Snippet: A little taste
In honor of the title change for the book formerly known as The Summer Players—now Casket of Souls for those of you who missed it— here's a little snippet to celebrate.
. . . a burst of white flame flared from the key hole, melting the pick and catching the edge of Seregil's rolled up shirtsleeve on fire.
"Shit!" Seregil struggled out of the shirt and hastily threw it away from him. He knew this magic. He'd seen Thero—who had a peculiar fascination with all things flammable—place it on various objects to protect them. This sort of magical fire could consume flesh if in contact with it for more than a few seconds. For all Seregil knew, Thero had placed the magic on the box for ??? himself. Unfortunately it set anything else it touched ablaze, too, and he'd thrown the shirt a little too close to the drapes behind the desk.
Hard pressed to think how he could make things any worse, he grabbed the box, which had stopped spewing fire, and hurried back the way he'd come. As he passed the kitchen, he shouted in "Fire! Fire upstairs!" and ran for the garderobe again. Tossing the box out, he wiggled after it and bolted for the garden wall. He could already smell smoke and cursed himself for a fool. That last thing he'd intended to was to burn down a friend's house. Fortunately someone had heard him and raised the alarm. He could hear shouting inside. Bolting through the garden, he heaved the box over the wall as high as he could, then scrambled up the rope and down the other side.
He found Alec scrabbling around on the ground, gathering something. Seregil bent down to see. Papers! Apparently there was no magic on the box to prevent it from smashing open when thrown over a wall onto a paved street.
"A little warning would have been nice," Alec whispered as he grabbed up the last of the scattered documents. "You nearly brained me with that thing."
. . . a burst of white flame flared from the key hole, melting the pick and catching the edge of Seregil's rolled up shirtsleeve on fire.
"Shit!" Seregil struggled out of the shirt and hastily threw it away from him. He knew this magic. He'd seen Thero—who had a peculiar fascination with all things flammable—place it on various objects to protect them. This sort of magical fire could consume flesh if in contact with it for more than a few seconds. For all Seregil knew, Thero had placed the magic on the box for ??? himself. Unfortunately it set anything else it touched ablaze, too, and he'd thrown the shirt a little too close to the drapes behind the desk.
Hard pressed to think how he could make things any worse, he grabbed the box, which had stopped spewing fire, and hurried back the way he'd come. As he passed the kitchen, he shouted in "Fire! Fire upstairs!" and ran for the garderobe again. Tossing the box out, he wiggled after it and bolted for the garden wall. He could already smell smoke and cursed himself for a fool. That last thing he'd intended to was to burn down a friend's house. Fortunately someone had heard him and raised the alarm. He could hear shouting inside. Bolting through the garden, he heaved the box over the wall as high as he could, then scrambled up the rope and down the other side.
He found Alec scrabbling around on the ground, gathering something. Seregil bent down to see. Papers! Apparently there was no magic on the box to prevent it from smashing open when thrown over a wall onto a paved street.
"A little warning would have been nice," Alec whispered as he grabbed up the last of the scattered documents. "You nearly brained me with that thing."
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