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The water was foul, thick with blood and slime.
It came off the wings of huge mothlike creatures drifting and looping in the underwater current.
When beowulf opened his eyes again there was a gleam of light below him. It grew, a ghostly green spot, bigger and bigger. It was alive, this light. it quivered. It throbbed. She was waiting. she made no noise. her tentacle arms were part of rhe obsequious water.
Beowulf experienced a few seconds of sheer panic. There was no escaping, none, from these spongy intangible fingers that pulled him on, on, on irresistibly, insistent, coaxing mineral. he could drown this way.
Beowulf snatched at his sword. Its jewels were sticky from her vile embrace. it was difficult to hold. The hilt slipped in his hand. nevertheless, he managed to swing at the tentacles that gripped him. the blade bounced off. her skin was too tough and scaly
Beowulf screamed with fright. And the scream saved him. He stopped shaking. He cased his struggling. He let him self go dead in her clammy grasp. Grendel's mother did not laugh now. she pulled him no more urgently.
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