Pain shot through his head. His body convulsed. He writhed in agony.
It was a terrible choice he faced. Let go, and he would fall, fall to his doom, fall into a nothingness to which the most abject darkness was preferable. And yet, if he held it, he knew he would be ripped apart, his body dismembered by the forces of magic he could no longer control.
His muscles ripped from his bones, sinews shredding, tendons snapping.
“Caramon!” Raistlin moaned, but Caramon and Tas had vanished. The magical device, repaired by the one gnome whose inventions worked, had, indeed, worked. They were gone. There was no help.
Raistlin had seconds to live, moments to act. Yet the pain was so excruciating that he could not think.
His joints were being wrested from their sockets, his eyes plucked from his face, his heart torn from his body, his brain sucked from his skull.
He could hear himself screaming and he knew it was his death cry. Still he fought on, as he had fought all his life.
I... will... control...
The words came from his mouth, stained with his blood...
I will control...
Reaching out, his hand closed over the Staff of Magius.
I will!
And then he was hurtling forward into a blinding, swirling, crashing wave of many-colored lights Come home... come home... .