Crowley's managed well, only once or twice remarking some thin, outstretched twig clipping the very tip of his primaries; perhaps there's something to be said for making ninety down rush-hour Oxford Street after all. And what is this, if not taking a corner on two wheels?

The ground is starting to rise under him, now; the nearest outcrop juts out of the desert, ringed with jagged rocks like a barbed-wire fence. And there, there, just a little to the left, there's one that's tipped over, a narrow slab leaning back against the sheer rock-face that's at

maybe

(probably)

just enough

of an incline.

Crowley's answering shout to Raguel is not very loud - but it echoes off the mountains with perfect clarity.

"Speak for yourself - "