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danced into the shadows. Darkness flickered across her pale eyes. In a heartbeat, she vanished, only to appear behind the mage-wight. She ran her rapier through its jaws.
    Let it cast without a mouth, she decided.
    The adventurers had almost turned the tide. They could not have destroyed so many wights by strength alone, but Taslin’s priestly powers, exhausted as they almost were, had taken their toll, and Davoren’s fire laid the wights to waste. The wights were slowly falling away, most to lie unmoving on the floor.
    Twilight even saw Slip doing her part, with just her little
    mace. A wight leaped on her, but she clubbed at it madly, taking out groin, fingers, and eye in quick succession. Twilight saw the wight she’d injured rushing at the distracted halfling, though, and angled a charge to intercept.
    In her rush, Twilight stared down the wight—fresher than its fellows—and she skidded to a halt. “A-Aran…” she stammered, frozen.
    It gave her a wicked, mad smile and hacked at Slip with a blood-smeared axe Twilight recognized all too well. “Dav-rin!” it hissed. “Dav-rin!”
    The halfling managed to elude the blow, but the wight ran right over her. Slip cried out and hit the ground. The creature lunged in, smashing Davoren to the floor. The warlock’s aim faltered and ruby energy burned a trail along the floor. He turned to face his fomer companion, now his attacker, and earned a trio of black gashes across the face. Davoren could do little more than sputter and curse as the wight pummeled him into the floor. If the deathly touch ate away his life-force, he made no sign, but blood sprayed.
    “No!” Twilight shouted.
    With the warlock down, the rest of the wights redoubled their efforts, battering at the defensive ring of adventurers like an angry sea against a fortress sculpted of sand. Without Davoren’s eldritch might to bolster them, the weakening warriors would fall.
    Twilight stared. The others were fully occupied with their struggles—none could save the warlock, if any had the motivation—and yet she stood frozen. She stared at the wight who would destroy them—that familiar auburn hair, that smeared axe…
    The other mage-wight, having apparently exhausted its spells, chose that moment to rush her. Liet jumped in the way, slashing at the beast, but it elbowed him aside, bearing down on its chosen foe.
    Only instinct saved her. Twilight met the wight with a high stop thrust—a defensive stab the creature slapped aside. She danced back, weaving, parrying its dagger-sharp claws. She didn’t
    care if it beat her defense. Without Davoren’s magic, they were dead anyway.
    And Arandon….
    Taslin knew they were lost. Her powers faded, and without the warlock, no matter how dangerous he was, they had no chance. They had been fools to follow Twilight’s lead—they believed such a child could keep them safe?
    Then Taslin heard a wheeze, and she knew what was happening. Asson—her weak Asson, though he had no spells or even a decent weapon—would save them. Perhaps he recognized the threat to them all if Davoren did not rise, perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps he felt compassion for the warlock.
    Whatever the reason, the wizened mage took his staff in both hands. He smashed the glowing crystal into the wight’s head as hard as his aged muscles could drive it. The hard oak did little damage, but the magelight seared the creature’s eyes. The wight flinched back from its battered prey and Taslin’s heart leaped.
    It lunged for Asson instead, jabbing dagger claws deep into his belly. With a sputter, the old mage crumpled, and so did Taslin’s heart. Corellon’s aura might keep his soul, but his body could die just as easily as any man’s. She watched, horrified, as the wight closed it jaws on his ankle, and he screamed.
    “Asson!” screamed Taslin. She tried to summon up Corellon’s power to smite the beast, but she felt not even a tingle. She had exhausted it all.
    Then the mighty Gargan spun and