She stood waiting for him atop a high bare hill. Her cloak was drawn tightly about her slender body, but the wind caught at it, whipped and tore it. Her rain-wet hair blew wild.
"Corun," she called under the gale. "Corun."
"I am coming," he said, not caring if she heard him or not. He struggled up to where she stood limned against the sheeted fire in heaven. They faced each other while the storm raged around them.
"Corun—"
She read death in his eyes as he lifted the sword. Her form blurred, the outlines of a monster grew to his eyes.
He laughed bitterly. "I know what your magic is," he said. "You saw me kill Tsathu."
She was human again, human and lovely, a light-footed spirit of the hurricane. Her face was etched white in the lightning-glare.
"Perias!" she screamed.
The erinye crept forth, belly to the ground, tail lashing. Hell glared out of the ice-green eyes. Corun braced himself, sword in hand.
Perias sprang—not straight at the man, but into the air. His wings caught the wind, whirling him aloft. Twisting in mid-flight, he arrowed down. Corun struck at him. The erinye dodged the blow and one buffeting wingtip caught the man's wrist. The sword fell from Corun's hand. At once the erinye was on him.