Aha. So it had sniffed him out, as he'd suspected, but it still wasn't ready to kill him.

Assurance that it could at any moment is probably why it's being so free with information. Adrenaline dampens but doesn't mute the chill that sluices down Myr's spine and puddles in his gut; it was a good thing he'd dictated those letters, after all. He suppresses a shiver.

"Quite the contrary," he says, matching its tone. "I knew already it was," necessary and right, "But I'd rather have the measure of what I'm facing from the thing itself."

He cocks his head to one side, then, as it changes tack. "There's ways to make people drink." It's almost naive.

He also knows that's not what it's getting at, but let it threaten more explicitly, if it would.