“There, close enough to spit on--if I'd been a barbarian and inclined to spit--was the dragon.”

“They'd poisoned me, dammit. Probably to trade my dead body to the barbarians for Wulfgar's safe return. Or maybe just for the fun of it.”

“Still,” I said, “I am sorry. But I was desperate to rescue my sister.”“I understand,” the sagging dragon assured me. He explained, “I, too, had a sister, once.”The past tense didn't escape me. “What happened to her?” I asked, feeling we were connected, two of a kind after all, sharing similar personal tragedies.“I had to eat her,” the dragon said, “to keep her from stealing my gold.”

“If you don't like vampire games, don't play”

“She sighed. Loudly. "Physical appearance is not what is important."Yeah right. Tell that to any girl who hasn't bothered to put on a presentable shirt or fix her hair because she's only running into the grocery store to get a quart of milk for her grandmother, and who does she see tending the 7-ITEMS-OR-LESS cash register but the guy of her dreams, except she can't even say hi—much less try to develop a meaningful relationship—since she looks like the poster child for the terminally geeky.”

“And there was this sweet-looking little old lady with her white hair in a bun and everything, the typical grandmother type, and she was swearing her head off. I guess Alzheimer's had brought out her inner sailor.”

“if Saint Bruce doesn't like your poem, he chops your head off.”