soon be released. She had to find Alys before that. She stood perfectly still, only her eyes searching for the child. As she didn't draw attention to herself, no one noticed her. Alys must have interfered somehow.

Then in the distance over a litter of bodies was a small shape in a white nightgown, valiantly defending herself with sorcerous powers that she never outside of dream.

Keleios started forward slowly. She was a ghost that the screaming figures fell through; she was mist until she chose to act. So she waited until she could be close enough to grab Alys.

Dusk fell and with it the gods of the natives. They rushed onto the battlefield, shrieking and throwing magic to match the invaders. A horned devil at least seven feet high approached Alys. The sword that he wielded shone magic to Keleios' eyes. She hurried forward, tripping on a body that hung spitted on a broken spear. Keleios paused, willing the panic to pass. If she lost control, she would be caught in the fighting and never reach the child in time. She went, carefully holding herself in. The creature approached the child faster. Keleios was almost there, just a few feet. She could clasp Alys to her and they would disappear to the sight of the dream beings. The sword the thing carried was powerful, shattering the bolts of energy Alys threw at it.

Keleios could almost reach out and touch her when the sword came crashing downward, and there was no time left.

The twist of spell inside Keleios flared to life. Real, it said; pain, it said. If she hesitated, Alys would die; if she went forward, they might both die, or not. Keleios took the 'or not' and flung herself forward, suddenly appearing to the demon. The blow was heavy and he couldn't change course. Though it was only a dream, Keleios screamed as the blade broke her collarbone. The spell forced her to stay for the pain. She screamed and lashed outward with power. She released a burst to the thread that bound her to this dream as surely as it bound Alys. As she lay there, impossibly still alive in the dream, she saw the grey threads going up into the sky, "I am not bleeding," she told herself. "This is only a dream." Her heart pumped frantically, wounded by the sword. Shrill piercing screams came from just behind her. Alys of course, poor child. Keleios drew power, all that she could find. Reaching outward and inward, she blasted the threads. The threads in the sky shriveled as with fire. The dream broke.

Keleios knew darkness for a time, the sort her night vision did not touch. Velvety soft it was, and comforting. Tired, she was tired, but something nagged at her, pulled at her. Magic seeping through her mind, someone else's magic. She lashed out at the touch, and it broke abruptly. There were other things to do besides floating in the dark. Alys had to be found and helped. Yes, helped. "Help me, Keleios, help me." And there was the dream, that urgent awful dream that needed telling.

Keleios opened her eyes to look at Bertog, the journeyman healer. There was a tightness about her blue eyes and Keleios knew where that second burst of magic had come from. The healer had used a deep probe to waken her, and Keleios had harmed Bertog. She tried to speak, but a hoarse rasp was all that would come.

Bertog spoke carefully, hurting. "Don't try to talk or move, Journeyman Keleios. You are now out of immediate danger, and Selene has gone to fetch a full healer."

Keleios made a protesting sound.

The girl sat very stiff, every inch an Astranthian noble. The yellow silk of her dress was almost the same color as her hair. "I met Selene in the hall. I came up to see what I could do."

Keleios reached up to grab the healer's flowing sleeve, but her hand would not do it. There was a fading pain from her left shoulder to the middle of her back. It was an angle of dull throbbing.

Bertog went on as if reluctant to have Keleios speak, "Alys is fine. She is asleep, an exhausted one. I have studied dream sickness thoroughly. She will sleep for hours, not dreaming, except the dreams that normal little girls have."

Keleios had her voice. "Correct," She coughed to clear the hoarseness from it and tried to remember why she couldn't speak easily. A glint of silver as the sword descended -- yes, it had been something of a neck cut. Throat wounds sometimes affected the speech. She remembered the threads tying them to the dream.

Having come so near death, Keleios would have spoken to Bertog about the spells and the phantasm, but she distrusted the healer. The healer's vows prevented her from harming anyone, but she could still bear secrets. For a white healer the girl spent entirely too much time associating with the followers of Mother Bane. The door swung inward.

Jodda, in the shapeless white robe of a full healer, came, and a breath of healing came with her. Her black hair was a rich length against the snowy cloth. Her blue eyes were concerned, her face professionally blank but pleasant. Behind her was Belor the Dreammaker.

His blue eyes were clouded with sleep or magic. He was short, broad-shouldered, yellow-haired. A firm, square jaw saved his face from being soft and boyish. He wore a pair of baggy trousers stuffed into over-the-knee boots. A blue tunic gaped open and beltless over his bare chest. The tunic and trousers did not match. Belor's illusions were the envy of the rest. Even the school's High-master illusionist was learning from them.

Only Belor and Keleios suspected the source of his gift: demonmark, demon magic that flowed through their veins. As her hand behind its leather prison, so with his inborn magic -- contaminated.

His eyes searched hers now, and a glance was enough between them. She was all right. His fear lessened.

Melandra came last, quietly, head hung low so her hair would hide her face. She had a girl's crush on Belor, but she thought herself hideous and so was awkward in the role.

