“I believe you. What’s your name, anyhow?”
It snorted. “You can call me Scrof, for conversational purposes. Yourself?”
“Call me Corey.”
“Okay, Corey. I don’t mind sitting here bullshitting with you, because that’s covered by the rules. It’s allowed. You’ve got three choices and one of them would be real stupid. You can turn around and go back the way you came and be none the worse for wear. You can also camp right where you are for as long as you like and I won’t lift a finger so long as you behave. The dumb thing to do would be to cross this line I’ve drawn. Then I’d terminate you. This is the Threshold and I am the Dweller on it. I don’t let anybody get by.”
“I appreciate your making it clear.”
“It’s part of the job. So what’ll it be?”
I raised my hands and the lines of force twisted like knives at each fingertip. Frakir dangled from my wrist and began to swing in an elaborate pattern.
Scrof smiled. “I not only eat sorcerers, I eat their magic, too. Only a being torn from the primal Chaos can make that claim. So come ahead, if you think you can face that.”
“Chaos, eh? Torn from the primal Chaos?”
“Yep. There’s not much can stand against it.”
“Except maybe a Lord of Chaos,” I replied, as I shifted my awareness to various points within my body. Rough work. The faster you do it the more painful it is.
Again, the rattling of the tin sheet.
“You know what the odds are against a Chaos Lord coming this far to go two out of three with a Dweller?” Scrof said.
My arms began to lengthen and I felt my shirt tear across my back as I leaned forward. The bones in my face shifted about and my chest expanded and expanded. . . .
“One out of one should be enough,” I replied, when the transformation was complete.
“Shit,” Scrof said as I crossed the line.