Nearby a bird shrieked, a cross between crow and banshee.

Life waged an eternal war against death. The air hung hot and wet, a sharp contrast from the chill that filled the valley they had just left. Huge trees reached ever upwards, their foliage outstretched greedily to claim as much light as possible. But the sun wasn’t enough to satiate their hunger; Atzar could see the remains of beasts, suspended from the canopy by ensnaring vines and gnarled branches. Scabrous, fervent fungi splattered the ground and snaked up trunks, eating through bark to feed on the nutritious flesh within. Some trees had succumbed to the assault, standing dark and bare. Insects had burrowed into the dead wood, emerging to cut up and carry home creature, plant and mushroom alike with machinelike efficiency.

A river, brown and murky, filled his ears with its roar. He could barely make out the dark shapes as they flitted just beneath the surface. He thought of vicious piranha and venomous snakes; probably best to stay out of the water. Again the bird let out its harrowing call.

Here Atzar was in the most hostile of realms, unable to muster a spark.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt truly helpless. Childhood, perhaps? He had discovered his gift early in life, and it had been there for him ever since. When he had a problem, it provided the solution. When he was hungry, it was the means to hunt; it slaked his thirst, lit the darkness, sheltered him against the elements and protected him from man and beast. It was his sense of a belonging in the world, a resource that others like William bartered to employ. It was a cavern to explore, its unfathomable depths teeming with endless danger and unimaginable riches.

Atzar lifted his arm to examine his wound. The creeping lines of death had vanished entirely. He wiped aside the dried blood and unguent to expose new flesh, pink and tender, but healthy. The mage had not a clue what force had saved his life, but he was grateful. He’d have happily traded the arm for his magic, but at least it was something. The bird shrieked for a third time.

He turned to find the bird… and stared. The creature was monstrous, adorned in black feathers tarnished with sickly purple fungus, and its face sported neither eyes nor beak. Talons gripped the stem of a red flytrap-like plant whose mouths were big enough to envelop a human. Then the bird-thing vomited. The fluid sprayed all over Atzar’s tunic; he huffed in revulsion at the disgusting act, and then at the pungent, sour odor.

Something rustled. The mage looked, and then dove.

Thorny flytrap jaws slammed shut on the space he had just occupied. Atzar rolled to a crouch and instinctively responded with fire... but the slash of his hand brought none forth.

“William!” Atzar hissed urgently. “Wherever your quarry is, find it quickly. This place sucks.” He gritted his teeth. “…And I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be. My magic is kaput.” The rustling began again as the man-eating plant keyed on the smell produced by its symbiotic bird-friend. Unable to fight back, the magicless mage prepared to dive once more.