James Wyatt: Dragon war

He let the ritual take shape in his mind complete and entire, each letter, each word contributing to a whole that was more than a string of sounds. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, setting fire tingling down his spine, the touch of the Silver Flame upon him. He opened his eyes again and began to read.

Once again magic streamed from the words, dissolving the ink and burning around him like a raging flame. He was the merest flicker in that great flame, and yet he felt himself cradled in divine arms, embraced, accepted, acknowledged, and loved. He did not command the power of the Silver Flame-he requested it, implored it to condescend to work through him. Flames danced from his hand to wash over Gaven's body, cleansing the stain of death from his flesh.

There was a moment of perfect silence. No one breathed, no waft of wind stirred the dusty cathedral floor, nothing moved. They hung suspended in time.

And then Gaven drew a shuddering, gasping breath, and the sky rolled with a distant rumble of thunder.