Nightworld

His consciousness is fuzzy, but he still has control.

Rasalom is in solution now. All his tissues—his bones, brains, organs, nerves, intestines—have liquefied. All that he was resides in a sack suspended from the hub of the four-spoked wheel that was once his body. The spokes have grown thicker, longer, and the stony womb has enlarged to accommodate his increased size. It is a cavern now, stretching downward into the infinity where the cold fire burns. The icy glow from below chills the sack where he grows, where his constituents reorganize into his new form. The petrous columns that arch across the cavern act as conduits for the fear, the violence, the pain, the misery they siphon from the surf ace, feeding him, shaping him.

His new form shall be ready by the undawn on Friday.

But now it is time for the next step—to deny them the sight of the sun.