What he had initially taken as a carnal endeavor had turned into somehow both a fitful and yet deep sleep. He had let his guard down, and while he hadn't paid the ultimate price, it was a hefty one. His body ached, but he still had strength in him. He spat venomous curses at the woman, wanting nothing more than to get his hands on her, and not for anything pleasant. He had gotten out of worse, though this one had particularly caught him off-guard. Amal swore he would get out of here, and when he did he would do as he said and opened her belly with his knife. 

Amal looked at the man as he casually tossed him a chicken bone, seeing the sneer and watching him walk away into the dank halls of the dreaded cells. As the moments passed, he felt his wrath go from overwhelming to a distant simmer, and he could think more clearly. The fat gaoler had a point. He slid his foot out of its sandal, and he felt around on the floor until his heel bumped into the chicken bone. Sliding the object between his big toe and secondary one, he lifted his leg up by its side and bit into the bone a dozen times with his molars until it snapped in half. He coughed and spat out the lesser side, and arched his back to reach his foot above his head, limber as the apes that lurked south of Kush. He did not know precisely how long he worked at the lock, but he knew the usual shemite mechanisms, and eventually the sharpened bone served as a suitable lock-pick. 

He felt success flood into him as the manacle snapped open, and he grinned evilly. 

He placed the bone in his freed hand and picked the lock of the other, and it was during this that he smelled something rotten and awful, followed by a raspy voice of one who seemed on the brink of dehydration. 

"What know you of the Serpent woman?" It asked. Amal looked to where he heard the voice. A lean, gangly old man with a wispy beard gripped the bars and looked at him with sullen eyes. He looked so malnourished and weaselly, Amal felt a strong breeze would break his bones and rip the beard off his pointed chin. He looked at Amal as if he was the key to the world's redemption, and it both disturbed and confused the cutthroat. The smell, he realized, was from the old man's mouth. "Know you the secret of what she seeks?" 

"What I know is she will die," Amal promised softly as his next manacle popped open. The bone was still sharp, and so he kept it in his hand as he got to his feet, the thews of his limbs were as ready as the day he had first murdered a man. "Do not get in my way, elder, or you will be first." 

"All die, thief." He croaked, reaching for Amal as if he could touch him from across the cells. "But there is more to you and the priestess. More you have yet to finish. But my task is done, though my spirit yearns for life." His last word ended in a long breath, and to Amal's horror, snakes began to slither out of the aged vagabond, his mouth, nostrils, and ears like venom pits, and his form went from lean to naught but bones and skin like rags. Amal stepped away from the spent corpse, and to his left he suddenly noticed the door to his cell was open. 

The old man was not reaching for Amal, but the door. He had opened it, somehow. The serpents coiled away into the darkness as Amal felt a chill run up his spine.