Adrenaline spikes and she darts back again, unable to shake the sick feeling that Anung un Rama is toying with her. She knows how fast Red can be, and it's not this.

If she could get in close enough to touch him, maybe -- no, shit, it's a wild half-formed thought, one she can't risk.

"Your father raised you to be a good man; the best man I know," she says, muscles so taut that her shoulders are beginning to ache as she watches him through flickering flames. "You don't want this. You've got to fight it." The fire licks higher, taller, starting to spiral around her. The charred remnants of her hat and scarf fall away.

Her voice echoes from within the column: "This isn't you."