Roxie's free hand fumbles in her jacket, and in the dark the noise flares up at the edge of Katara's hearing, echoing against the stone, threatening to become the roar of an angry firebender.

With an electric crackle, a marble ignites in Roxie's hand, bright enough that it's painful to look at directly: she holds her hand forward, and it sheds its harsh, color-washing arc-light down the long, low, wide entry corridor. There are doorways that vanish into shadow, edged with hypergeometric abstract frescoes that almost hurt to look at--

"This is one of the old,really old temples," Roxie says, and her voice becomes the rush of water against a thirsty shore. "The way it's built, the sound, the echoes, it really gets into your head..."