If someone were to ask Amy – or any of the others - to describe what they saw after Medea’s creepily-cheerful ominous declaration, they would focus primarily on the fact that there was heat, as though the very air around them was filled with static. Lightning might have flashed overhead, or perhaps it shot out from the ground at their feet, it might have been blue, or red, or green. It hit nothing, but swirled, or maybe danced, around Medea’s body. Medea may or may not have looked young, or unchanged, she may have flickered or warped or stayed still. She raised her hands and spoke words that none of her companions could recall afterwards, but the heat intensified to the point where Amy could do nothing but cling to Medea’s leg and coat; she didn’t realise she was crying until she noticed that her tears were evaporating from her face.
The demon hurtling towards them incinerated, or maybe he evaporated too, it was hard to tell. Ashes were born upwards on a wind that seemed to sweep out of nowhere. One after the other the demons were crisped and singed to their end and the evidence lifted skywards.
There were more enemies, of course, demons rarely came in small numbers – they gave ‘horde’ its meaning afterall. The newcomers hesitated when they glimpsed the now one-sided battlefield. It was obvious that they had not expected much resistance, let alone resistance of the Witch-Queen’s calibre. She turned to face them, drawing Amy with her. Her hair whipped around her youthful face, the red business dress she had been wearing earlier now resembled something like a red toga; red like swirling blood.
“Tell your Prince he will have to do better than this,” Achilles shouted across at the paused demons, “much, much better.”
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