"I won't allow it," you say. "I'll stop you."
"And how will you do that?" sneers Zhan-Ukhel. "What abilities can you possibly possess that can match my own?"
As if to prove this, the sorcerer reaches into the fire that tops the nearest torch. He seems not to heed the heat, and when he withdraws his hand, tongues of flame lick around his fingers. You back away nervously.
"When I first pledged myself to Chernobog," says the sorcerer, "he sent me a vision in which I learned two things. Firstly, all of the Great Steppe would fall under my dominion. Secondly, the only people who could stop me were the chieftains of the steppe tribes. Your father and his allies will soon be dead, and then you will be all that stands between me and my ambitions—and let me tell you, they are grand indeed."
He thrusts his hand forward suddenly, the fingers like daggers, and the flames seem to uncoil and whip toward you. You can feel the heat in the air, when something obscures your vision—something vast—and you hear the sorcerer's missile harmlessly intercepted by this new arrival.
Step Back