The only sorceror still standing puts back the robe's hood, and leans forward. Its face is covered with fine iridescent green-blue scales, its eyes shimmering gold; its gender is as impossible to tell at a glance as a lizard's.

"Your rogue has killed one of my apprentices, aemmabal'whinn, and injured the other." Its voice is no further clue, thin and flutelike. "I trust there shall be compensation."