Shama was beyond hot. Long past the boundaries of that paltry word, she wallowed in a valley of sweltering waves of heat. The very air shimmered, casting the rocks in a vaguely malevolent purple.
She paused to claw at the nubs of the fangs buried behind her upper fan. They would fall out after a few days, as they always did, but until then the tiny silver want would follow her.
She was tired of walking through the valley. Tired of the beating heat of the sun. She wanted water, deep, cool, and buoyant against her massive bulk. But there was the want that nagged her, pestered her, drove her down the valley towards the other talking stones.
This was the last time, she promised herself, the last time she’d listen to the stones when they called her out of the sea. But she was on her second handful of last times, and she knew it was pointless. When they called, she’d answer.
Even if they never told her why.