Jodda traced a red line from Keleios' left shoulder near the neck, to disappear into the cloth of the tunic she wore. "You got this in a dream?"

Keleios managed a yes.

The healer's face cleared, becoming clean of all emotion. Jodda spread her hands, palms down, at the beginning and the end of the wound. Warmth spread from her hands to Keleios, then Jodda began to jerk and thrash, never loosing contact with the body of her patient. A breath-stealing scream reverberated through the tower room, and a crimson slash spread slowly across the white robe. The throbbing pain left Keleios. Jodda drew back to sit cross-legged in deep meditation. Only for severe wounds did a white healer need trance afterwards. Keleios wondered how bad the internal damage had been, or if it were more a wound of the soul.

"Someday, I will do that," Bertog said quietly.

Keleios looked at the girl in her fashionable silk dress. The sleeves were tapered and flowing nearly to the floor. Jewels decorated the belt that wrapped her waist. The yellow hair was coiled and wrapped by gold thread. Many of the journeyman healers copied their masters and wore shapeless robes of pale blue. When they became full healers, blue would be exchanged for white. Bertog would not look nearly as fetching in the baggy healer's robes. Keleios smiled; it was a cheering thought.

Belor knelt on the other side of Keleios. "What went wrong?''

She spoke softly for his ears alone. "A phantasm and a spell of binding."

His whisper was a hiss of shock. "Phantasm -- but how? And a spell in the tower, how?" She struggled up on her elbows; Belor moved to help.

"I'm all right." She could see Alys now, curled against the far wall. "Someone here opened the tower. The symbol of law is no longer protecting this tower. It must be replaced before other monsters come in."

Jodda shooed Belor away and began exploring her patient with firm professional hands.

Keleios called Melandra to her. "Melandra, I need a favor."

"Of course." She knelt close, keeping her thick hair like a veil on the side near Belor.

Jodda told her, "Please stop talking so I can examine you."

"Jodda, the tower has to be closed to the night seekers. I think all the sorcerers below journeyman should be checked. Let me send Melandra to waken the dorm mother and father and alert one of the master sorcerers so they can close the tower. I will be quiet after that."

"The tower being opened I understand, but what is wrong with the sorcerers?" Jodda asked.

"When I was trying to free Alys, after I was hurt, I reached outward for power. I fear that I used the power of at least one other sorcerer without their consent."

Bertog said, "That is evil sorcery."

"It was not done on purpose, but out of lack of control."

Jodda said, "Very well. Bertog, go with the apprentice in case there is need of healing."

"No," Keleios said. "I hurt her accidentally when she entered my mind to heal."

"Come here, Bertog." The girl stepped forward hesitantly. Jodda touched her body and closed her eyes for a moment. "You certainly did. Go to your room and rest; heal thyself. Melandra, get Feldspar the healer. Do you know him on sight?" The girl nodded. "Good. Now go."

The girl bowed to Master Jodda and ran out. Selene entered breathlessly. "Healer, we need you downstairs."

"What is it this time?"

"Master Fidelis -- she was found unconscious. Apparently, something went wrong in the middle of a spell."

Jodda rose. "I am not through with you, Keleios, so rest." She turned warning eyes to Belor. "I am charging you with seeing that she rests and does herself no more injury tonight."

He half-bowed. "As you say, healer."

"I can't rest yet, Jodda. My prophecy cannot wait until tomorrow."

Jodda's eyes were angry, almost black. "Why do I heal you? You abuse yourself constantly. Go prophesy, but I will not heal you if you collapse tonight. It will do you good to be bedridden for a day or two."

She turned with a swish of skirts and scooped up Alys. "The child's injury is one of the mind and will take longer. She will likely sleep tomorrow away, or rather today."

Keleios said quietly, "I had to enter her mind to free her from the dream. Did I harm her? When I fought to free us, I was still inside her mind, calling on sorcery."

"She is injured, Keleios, but she will heal. You did no permanent damage. You saved her life. If she had died while in dream, the tower would have taken her soul. There would have been no chance of resurrection."

"You will come get me when she wakens."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, I will come get you. Alys will probably need to see you, alive and whole. Try to stay that way until she wakens."

Keleios smiled. "I'll do my best."

Jodda departed, her skirts whispering on the stones. The light from the single lamp flickered in a breeze that began inside the room. Keleios spoke quietly so her voice would not echo in the room. "How did you come to be here?"

"The sound of running woke me. Selene told me only that you had been hurt and were in the tower," Belor said.

"So you came to rescue me."

"To guard your back. You'd do the same for me."

"True." She stood, feeling a lingering stiffness that would pass. The shadows seemed to thicken. The lamp's flame streamed in the growing wind.

Belor searched the room uneasily. "What is that?"

"Wind. Let us leave the tower to itself." Keleios picked up her pouch from its spot near the wall. She slipped the throwing daggers into their sheaths. The golden bracers slipped on her forearms; the strength spell glimmered through them. She felt better already.

