Forcing the mage down to his knees and then prone onto the floor, he crouched over him. The young elf’s face was distorted into a living death mask, his eyes wild and unfocused. Luther knelt over the body and drank in his victim’s terror and fear as eagerly as he had the blood. The man’s deathly fear and panic excited him, fed him as surely as the blood did; he loved the leeching away of a living soul, drew power from it.