Excerpt from CURSE OF THE MISTWRAITH:

     Notched battlements and broken walls drowned the next minute under yet another counter surge of fog.  Light and then shadow punched back.  Again a ragged hole appeared.  Sky appeared over Kieling Tower, besieged at once by rolling curtains of murk.  Arithon cried out as the wraith-driven mists burst his barriers. Stonework shook to a thunderous report as Lysaer extended to heroic lengths to shock back the break in the attack line.
     His light slashed into gloom that churned, congested as a blood-gorged bruise.  Shadow answered him strongly.  Snowfall snatched up into whirlwinds as stress-heated air snapped and shrieked through pocketed blizzards of ice.
     And then a sudden and peculiar twist of change: interwoven through the violent play of energies, something tugged subtly out of balance.  Across the concussive boom of backlash and gale like a rising scream, Arithon shouted to Asandir, "We're in trouble!"