Dargoth’s great hands find his neck, but the thumbs cannot reach his throat, and the muscles of Wakim’s neck tighten and stand out as he bends his knees and strains.

They stand so, frozen for a timeless instant, and the firelight wrestles with shadows upon their bodies.

Then with a gigantic, heaving motion, Wakim raises Dargoth above the ground, turns, and hurls him from him.

Dargoth’s legs kick wildly as he turns over in the air. His spines rise and fall and his tail reaches out and cracks. He raises his arms up before his face, but he lands with a shattering crash at the foot of the throne of Anubis, and there he lies still, his metal body broken in four places and his head split open upon the first step to the throne.

Wakim turns toward Anubis.

“Sufficient?” he inquires.

“You did not employ temporal fugue,” says Anubis, not even looking downward at the wreck that had been Dargoth.

“It was unnecessary. He was not that mighty an opponent.”

“He was mighty,” says Anubis. “Why did you laugh, and make as if you questioned your name when you fought with him?”

“I do not know. For a moment, when I realized that I could not be beaten, I felt as though I were someone else.”

“Someone without fear, pity, or remorse?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still feel thus?”

“No.”

“Then why have you stopped calling me ‘Master’?”

“The heat of battle raised emotions which overrode my sense of protocol.”

“Then correct the oversight, immediately.”

“Very well, Master.”

“Apologize. Beg my pardon, most humbly.”

Wakim prostrates himself on the floor.

“I beg your pardon, Master. Most humbly.”