Vespasian looked up at him wearily through eyes squinting against the sun’s midday ferocity; his lips were cracked and his head throbbed from the heat beating down directly onto it in the absence of his hat. It was the second day after the sandstorm and they were all in a weakened state having only had three cups each of their precious water on the previous day and one cup each at midmorning today. Only Ziri seemed to be unaffected by the conditions and he carried on his exuberant jig as his companions struggled up the dune. ‘Not a moment too soon,’ Magnus croaked, working his feet hard to get purchase in the soft sand. ‘I’ve been dreaming all morning about drinking my piss.’ ‘That’s a coincidence,’ Vespasian replied with as much of a grin as his parched lips would allow him, ‘I’ve been dreaming all morning about drinking your piss too.’ ‘You’d have had to fight me for it.’ Vespasian’s reply stuck in his dry throat as he crested the dune.
