Stamping with rage, the Jotun hammered his huge fist upon a tree-trunk until bark flew in every direction.
The Jotun's voice rumbled hideously as he talked into his goblet.
But the Jotun shook him off to stride forward, clanking his heels with intentional noisiness upon the stone floor.
"No such purpose had I," the Jotun said with a touch of surliness.
Thorkel left off laughing to grasp the Jotun's arm and try to drag him backwards.
The next instant, she even drew a little clink from one of the Jotun's silver buttons.
She stood before the Jotun as straight and unbending as a spear-shaft, and her eyes were reflections of his own.
"To lose the honor of playing with the King," the Jotun broke in, making a long step forward.
Great would have been the Jotun race, had they all lived; and not a man left in Midgard.
The words were not a question but a breathless assertion as she remembered the Jotun's last threat.