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first place. That and its location deep in the Downunders where structures didn’t so much get built as they accreted, which was all the more reason to feel a pang of regret for what I was about to do to the place.
    I began to work my way around the periphery of the building. I moved as quickly as I could. But the necessity of dragging one sword tip to score a continuous line along the stone flags behind me made for slower going than I’d have liked. That gave the whatsis and its slightly smaller twin time to catch up to me before I’d quite finished inscribing my circle of protection. I was just speaking the word of closing and binding as I brought my scored line back to bite its own tail when they came at me from both sides.
    Even the fanciest of footwork only barely sufficed to get me clear as I took two running steps up the wall and then backflipped into a swords-tip cartwheel. The maneuver would likely have resulted in my breaking my idiot neck only a year or two before, and it certainly would have shattered the lesser swords I’d been wielding at the time. As it was, I barely held on through the shock of first one blade and then the other striking the hard flags tip first as I vaulted through the narrow gap between monsters. My hands and wrists felt like someone had struck them with hammers.
    As I raced out into the center of the warehouse, I sheathed my swords and extended my arms toward the ceiling. Triss whimpered in his sleep as I shot magefire from my palms—Shades and the element of fire make for a painful mix, but it was the only plan I had, and I was all out of time. In a matter of instants, the main trusses sprouted blossoms of red and gold and I closed my fists—quenching the fires of magic. The building was aflame, and soon it would be falling in on itself.
    Now I just had to get out. . . .

3

    T he flame that burns the bones. Call it bonfire if you like, or the older and more honest bonefire. Whatever name you give it, a burning skeleton holds a terrible beauty.
    Whether it belongs to a man or a building older than any mortal span, the result is much the same. All-devouring chaos claims another victim. From the outside it can be gorgeous, even cleansing. From the inside, all that matters is getting out.
    I had deliberately left the central pillar of the warehouse untouched when I called the magefires to my service. But, before I could even begin to mount that rough-cut length of timber, the whatsis and its likewise-evil twin were upon me again. There was no subtlety to their approach—a small mercy that brought them straight in from the front. I hadn’t the time to draw my swords again, nor, frankly, the inclination—they’d done me little enough good so far.
    Magic might have done me better service, but I am no Siri, nor even Faran. The finer points of spellwork have always eluded me. Beyond that, the same flames that I hoped would save me now circumscribed my shadow-centered magic as thoroughly as any chains or bars of irons would have prevented more ordinary means.
    So, I put my trust in luck and a good grip where another of my order might have chosen fancy bladework or a well-tempered spell, and simply leaped as high as I could up the pillar, wrapping arms and legs tight around its rough girth and hoping that it would be enough.
    The shock of impact as the paired monstrosities struck and shattered the bottom six feet of the pillar very nearly finished me. Aged oak a foot thick and iron hard though it was, the wood burst to flinders when the great beasts struck it. Slivers drove deep into ankles suddenly clutching air. The ceiling dropped a good yard, and me with it, leaving the remains of the pillar hanging from the cross braces above instead of supporting them.
    I had just enough time and presence of mind to shimmy up out of reach of my ungentle friends before they could strike again. This time, with no support left, the pillar merely lost a bit more of its end. Then I was up and away,