Ark returned home the day after the spark nearly killed him. Arkbound Academy floated above the clouds, its towers grown from one fallen book. Ark climbed to his study, still weak. The spark had a name. No living voice had spoken it. Until he learned that name, his casting stayed powerless against it. He spread old scrolls across his desk and began to search. Zane found him at dusk. The boy set down a cup of tea. "You won't find the name in a book," Zane said. "Names like that aren't written. They're spoken by things that remember." Ark looked up. "Then who remembers a death older than the field?" Zane's grip tightened on the desk. "Ifrit," he said quietly. "The fire spirit. He was here at the beginning. Fire holds death and rebirth both. If anyone still speaks the old names, it's him." They went down to the Academy's great hall. Thaxaron Scalewise, the school's head clerk, met them at the doors. The purple-robed dragonoid had run the Academy's records for a century. His four horns swept back as he bowed. "Grand Magister. You look half-drained." His orange eyes narrowed. "You seek the fire spirit. I keep his summoning terms. He does not answer for free." "What does he want?" Ark asked. "A price. Always a price." Thaxaron unrolled a scroll and traced the sigils. "Fire gives warmth. It also takes. Be certain before you call him." Ark was certain. Thaxaron lit the summoning circle. Flame roared up from the stone. Ifrit stepped through, eight feet tall, his hair burning like a torch. The hall went hot. Zane stepped back from the heat. The fire spirit's red eyes found Ark. "A mage who chases death," Ifrit said. "Rare. Most run from it." He crossed his arms. "You want the name of the old one that drinks. I know it. I watched it fall asleep." "Give it to me," Ark said. Ifrit smiled. "Not given. Earned. That is the rule of every true name." He held out one burning hand. "The name is bound to warmth and death, both. To carry it, you must first carry fire without flinching. Take my hand. If you pull back, the name burns away." Ark set down his staff. He remembered Skelly's lesson. Do not command. Hold and ask. He reached out and closed his fingers on Ifrit's hand. Fire climbed his arm. It did not burn. He held. He did not pull. He asked the fire to speak. Ifrit leaned close. He whispered the name into Ark's ear. One word, old as the first flame. The fire sank into Ark's chest and settled there. Ifrit released him. "You hold it now," the spirit said. "But a name calls two ways. Speak it at the sealed door, and the ancient death will wake. It will know your voice. And it will answer." Ark stood, the name burning quiet inside him. At last he could reach divine power. Now he had to face what would wake when he spoke.