His tough skin resisted the blade Olivare reflexively slashed across his throat, releasing a thin line of watery, wine-dark blood instead of the expected surge. The Tantarian priest grinned, his single eye burning feverishly, as he summoned black fire into one scarred hand. He was tall and gaunt, his naked body baked to a dull umber from a lifetime exposed to the harsh sun. Somehow he’d dropped Arshad to the ground without touching him.
Olivare stepped defensively over Arshad’s motionless body and raised her feathered blade. “You shouldn’t have come,” she said. She summoned her own hell fire.
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: bake, feather, tough)