"Fine," Solomon said shortly and instinctively. Then he took another breath and winced, and reached out for something to lean on. "Possibly." He found her shoulder and he almost flinched when he did, for a moment absurdly afraid that he'd take her soul just with a touch.

Ridiculous. He put some of his weight on her and took a deep breath. What, exactly, was making his head pound so? The death-plane objecting to his escaping its grasp? The simple transition from one plane to the other without the benefit of the high?

"I think I understand why Necromancy developed its addictive qualities," he said a little weakly and very wryly, and raised his head. The pound was subsiding, but the ache was still there.