The demon spat a gooey glob of yellowish brimstone to one side. It struck an ankle-high clump of green weed bursting with tiny purple flowers and promptly set it ablaze. “Everyone can use a spare soul or two. Comes in handy at the moment of Determination. But never mind. I can sense that you’re not the trading type.” Peering around the herdsman, the demonic countenance focused on Simna.
“You, on the other hand, smell like someone I could do business with.”
“Maybe another time.” The swordsman ventured a wan smile. “My soul’s all tied up just now.” He pointed to his companion. “With him.”
“Pity.” Straightening, the demon smiled affably at Ehomba. “I could split your sternum, tear out your heart, and leave you to bleed to death here in the sand.” He shuddered slightly. “But I can tell that you’d spoil it all by resisting, and anyway it’s too cold out this morning for sport. I’ve a ways to go before I dig a hole and make camp.”
“Since you are not going to kill us,” the herdsman replied good-naturedly, “could you tell us how far it is to the nearest water hole?”
“Water hole?” The demon eyed him in disbelief, then burst out roaring. It was laughter wild and withering enough to scald bare skin. Indeed, unprotected by fur or learning, Ehomba had to turn away from it to keep himself from being scorched.
“There’s no water holes in this country. Hot springs, yes, and boiling mud pots, and steaming alkali lakes a being can take a proper bath in—but water holes?” One crimson, clawed finger elongated enough to reach up and over the specter’s skull, pointing to the northwest.