“A girl half my age swept by and slammed two giant tankard filled with beer on the table. Ragnvald held his up. I smashed my tankard against his. Beer splashed. We raised the tankard and pretended to take much bigger gulps than we did.”

“On the other side of the ledger stood the fact that fotitude was useless against it (liquor). Even the mightiest potsman, a paladin who could match tankards with a whole alehouse of swag-bellies Falstaffs and outquaff the parcel of them, would see his length measured upon the floor by less liquid than it would take to fill his hat.”

“Like I would buy a beer for some chick at a bar,” he said, shaking his head. I held up my beer, and he pulled up one side of his mouth into a half-smile. “You’re different.”

“Raise up your glasses against evil forces; Whiskey for my men, beer for my horses.”

“What inn is thisWhere for the nightPeculiar traveller comes?Who is the landlord?Where are the maids?Behold, what curious rooms!No ruddy fires on the hearth,No brimming tankards flow.Necromancer, landlord,Who are these below?”

“Should she slam his head into the bar or toss her beer on him? Damn shame to waste good beer.”