The woman was dead, sullen flames licking over her body. The shaman, though, seemed almost untouched. His clothes were scorched—particularly around the fetish that had detonated—and his exposed skin looked red, but he was not significantly injured. (Spell defense? Sly wondered groggily. Was it that saved me too?) He snarled in anger, closed his eyes, and slumped against the wall. Sly realized he must have gone astral to cope with some magical threat.