The Golden Cellar
The wine was red, thick as arterial blood, and it tasted of copper and old dust. "Drink," Vane said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to come from the stone itself rather than his throat. I took the cup, the chipped rim biting into my lower lip, and looked into the surface. There, swirling in the dark liquid, was not my face but a skeleton, ribcage expanding and contracting with a slow, wet...
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