“Madam,” he said, knowing enough to be embarrassed by the asking, “forgive me for being so forward, but might I enquire—and you must feel in no way constrained to answer if you do not wish to do so—might I enquire, are you exothermic or endothermic? Your metabolism, that is?” The lady in question regarded him with coquettish amusement. If she had possessed a fan, she would surely have fluttered it. She did not, however, answer. “Poikilothermic, perhaps?” ventured Cabal. “Poikilothermic,” she repeated slowly, each syllable divorced from its neighbour by a full second of silence. She smiled. “I like you,” she said. “You’re funny. I don’t think I’ve ever met a funny human before.” Cabal hesitated; he wasn’t used to being found comedic, either. “I assure you, madam, it is in no way my intention to…” But she wasn’t listening. “Poik,” she said, savouring the sound. “Poik, poik, poik.” This was not going the way most summonings of supernatural entities usually went.
