In all the time they've bantered and fought with each other, the wizard has never been angry. Playful, annoyed, irritated even, but he'd taken even death with good grace.

"How fitting, then, that I have nothing I'll forgive you for." That same fire that gnawed through Avery's body is briefly incarnate in the wizard's voice, smoking off every word. For a moment, he radiates heat like an inferno, a roiling sea of fire scratching at ashen shores. There is not even the slightest trace of amusement in him. "Follow me, then, if your pride can bear it."

One moment, the heat is there, present, oppressive; the next it's gone, as he swirls his cloak and vanishes, leaving only traces behind; the guttering embers of a deliberate trail. The message is clear.