Something wet and cold was slapping his face, and the familiar fiery sting of segir-whisky burnt his throat. “Smith!” Yarol's voice was saying from far away. “N. W.! Wake up, damn you! Wake up!” “I'm — awake,” Smith managed to articulate thickly. “Wha's matter?” Then a cup-rim was trust against his teeth and Yarol said irritably, “Drink it, you fool!” Smith swallowed obediently and more of the fire-hot segir flowed down his grateful throat. It spread a warmth through his body that awakened him from the numbness that had gripped him until now, and helped a little toward driving out the all-devouring weakness he was becoming aware of, slowly. He lay still for a few minutes while the warmth of the whisky went through him, and memory sluggishly began to permeate his brain with the spread of the segir. Nightmare memories . . . sweet and terrible . . . memories of — “God!” gasped Smith suddenly, and tried to sit up. Weakness smote him like a blow, and for an instant the room wheeled as he fell back against something firm and warm — Yarol's shoulder.
What do You think about Black Gods And Scarlet Dreams?
