The two blood-brothers tall and small felt to the full then the intoxication of the fog, its surging bittersweet touch-song of hate, its hot promises of all bloodlusts forever fulfilled, an uninhibited eternity of murder-madness. Fafhrd, wineless tonight, intoxicated only by his own idealisms and the thought of watchmanship, was hardly touched by the sensations, did not feel them as temptations at all. The Mouser, much of whose nature was built on hates and envies, had a harder time, but he too in the end rejected the fog’s masterful lures—if only, to put the worst interpretation on it,
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