Raistlin can't hear him. He's too busy staring at the end of his fingers in horror. The magic is gone. The spell is still with him - he can see it glimmering in his mind's eye, the perfect lattice of it - but the magic that should imbue it with life is just. Gone.

It is gone, and with it is his reason for living. The swordman is shouting something. Raistlin doesn't hear it. He stares at the sisters as they rush towards him, laughter singing in the dark. It doesn't matter. He has no magic. What's the point in even raising his staff in futile defense?