The Sorcerer

Rosalyn could barely feel her teeth clench. The pain was incomprehensible; every muscle was taut as bowstring, but she was silent. Her hands were bound to her feet; she was suspended in air. Sweat beaded on her bare skin, despite the cold. Her red hair hung limp, soaked, in the silence of the stone chamber. Her mind was clouded by pain and panic. The sorcerer, in fine midnight blue clothes, worked with thread-of-silver, inspected her. Pausing, he looked into her eyes, and pointed a finger suddenly wreathed in violet flame. Agony exploded throughout her body, amplified by sorcery. She screamed.