The fleshy rope was dry and its skin was cracked, as if it had been exposed to the hot sun of the desert for days. It smelled of corruption and vileness, and had the consistency of a custard. At least, until it constricted. Then it felt like an iron chain lashed around Croy’s throat.

A second tentacle wrapped around his thigh and staggered him. It yanked backward, and it was all Croy could do to keep his feet. The fiend would pull him down if he did not find some way to break its grasp. Croy struck at this second arm with his blade, but it held resolute, even as the cold-forged iron seared its skin.

The tentacle around his throat constricted until he felt his throat start to crush. Every breath became a hard-fought effort. He lost all interest in keeping his footing, as just staying alive became his main focus. His vision filled up with throbbing blood and his eyes bulged out of their sockets as the demon dragged him off his feet and toward its center. Was there a mouth in there, full of teeth to grind his bones? He could see none—perhaps it merely wanted to bring more of its arms to bear on crushing him into paste.

“Bik-k-k-k,” he choked, ashamed to call on the scoundrel’s aid but knowing he could not free himself.

“What’s that, lad? You need to speak up,” Bikker said. A tentacle tried to reach around Bikker’s chest but the bearded swordsman punched it away with his free hand. Another lashed him across the side of the head, a glancing blow but strong enough to knock Bikker sideways. “Blast your eyes,” Bikker said. “This is not what I expected of our reacquaintance.” Bikker’s sword whirled through the air, droplets of acid falling like rain on the beast so it recoiled in pain. The pitted blade sliced through the tentacle around Croy’s throat as easy as it could cut paper. The stump of the cut arm waved desperately in the air, its wound cauterized by the hissing acid. Another swing and Croy’s leg was free.

“My thanks,” Croy called as he dodged away from another tentacle bent on snaring his sword arm.

“Save them. The damned thing is still growing. If we’re going to kill it, it’s best done soon. I’ll clear you a path—go for its heart, if it has one!” Acidtongue swung around and around like a scythe mowing wheat. Bikker did not even bother with proper flourishes and cutting strokes, instead engaging the demon with a series of sweeping moulinet cuts. Though he barely touched the demon’s arms, they were severed right and left, the tapered ends of the tentacles dropping all around them to writhe and die separately on the ground.