“You’re dying, Wolfkiller,” he said. “The light’s going out of your blue eyes as if all the summer days are gone …” “No, please …” This thirst was unbearable. My mouth was open, gaping, my back arched. And it was here at last, the final horror, death itself, like this. “Ask for it, child,” he said, his face no longer the grinning mask, but utterly transfigured with compassion. He looked almost human, almost naturally old. “Ask and you shall receive,” he said. I saw water rushing down all the mountain streams of my childhood. “Help me. Please.” “I shall give you the water of all waters,” he
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