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the screen in his mind's eye, burned through him. The conjury was effortless, destruction flowing from him like a symphony. He was alive, incandescent, both seized with energy and surging with it. He crushed them in clumps, crushed them as fast as they came, crushed them until they were utterly destroyed.

More spheres wanted to form. They wanted to blaze out of him until they encompassed everything. He wanted that too. He was shaking, overloaded, accelerated. His heart pounded, his mind running with exercise upon exercise, his body burning with the endless, merciless energy. He squeezed the fist of his will around him, the suffocating tunnel narrowing, blocking out the pestilence that he was, and the destruction that he wanted, tightening its grip around his dark heart until all that existed were the numbers, and the letters, and the necessity to be still.

And then, through the heavy gauze of silence, he heard the thump of a plasma gun firing. His leg slid out from under him, and he fell forward, slammed into the smooth scoops that covered the tunnel floor.

Morden's hard, even footsteps approached him. "You belong to us, Galen. Flesh must do what it's told. Or it will die."

"I'll handle this," Elizar said.

Galen lifted his head, saw Elizar's glistening black form move past him. He struggled to rise. There was no pain-the blazing heat of destruction blocked it-but his leg would not move. He conjured a platform beneath himself. Equation of motion. He slipped ahead.

Elizar's foot slammed down on his ankle, pinning him in place. "I can see you. Though I am impressed that you discovered the spell."

The platform slipped out from beneath Galen. Galen dissolved it, relinquished his camouflage. He wanted to crush Elizar more than he had ever wanted anything in
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