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Jelindel dek Mediesar was sought, and she arrived soon after with her warrior companion, Daretor. The city governor, the ailing steward Duke Vereux, had engaged them to rid the city of this menace in the cause of civic order and the municipal peace – so that thriving trade, increased profits and healthy taxation revenue could be restored. While the markets ran during the day, the stalls were stocked and set up at night. Being eaten alive was a good incentive for stallholders to take their trade elsewhere, or merely work shorter hours.
    Jelindel was a mage of some repute. Her career had begun the moment her parents, court nobles of some esteem and influence, were murdered by a renegade mage known as Fa’red. Jelindel had learned to survive in the streets and markets, developing her magical skills during many perilous adventures. She had fallen in with Daretor, a master swordsman with an inflexible sense of honour, and a street thief named Zimak, whose integrity was ever in question. As unlikely a trio as they were, they had become an effective team, and in recent times had begun to hire out their magical and martial skills to those in need.
    Jelindel soon realised that the pattern of attacks involved what could be called a flight path: each victim had been in a long street, usually those stretching north to south. For the most part, only ragged bits and pieces of the victims had been found strewn about, as though they had been ripped apart hurriedly. Whatever the predator was, it was anxious to get on with the business of eating. No one was taken in cul-de-sacs or in narrow lanes with high walls on either side. It was as if great eagles were involved, the kind with broad wingspans that prefer to swoop down on their prey.
    Standing at the scene of the most recent attack, Jelindel gazed north along the canyon created by the cityscape of streets and buildings. A mile away, looming over the city, were the stark and ragged cliffs of Enak. To the east a castle had been built into the cliff face, and here the Duke resided. On those ancient battlements, as forbidding as the cliffs that hung above them, were further sites of attack and dismemberment. Not even the rich and powerful were safe – something which seemed to offend the old Duke far more than the loss of some of his citizens. Monsters were bad enough, but monsters that did not know their place were simply unacceptable.
    ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Daretor, shading his eyes from the equatorial sun. He was sweating profusely and although he had just drunk what felt like a gallon of water during breakfast, he was already thirsty again.
    Jelindel shielded her eyes and pointed at the cliffs. ‘I think that whatever we seek will be found up there.’
    ‘What protection will we need?’
    ‘A potion against sunburn. Zinc chalk and coconut oil, I should think.’
    Daretor frowned and wiped perspiration from his face. ‘Is it always this hot?’
    ‘Hot? It’s not even high summer yet.’
    ‘By all the gods, I feel like I’m melting.’
    ‘Don’t melt yet. We need to earn our fee.’ And find what I have lost, she thought. She had decided not to tell her companions of the visit to Cimone. It saved a wagonload of explanations and unnecessary complications.
    ‘Not to mention Zimak’s commission,’ Daretor said with the trace of a sneer. ‘Lazy, shiftless wastrel. Why should he get a third of the fee for writing a letter?’
    Jelindel turned to face him, her eyes instinctively seeking something above Daretor’s head, then quickly readjusting to meet his. It was easy to forget that he was no longer in his own tall body, but in Zimak’s much shorter frame. On a far-off paraworld, a magical but planned ‘accident’ had swapped Zimak’s small, lithe body with that of the muscular, six-foot-two Daretor. Although Daretor had done wonders building up his new body ever since, there was nothing he could do about its height.
    ‘What is it now?’ Daretor asked, aware