Serrin was standing rock still engaged in a magical struggle with a bizarre figure, a human-like form that seemed to be shaped of muddied clay, trying to claw its way toward him and Kristen. The other elf was flinging himself, long serried knife in hand, at a suited, dark-haired man crouched across a table from him, his gaze fixed on the clay figure. Even as Geraint approached, the clay figure managed to force its way to Serrin and strike him with one of its limbs, knocking the elf to the floor. The other elf leapt over the table and buried his knife in his opponent’s right shoulder blade only a hand’s length from his heart. As Kristen and Geraint poured bullets into whatever it was that had struck Serrin senseless, the man screamed and the clay creature wavered and began to topple. As it fell backward, almost as if in slo-mo, its form dissolved into a wave of rolling, liquid clay, pouring into a huge puddle of formless, slimy mud that seeped over the Persian carpet.