From the pit of her stomach, from the root of her being, behind her tonsils and behind her flesh, something came loose.
Her chest heaved, and even as she screamed, a spray of corrosive vomit spilt from her lips, washing over the flames and dowsing them instantly as liquid spattered against the carpet.
She dropped to the floor, scarred and heaving as a howl resounded from the billowing smoke, the outline of a monster struggling with its truncated limb within.
Instantly, Gilead was at her side, pulling her to her feet and dragging her away, staring at the blistering burns upon her throat.
Before them, a shape rose from the spattered vomit, a terrible figure, leathery flesh dripping with puke.
“The serene summoner asks of your insubstantial majesties a boon,” she gasped between coughs. “Prince of falsehood, Mephistophilis—fulfil this wish!”
With a laugh of foul triumph, the horned figure assumed its final form, sickly green pallor smeared with residue.