Circe was a lich, and liches were deathless. She stepped from the smoke like some hateful, self-avenging spirit, smoke curling from her patchy coat, her flesh grotesquely scarred and leaking fluids, her mane aflame, one of her eyes burst from boiling jelly, a bone sticking out of her knee, murder etched onto every square inch of her face. The remains of her spear were bumping at her side. “I’ll kill you,” she rasped. “Over an’ over an’ over.”