"I do," replied the host. "And it matters little whether one calls it aschischia aranion or – my personal favorite – jerîza, after the fashion of the Haradrins. What matters is that, on imbibing it, it seems that your desires take shape, and the humblest hall becomes a golden mist above seas of foam that sigh upon the margins of the world."
"Do you know," said Arafrantz, "that I have a great desire to judge for myself the truth or falsity of these encomia?"
"Judge, my guest, but be not overhasty in your judgements, for there is a battle between nature and this divine substance, and hashberry can afford to lose a host better than you to lose a company, as it were. Now taste hashberry! Taste!" He gave order for Gali to fill a nazghouleh of the mysterious substance, and handed it to his guest.
"But wait," he added. "We must go to the Hall of Fire, in order that the experience may be complete." He led Arafrantz to a smaller room, containing two divans and several sculptures of spider-women in suggestive postures. Gali lit Arafrantz's nazghouleh, and then Éarendeau's, as reverently as if he were serving them Mordeaux or fish. After some charming observations about Haradric customs like smurf-hunting (djihad-es-smuruf), Éarendeau withdrew.
