“It is time,” said Fistandantilus, excitement turning his voice painfully dissonant. “Get ready to light the candle, human.”

Tanis held the mirror in one hand and groped for Brandella’s hand with the other. When he found it, she pulled away. Her hand was cold as death.

The chant began so low it was almost inaudible. Slowly, the sound grew louder, the words unknown and unknowable.

The chanting grew still louder. The cabin began to quiver as if the wind outside were trying to pick the little shack off the ground and hurl it off the foothills, down to the valley below. Water and mud dripped between growing cracks in the ceiling. The dead branches crisscrossed over one section of the roof began to break apart and tumble into the room. A moan escaped the terrified weaver, but Tanis dared not comfort her.

Fistandantilus continued his chant, his own voice howling even louder than the wind.

Tanis didn’t know what was breaking the cabin apart—the spell or Death trying to hold on to its victim. The forces of magic and nature were clearly at war.…