Pool of Twilight by James M. Ward, Anne K. Brown

into the world through a single spell were inextricably linked. She hadn’t realized how deep that nexus ran. Not that she felt like complaining.
    The fiends turned on each other, and in less than a minute all of them were dead. They’d torn each other to pieces trying to combat foes that didn’t really exist.
    “And some people think illusionists aren’t worth anything in battle,” Listle said with a sniff.
    The remaining black-armored warriors were quickly dispatched by the clerics. Disheartened by the grisly spectacle of the dying fiends and by the apparent desertion of their leader, Slayer, the last warriors did not put up much of a fight.
    But the threat was not over.
    “A foe in the temple!” came a shout from within. Recognizing the voice as Tarl’s, Kern and Listle rushed into the temple behind Anton and Rialad. Inside, they found the blind cleric guarding the table that held the magically warded Oracle of Strife and swinging his hammer at a foe only he could see. Two clerics lay dead before him, victims of the invisible enemy.
    “Show yourself, coward!” Tarl growled. “Your enchantments won’t hide you from me.”
    Suddenly a shadow form materialized before the white-haired cleric. It was the huge abishai, Slayer.
    “Out of my way, weakling cleric of Tyr,” the fiend snarled. “The Oracle is mine.”
    “On my honor, you are wrong on that count,” Sir Rialad cried, leaping forward. With a snarl, Slayer conjured a crimson ball of flame, hurling it at the brave paladin. It burst against Rialad’s breastplate, covering him with searing fire. Howling as his flesh began to singe and wither, Sir Rialad sank to his knees.
    Kern moved to counterattack, but a fierce look from Slayer stopped him in his tracks.
    “One step closer, and this fool cleric is the next to go up in flames.” The fiend was pointing a gleaming talon at Tarl. The white-haired cleric abruptly froze, unable to move, magically bound by chains no one could see.
    Kern halted, unsure what to do.
    “The Oracle is mine,” Slayer hissed, reaching out for the tome.
    “By Tyr, you will not have it!” a hoarse voice croaked.
    Sir Rialad, his flesh dark and cracked, lurched forward and fell onto the table, clutching The Oracle of Strife to his still-burning chest. Crimson fire licked at the ancient parchment, then flared, consuming book and paladin together in a gout of flame.
    Slayer screamed in outrage and spun around, only to be blocked by Kern’s hammer. The paladin-aspirant stood protectively in front of his father.
    “You’ve lost, fiend,” Kern growled, amazed at the steel he heard in his own voice.
    “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, cub!” the fiend shrieked, beating its leathery wings.
    “I don’t care who—or what—you are!” Kern shouted. For a moment he forgot that he was only a paladin-aspirant. With a fierce battle cry, he swung his hammer in a bone-crushing arc.
    The fiend reached out and grabbed the weapon, jerking Kern’s arms to a halt. The young man tried to yank the hammer free, but all his strength was nothing against the monster.
    “You think you have won, but you are mistaken, Hammerseeker,” the fiend hissed. “You have gained a little time, that is all. One day soon, my mistress will own you. Of that you can be certain.”
    Slayer’s hand glowed a blistering red. The head of Kern’s battlehammer shone white-hot in the fiend’s grip, then melted. Molten fire splashed against Kern’s gauntlets as he quickly dropped the hammer’s haft.
    The monstrous abishai spoke a guttural word of magic. There was a clap of thunder, and the fiend vanished in a cloud of thick, foul-smelling smoke. Gradually the acrid haze dissipated. The monster called Slayer was gone.
    “I don’t know, Kern,” Listle said wryly, “but something tells me you didn’t make any friends today.”

4
Perilous Summonings
    “Why, by all the bloodiest gods, must I always endure such fools around me?”
    A bolt of magic