I'd already uncorked and guzzled half my second Bordeaux when my dear friend Montresor appeared amid the pressing crowd. His draping cloak reminded me much of a bat, I thought, and took a swig.

This Montresor was my dear friend, wasn't he? Perhaps. It was possible. Who, again? I peered for several minutes at the dark lines set into his sallow, sour face, glanced down at the bottle label, then threw my arm around his shoulders. If he wasn't my friend before, he was for tonight. "Ah, Montresor. Would not you say this evening is unmatched for loveliness? And my bells the same." I tipped my head forward to call their jingle.

"You are luckily met," said this Montresor, with a faded smile. "I have received a pipe of what passes for amontillado, and I have my doubts."

I pulled myself back to stare into his face; for just a moment there were two of him, blurred together as I blinked myself back to full consciousness. "Amontillado? Impossible!"

"I have my doubts." His smile died. The moon waxed his skin. "I was fearful of losing a bargain."

"Amontillado!"

"As you are engaged," said Montresor, turning away, "I am on my way to Luchesi. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me--"

"Luchesi cannot tell amontillado from sherry."

Montresor raised his eyebrows and hugged his arms to himself, shrugging. "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."

The bottle nearly slipped from my hand. "Come, let us go to your vaults."

"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement." I remembered why this man and I hardly met well with each other: His constant cordiality scratched my patience.

"I have no engagement; come." As if this Luchesi peasant had as fine a taste as my well-trained pallet. I stepped in front of Montresor.

He said something about my being sick, severe cold, niter. But in my mind was etched the image of Luchesi's sun-burnt skin and bulging chins, the way food left his mouth when he talked, the belch that underlaid his every word. I clenched my knuckles around the Bordeaux's neck. "Let us go!"

Montresor stopped talking.

I swayed for a moment, shook my head and heard a jingle. "Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish sherry from amontillado."

I clamped myself to his arm, Luchesi nowhere—nowhere—in sight.

Author's Note: Here is where I conclude, sure that you, o reader, know the end.