He fell to his knees, dazed, as Gentry turned away; dimly, he heard Enna screaming and the sound of some kind of explosion. Orton was very powerful indeed, but the strictures which comprised his particular methodology of wizardry hung upon a single, central turning point: the prana, the Hindu concept of life-force which was formed from a living being's breath. Orton was capable of casting a spell with a two-inch hole through his forehead; he could speak with no tongue, draw runes with no hands, and generally survive almost any injury long enough to spell himself back to wholeness and health provided he could do exactly one thing: breathe. Even what he was breathing didn't matter -- he'd cast spells underwater, in quicksand, and even while being drowned in alcohol -- but he needed a diaphragm, minimally-functional lungs, and a trachea. He was currently missing that last one.

There was still a scrap of breath left in his lungs, of course; he could cast one more spell. And he knew (and knew that Gentry knew he knew) that he would only have one choice; the rite of regression, the spell that would reset the loop and start everything over again.

Leaving Enna to die.

I can try again, he thought to himself fuzzily. I can start over, keep all the things I learned about her with me. We can work together next time. Time to go back to the land of dishes and acne.

He was calm; he was ready. Organizing his thoughts, he visualized a very particular symbol in exacting, intricate detail.

And then it hit him.

It would have taken his breath away, if he'd had any to spare; the answer had been right in front of him the whole time. It was so simple. It was so clear.

And he would lose his chance, right now, if he regressed. Forewarned by his failure here, Gentry would be ready for this next time; the only opportunity was now, while the other magus was emotionally unbalanced, while he could still be caught off-guard.

I can't do this.

But he had to.

I don't want to die.

But there was no other choice.

I'm not strong enough.

But he was. He knew himself well enough to know, to the last bloody inch, exactly how far his strength could carry him. And this was it.

His free hand let go of his bloodied throat and stretched out, sliding under a pile of rubble to his right; he rooted around for a moment before his questing hand closed on a tarnished silver chain.

With the absolute last erg of his power, he cast a twinned Invocation of the Hawk's Stoop, stretching his mind out to the very limit of his fading intellect as he calculated the variables of the two trajectories to the highest possible precision. Then he opened his hands.

The amulet shot out, arcing high into the air; both Gentry and Enna glanced up, watching it soar majestically into the sky as its bright metal-and-crystal surface caught the light from the cityscape below with twinkling beauty. And the head of the Spear of Destiny rocketed forward, piercing with transcendental might straight through Gentry's Cantillion of the Hair's Breadth, and impaled him through the back.

The blow was not fatal, and in fact was barely even a flesh wound; the spearhead passed cleanly through muscle and tendon, missed his heart and spinal column entirely, carved a nice path through the upper left portion of his right lung, and shot outwards through the gap between two of Gentry's ribs to disappear into the night. But its dull tip, barely sharp enough to cut butter, scratched a long, scoring groove on the interior of his sternum as it passed by, directly through the center of the Elder Sign of Solomon.

Gentry gasped, then healed himself; shocked, he turned to stare at Orton.

Orton grinned and gave Gentry the finger, then turned his head slightly to look towards Enna. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking up, reaching out to catch the amulet as it fell towards her out of the sky. He smiled anyway, then sagged back and let his eyes close. His muscles twitched, failed, and went slack.

I love you.

Reluctantly, but with a surprising amount of contentment, Orton died.