“Who are you?” Moxatol queried from the street, as the column went around her.
“I am Civa.” He shrugged. “Some call me the “Cat man,” or the ‘Hero of Caliet!”‘
“I am Moxatol. Could we converse face to face?”
“Alas I would, but I fear you are a sorceress of some prowess,” Civa said in mock regret. “Besides, by the time you negotiate the stairs and reach me, I would be several rooftops away and out of sight.”
“I have other ways,” Moxatol assured him, clanging her arms together, instantly covering them in flames.
Curiosity compelled Civa to watch as she ran avoiding the door altogether and leaping at the wall. Her fists pounding into the stone face, spraying chips. She reached up, her feet already dangling a metre above the street and attacked the wall again. In rapid succession, she scaled the wall at jogging pace, compelling Civa to run to the opposite side of the roof and leap for a clothesline strung across the street.
“Oh Civa,” Moxatol cooed.
She stood on the balcony of the fire damaged building, smiling at him, a ball of fire generating in the palm of her hand.
He arched his body up and let go at the apex of his swing. Heat whooshed past his head as he somersaulted onto the opposite balcony. The moment his feet touched down, he dived through the open window and rolled to his feet. To his horror, Moxatol dangled half way across the street by one fiery hand on the clothesline. He looked for something to cut the cord, when another fire ball swelled in her free hand, compelling him to close the shutters. About to put the bar in place, they shattered, knocking him from his feet. The shutters took the brunt of the fireball, stinging his flesh in at least a dozen different places, sending him onto a single bed. He rolled to the floor and gasped as the sorceress alighted on the balcony.
Her irises narrowed into slits. “Your doom is upon you, Civa.”
Both ran for the opposite window. Civa sprang from the sill, able to feel the sting of stone chips against his calf. In mid air, he twisted able to catch hold of a shop’s shingle. A gouge showed in the sill where Moxatol had slammed her fist, missing him. Fire swelled and spat his way. He leapt laterally, just prior to the shingle shattering. Kicking from the wall, he pirouetted, angling his fall for the slope of a canvass shop stall. It sank under his weight, but held, allowing him to slide to the street. Another fire ball imploded the awning behind him as he sprinted along the thoroughfare.
“Do you think to actually flee from me?” Moxatol called after him.
It disturbed him that her voice carried from street level. He risked a glance behind himself. The elegantly clad lady sprinted as fast as any young man, and gained on him. To run from her on the ground was clearly a mistake; altitude meant safety. He had to climb again, as high and as quickly as possible.