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A blast of wind surged in a vicious tornado. The fires were blasted away by the onslaught, caught in the whorl like thin threads of orange silk, lighting the gathered roots like fuses as fast-acting flame raced into the cluster above. Gravity ceased its pull and Sloan found herself suspended, no longer gripping Winnipeg but Winnipeg gripping her.

The young girl's eyes reflected the flames caught in the whirlwind. "What did I babble," she said.

"Nothing worth worrying about," said Sloan. Her legs dangled in the current. "Let's hit that fucking thing with everything we got."

Winnipeg nodded, her mouth still speckled with blood and a ghastly pallor denuding her carbuncular skin but the familiar determination not lost among it. The wind screeched a death-whistle as it heaved them through the air, their bodies cast uncontrollable toward the outer edges of the cavern. Winnipeg relinquished Sloan and seized her katana in both hands, channeling her energy as the massive force propelled them around the circumference of the lair. The fires curled and twisted like sunspots on the surface of a star galaxies away as Sloan and Winnipeg soared centrifugal, gaining momentum, gaining velocity. The gordian knot of roots churned and watched.

(Chapter 11)