You don't hear "wait!" in the middle of a burning building unless it's important, so X waits without argument, blinking against the heat and smoke and tears blurring his vision. Damn it, he can't breathe. Is there anyone around here who doesn't need to? There's no way for X to know, and if he goes into his trance now he's not going to be much help. What would he do, run out of the building and leave his new friend to the rescue effort?

During a brief second of clarity between blinks, X sees what the man does to the back of the bookcase. He might think he was seeing things, if seeing someone melt wood was outside the realm of possibility for him. What was it, plebeian magic? For the first time, X wonders who his companion is; he has the oddly beautiful features of an elf, but he's too tall, and has the wrong skin colour. Given that they're marooned between worlds, speculation is probably useless.

And they don't have the time, anyway. X blinks furiously again and resumes his grip, hissing with the pain. "One," he says, "two --"

And he pulls. The bookcase moves, though not easily, and it takes precious moments of straining effort to move it far enough to get the door open.