<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Times New Roman;">The next chamber is a tight, lichen-smeared socket.<br/><br/>In its dim, vast suggestions of movement soil the thick air with sound.  The light of the torch leans in, surreal with slowness.  And out of the panting, slapping dark come glimpsed aspects of nightmare.<br/><br/>The dim peels back in places, but the torchlight is unsteady - it will not let detail survive long in the talons of the dark.  What is seen, is seen in hallucinatory flashes, fragments wet and strange as fever dream:<br/><br/>A girl's limbs, arranged on a stone slab, on all fours, their slender beauty as pearly and fine as in a painting.  The torchlight oozes over them, oozes back; they are gone, then return.<br/><br/>The girl's face, disfigured with a contortion of strain - red as a lamp under tossing brown hair - gaping mouth, panting; squeezed eyes, weeping.  Gone, returned.<br/><br/>The girl's breasts, swaying like bags of cream.  The girl's nipples, livid and hard.  The girl's back, bowed low, haunches high, with pools of moisture on it.  Pools, shining like grease.  And a furry arm, thick as a tree trunk, long as a bear's body, supporting her haunches.<br/><br/>Gone with the torchlight passing; returned, shocking and stark, a moment later.<br/><br/>The flank of the thing:  Towering, absurdly tall - like a pile of stone slabs, stacked in the shape of a man.  Shaggy fur serpentines down from its mane-mantled neck; fur thick as a yak, strands bloated and matted with a crawling, tarry stink.<br/><br/>The head of the thing:  Broad like a millstone is broad, flattened like some scabrous bat, with flared ears closer to wax paper than flesh, their translucence shot through with veins livid like burning magnesium - ears that twitch and shiver in passion above a mop of that gory hair.  And eyes, closed tight above a mouth like a fanged drain, each dagger of a tooth pocked with green and running with slick that spatters the girl's back, feeding those shiny pools.<br/><br/>And the shiny sex of the thing:  A long trunk, brilliant with slick and inner crimson crowding its skin.  Wide as the girl's arm.  Bloated like a leech about to pop.  And ramming into the girl's body above a black watermelon of a scrotum.<br/><br/>These sights roll from the dim and recede as the torchlight shuffles them.  In these petals of nightmare, the final fevered motions toward climax are seen.<br/><br/>Torchlight brushes aside the sandy dim.<br/><br/>In the instants it does, the beast arches.  Its sex buries deep.  <br/><br/>The girl, crying, spends.</span>