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“I might have said ‘crusted.’”
“I’m the Fire Salamander. Without me there would be no fire in the
universe. Only I fear I’ve allowed myself to get old. Too old. And now I’ve
become incapable of burning anything but charcloth these days. And even
then, it’s whssh! pfloom! but there’s no heat any more. You were right. I’m so
tired.”
“I never said you were tired.”
“Not to me. To your father. Earlier this afternoon. And then again to
Signore Vendiri. But no offense. Honest. You’re right. I’m crusted and old. I
should have immolated myself when I had the chance.”
“Oh, now, don’t say that! I think you’re perfectly beautiful.”
“And I think you’re a perfect liar. In my day, oh, now I might have agreed
with you, but now, oh, vanitas, vanitas!, now I’m too old to do it myself, and no
one will do it for me.”
“Do what?”
“Set me on fire.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And you keep not doing it.”
“Why -- why do you want to die? It’s awful.”
“Not for a Fire Salamander it isn’t awful. It’s wonderful. Every thousand
years, give or take a few, I’m supposed to burst into flames and burn, burn,
burn, into nothing but yellow ashes. But then in the ashes, you’ll see a tiny
round red egg. And that will be me. I’ll be inside that egg. And when I hatch,
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