By Jan Knappert
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Now Verthandi herself touched him. Her hands were smooth and strong, and they took hold of his genital, kneading, stretching, forcing a reaction that was not unpleasant. “This hardening rod transfixes your sister,” she said. ’’ Arlo cried, jerking away. “Why don’t you answer my questions? Why does Chthon hide from me? Why does my own hvee turn against me? ” Verthandi looked calmly at him. She was breathing with greater volume now, and had the shape of a remarkably fair woman. But her words remained zombie.
The great beast rolled over, its metal-hard rock-hewing claws coming into view. Each foot was the size of Arlo’s chest, and each nail was backed by the peculiar musculature and bone-leverage that gave it phenomenal driving force. The dragon, Arlo realized, could be a distant cousin of the glowmole because of that special foot structure. Now he entered the far tube he had selected, and the dragon did not stir again. They had gotten past. Arlo shuddered with relief. ” Ex inquired loudly. There was a snort.
He could bat it aside with a stick—but he had no stick or stone, and no time to fetch one. He did have his stalactite spear, still tied to his body. If he could stab the thing... No time to debate. The salamander started for him, for these creatures always attacked, never relented. He had to fight or run. He could outrun it, and ordinarily would have —but there were no tunnel loops here that would enable him to circle beyond it and escape in the direction he required. Not in time. He leaped toward it, stabbing with his point.