The crackle and spit of the largest demon’s lightning whip splits the party as it lumbers into the mix, sending a stiff shock up through boots and into spines. Pressed back against the chamber wall, Richard reflects violet light as well as the ice, saturated with offal as he is.

Later someone will have to scrub him off like a tar-soaked loon.

He waits for this latest contingent of demons to fan out into the fracas, barely breathing, and by the flash of the next whip he’s slipped well behind their ranks, right hand raised open to the rift. If closing it doesn’t hurt them, it should -- at the very least -- stop more from crawling through.