"We're straying from the subject," she smiled up at him from his arms.
It was then that the cough sounded, from the golden drapes of the door. Otho stood smirking in the opening, eyes leering. From head to toe he glistened in a rainbowed silk that bellied and sank about his form with a sensitiveness to air currents that made it seem alive.
He had a gun in his hand and it was levelled at Tyr.
"I am sorry to interrupt your—amusements—"
Tyr did not think he moved fast, but he was in front of Otho even as the eyes of the other were commencing to widen in fright. Tyr hit the gun upward, slamming it against Otho's sneering mouth where it made a wide gash. The gun fell to the rug, and Tyr put out his hands and took hold of the sleazy silk and lifted. Otho dangled a foot off the floor.
"I could break your spine," Tyr whispered.
Otho was white. He dared not speak.
"I could put the fingers of one hand around your fat neck and snap it."
Otho closed his eyes and shuddered.
Tyr dropped him and Otho fell loosely to the floor and rolled over and came to his hands and knees. The big brown god of the Trylla loomed vast and massive above his crouching form.