The shoulder was without substance. His hand felt cold and clammy air, nought else, passed through to touch the mat beneath.
She woke, looked at him with sad and pensive eyes. "Doth thee understand. Thou are not as we. We are but shadows, and thou art real. Waking, we can have semblance of reality. Sleeping, it fades. But touch me once more, for now I am."
Reluctantly he reached out for the hand she extended. Though cold, it was solid now as his own.
The sadness on her face disturbed him. Quietly he squeezed her hand, smiled. "There is much I don't understand. You have been kind to me. Still, I have a mission, and it must be done. I . . . "
The rattling of the door interrupted him. It started suddenly, grew in intensity. Mist moved to the far corner, dread on her face.
Demo frowned, took up his bow and notched an arrow. Slowly he drew the bow, waited.
The door held. In moments the rattling ceased. From without they heard a growl, followed then only by silence.
"Stay. Don't go out. He walks the street this night." Mist held his arm, eyes wide.
"Who is he? Why should I fear?"
"He is like you. He also comes from elsewhere. Yet, he is not like you. For you are kind. He destroys all he meets. And he is real, not shadow. When he came our world stopped. No longer do we move from the unreal to the real. We linger here in this shadow world, with no yesterday and no tomorrow."