Pasmodius’ cracked and withered lips part again, rising and reaching and growing and flowing, filling the room, a toothless black omen in a paper bag. And then old Pasmo, crazy old Pasmo, touches the ring on his finger, dissolving the effects of the shimmer around his strong, ancient body. Deeply, richly, cavernously, in an old-young voice like veins of untapped ore, he speaks. He says, “Does this throat work better for you, you Presumptious Prancing Pestilence?” Purple robes fly in a funnel across the unoccupied bed and clamp down on the Master’s neck, and the cold iron grip of a far stronger man than Pasmodius of the House of Patrex closes tightly around a throat.
The Pnyy drops.