The ring of protection was last. She tied the leather pouch to her belt.

She walked through the door and he followed.

"What about the lamp?" As he asked, the flame vanished, giving the room to the dark. He stood a moment with the wind ruffling his hair until Keleios laid a hand on his arm and drew him out.

The fire in the outer room had faded to a sullen blue glow.

He asked again, "What is that?"

She walked towards the stairs. "The tower wishes to be left alone, Belor. Let us give it what it wants."

He followed with many backward glances. She stood impatiently, watching him back up. The hilt of his long sword peeked through hair and tunic collar. He had fastened it bare across his chest and waist.

"Belor, we must leave now."

He came to her, and they entered the close walls of the stairway. Its small narrow steps and too-close walls seemed worse tonight. They pressed with a great weight that Keleios had never noticed before.

"You could have dressed before you strapped on your sword, Belor."

"Oriona is lucky I threw on pants, boots, and tunic," He continued in a near perfect imitation of the girl's dorm keeper. "You be running around half-naked to the world, in front of my girls."

Keleios laughed, "You've been practicing."

The stones caught their laughter and intensified it until the narrow stair seemed to be laughing back. Belor's grin faded. He shrugged. "News of you hurt means little time to dress and the need of a sword."

"Your sword could not have helped me tonight, Belor."

The stair continued its winding without aid of walls. The air seemed cooler and welcome. "But Luckweaver could have helped you."

"Enchanted items are not allowed in the tower," The tower's shell ended in four archways leading to the points of the earth. Through each arch the library's books glimmered, jewels spilled in the darkness.

Keleios found herself drawn to the books. She wanted to caress each glowing binding and each dark one, too. But even the nonmagic books deserved to be saved; the three-volume herbal, though not magic itself, was one of a kind. "So much knowledge, and it must burn."

"Keleios, what do you mean, 'It must burn'?"

She turned to him in the dark and continued talking, as if their first conversation had not stopped. "I know you are concerned. But a phantasm cannot be fought with a sword."

Keleios walked through the south arch. Belor followed. "Do you have any idea of whose magic it was?"

"The spell of binding was herb-witchery. And it was powerful. Only two people in this keep could do it: Poula and Fidelis. Poula would not do it, but Fidelis would. She worships Mother Bane and the Shadow Lady. But I have no proof to take before council."

"There are other ways to handle such things."

"Why, Belor, you've gone bloodthirsty on me."

He grinned. "I've been around you too many years. You've taken a law-abiding illusionist and made him into a warrior." His smile faded. "I don't believe in killing when are other answers. But Fidelis has no scruples. Waiting for proof to take council could get you killed. Keleios, you aren't listening to me. Why are you are touching the books?"

She turned, surprised. "I am, aren't I? Belor, if there is anything in here you value, take it, save it."

"From what?"

"My prophecy."

"Keleios?"

She laughed. She felt so strange, exhilarated, as if dream and vision were combining, yet she was conscious, "No, Belor, I am not in trance, but my dream will not leave me tonight. The keep will fall, and everything in it be lost. The strength of the prophecy is tugging at me tonight." She took the black pouch off her belt and opened it. It too shimmered softly to the enchanter's eye. She dumped out the spell paraphernalia. Enchantments Incredible vanished into it, as did the three-volume herbal. She paused at The Great Book, her fingers tracing its runes. "No, you must remain, but you will not burn. Relic that you will be, it is not my hand that will save you."

She chose a thick volume of peasant folktales, the only one of its kind for Astranthian peasants. Much of the culture that had bred them was now gone. "If you could choose only one book to save, what would it be?"

It was so hopeless, so very many books and so little room or time. Belor chose the Book of Illusions; it pulsed pink-white under his arm. As befit a book of that name it appeared to change in size and color, even texture -- one minute fine leather, the next coarse leaves. He handed it to her without a word, and she stuffed it into the impossibly small opening.

"How do you know which books to take?"

"I see them through a film of flame. The ones I take do not burn. And there is a feeling of rightness," She shivered. "I must speak soon; the dream builds," She turned abruptly, and he followed. "No, Belor, I need to finish this walk alone."

"Why?"

"Don't question me!" The prophetic vision swirled before her eyes. The library was afire; smoke formed a haze that rose toward the ceiling, explosions as the magic books caught and burned. A vision snatching her down. Keleios screamed at him over the roaring in her ears, "Get out! Get out! Leave me!"

He would not go. She drove him back with flame and fear, her vision nearly complete. She could not guarantee his safety once she was taken. When he was safely away, Keleios gave herself to the vision. Impossibly, a thin strand of spell wrapped round her, like an anchoring rope.

There was no time to fight it; the immediacy of the vision was too real.

Flames licked up the walls, the books crumpling, flaring, the shelves blackening. She stood in the burning rubble, which was not there, and screamed, "Fire!"

Embers were like stinging wasps on her hair and skin. She shrieked, "Burning, burning!" until her throat went dry.

A voice called to her through the flames, a voice shouting her name.