“Some questions remain!” said Psajathrion as the mock-newlyweds lay in bed together in a fairly nice inn. “Why this curse in particular? Who could cause such a thing? Are there others like it? Will its author modify it to plague the Sradites in some other way? Your clever bit of detection was an excellent start, but hardly the end of the story. And the story does not, yet, make sense.”
Itharieth looked at Psajathrion with big soulful eyes, and waved his/her eating-tube. “Perhaps my incredible and impregnating husband could go get more of those delicious grilled land-shrimps? No? Ah, by the Chozebrute’s nose-flutes, I wonder why I married him in the first place! Still — perhaps he could go back to base camp with me, and see if Xilobrax is interested in a visit to Girgar, to practice his physical magicology on the problem? Or even Borybran, the bored theologist: the world whistles of distant gods, and may the Grimple’s wimple descend upon me if this isn’t the sort of thing gods are sometimes involved in!”
“Did I actually marry you, much less impregnate you?” asked Psajathrion. “I do not believe I have done!”
“Neither you nor anyone else has yet married me. Unfortunate, but true. And such attempts at impregnation as may or may have happened have evidently been unsuccessful,” said Itharieth.
Psajathrion eyed Itharieth curiously, but he/she did not elaborate. For those who care about such things — woe and alas! For neither of them has ever explained what, if anything, their physical involvement was like, even when they were a supposedly-married couple sharing a bed.
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