The preacher stood on the hill and watched Ithaqua burn.

        The bitter wind which tugged at the hem of his long black coat egged the flames onward, coaxing them howling and careening through the streets like drunken revellers. Faintly he heard the people slam doors and spill terrified into the streets, their quiet Sunday evenings violently interrupted by the carnage come knocking at their doors. He watched as the fire grabbed the town tight in its greedy hands and squeezed, slobber. . .