Panic had a way of making anybody, even Avad, drop his buzz.

Grunting in irritation at the interruption, he climbed on back of the wagon, yelling "On it!" before tracing a sign in the air and mouthing a few words. The fire was enveloped in a blast of vapor, glowing from the inside with a hellish light. Then, grimacing at the impending headache, he flipped out his spellbook, turning to a page covered in runic lettering and beginning to recite a lengthy spell, focusing less on raw power and almost entirely on razor-fine control over the magic's direction. He had a [i]very[/i] clear idea of what he wanted it to do.

Eventually, the fires went out, and he released the magic, tracing half a dozen sigils back-to-back before him. There was a tremendous thunderclap as storm clouds began to build thirty or so feet over, and twice as much in front of, the pained, burned, blinded guards. Another thunderclap and a lancet of lightning, and then the real fun started: an immensely powerful wind blew nearly horizontal, forcing utterly torrential rains, ice-cold and lashing like tiny daggers, into the hapless troop. He nearly dropped the spellbook at the sudden energy expenditure as the intense wind wiped out the fog, reestablishing line of sight. 

Rhythmically chanting a three-word spell of lightning several times, "[color=6ecff6]Achmat elike monâven[/color]," he forced them to stay down unless they wanted to be electrocuted. As he felt his energy, which had been vastly depleted even prior to the exceedingly long stormcalling, peter down, he screwed his eyes shut, ramming the last of his magical energy—into another overdraw, he understood, grimacing—straight into a heavy raincloud that followed behind the cart, turning the dirt of the road behind them into a thick, gluey trail of mud. Blinking owlishly at the sudden fatigue and headache, he toppled backwards into the cart, fighting to remain conscious.