They remained that way for one endless, eternal minute, the stain of blood spreading slowly over the troll’s chest, the Cat shaman saying to and fro very slowly, waiting for the troll to strike. Tom balled his fists and bit on his tongue, trying to focus the pains all through his body into resistance. He did not close his eyes, but still stared at the waiting cat. He longed with every ounce of instinct to crush his tormentor, lying so invitingly in the grass. He fought that longing with everything better than instinct that he possessed.