The Tysian Hazard-class adept lay unmoving, listening to his breathing rasp
unwilling to answer, to hope, or to even long for Niko’s presence. For that was
what the witch wanted, he finally realized. Not his magic Globe of Power, bound
with the most deadly protections years of fighting Roxane’s kind had taught
mages of lesser power to devise; not the Aske Ionian panoply without which,
should he somehow survive this evening, Randal would never sleep again because
that panoply was protection against such magics as Roxane’s sort could weave
about a simple Hazard-class enchanter. Not any of these did the witch crave, but
Niko-Niko back in Sanctuary, in the flesh.
And Randal, who loved Niko better than he loved himself, who revered Niko in his
heart with all the loyalty a rightman was sworn to give his left-side leader
even though Niko had formally dissolved their pairbond long before, would gladly
have given up his soul to Roxane right then and there to prevent a call going
out on ethereal waves to summon Niko into Roxane’s foul embrace.
He would have, if his mind had been able to control his fear. But it could not:
Roxane was fear’s drover, mistress of terror, the very fount from which the
death squads plaguing Sanctuary sprang.
She began to make arcane and convoluted passes with her red-nailed hands over
Randal’s immobilized body and Randal began to quake. His mouth dried up, his
heart beat fast, his pulse sought to rip right through his throat. Panicked, he
lost all sense of logic; unable to think, his mind was hers to mold and to