Ffion had gone into the dungeons alone. It was only fair, then, that Blodwen had her chance.

She did not like Terrence any more than her sister had. His grim aspect grated; his unwillingness to explain his techniques was even worse. How was she—a paying cusomer, after all—meant to learn from this?

"You must impart something to me," Blodwen demanded at last, puffing out her narrow chest. The red glow of the Furance dances across the metallic swarf speckles on her soft green coat. She tried to infuse her gaze with the same sublime rage as the fire.

Terrence only grinned, flashing sharp canines. "Must I?"

Blodwen was prepared to seethe righteously. She filled her lungs. Straightened her bearing. Froze.

A howl pierced the low groan of hot air and flame.

Blodwen shrank, but Terrence was action made flesh. "Get behind me," he barked, and she obeyed. The hellhounds came like a storm, one after the other, snapping at Terrence's flanks only to find his hooves dashing their skulls against the cavern floor. The fire that burned in their ribs to give them life was extinguished, and those that did not die were frightened by the stamping and bucking of the great dark courser.

Blodwen was wild-eyed, trembling against the wall, missing her sisters.

"How's that for teaching?" Terrence asked.

And Blodwen elected to keep her mouth shut.