Dag feels the ground dip first. Cracks in the black stone wheeze and hiss. His left hoof sinks. Just barely. Just enough for him to notice that the right hoof doesn't, and that everything is shifting, weakening, melting.

Shit.

Heat seeps. Strengthens. The way ahead is swimming with it, dancing before his eyes, and soon enough it congeals into pain at his pasterns.

The cracks glow. Belch flame. The ground is split into little islands floating on a sea of molten rock.

He springs into action as the cavern shudders. Stalactites let free from the ceiling spear down into the burning red sea.

"Lizard!" Dag's voice is a harsh bark. The molten dragonbat weaves through falling debris; turns back in a frantic loop. He buzzed Dag's head as the courser crashes forward through the chaos.

"I need a way outta here!"

The bat gives a diligent chirp and zips ahead, and Dag can feel the fire pinching his heels, scraping his belly, and—there. Ahead. Lizard's brassy wings, a fury against the black stone of tiered black basalt. Dag laments that he is not a goat—nimble, cloven hooves might save him—but there's no choice. He leaps for the first step, clatters for purchase, and forges upward before the churning Furnace can eat his tail.

Another narrow escape.