Cones versus cylinders

The magician and the wizard faced each other across the field. The battle had raged on longer than either of them had anticipated, but neither was willing to walk away. The wizard hadn't slept in 60 hours, and it was getting hard to concentrate on the syllables he needed. The magician hadn't eaten for days, and was beginning to feel so hollow he feared that the magic would fill in the void, and he'd heard stories about that...

The two paced each other around the clearing once again, being careful not to lose footing to any of the countless holes, rainbow-hued flames, puddles reflecting skies much different than the one above, hellish maws or jutting rocks.

The wizard was between a couple of the brighter fires when he decided he couldn't take it anymore. He knew it was a poor position to attack from, the light silhouetting him as a perfect target, but he knew if he didn't act now, he would pass out anyway. With all the volume he could muster, the wizard rasped the killing words one last time, and flung his hands out at the magician.

The magician, for his part, had been noting how little room he had to maneuver in the midst of a particularly tricky patch of puddles when he saw the wizard bring his hands up. With no other choice, the magician mustered up the last of his energies, and retaliated.

The field vanished in a flash of light.

The birds never sang in that part of the forest again.