The crunch of iron-shod wheels on the gravel road grated Solo's nerves. It was so hot that, after a light rain, steaming mist rose from those pebbles.
Illya lay shivering in the back of the cart, the donkey pulling it brayed its protest.
"Tovarisch, hang in."
"Have ch-choice?" Illya croaked.
"Smart aleck."
"Cannot help... full of obscure knowledge. Re-remember?"
The bell of Santa Rosita tolled ominously... a death knell for Illya as poison coursed through his veins?
A nun helped them into the white-washed church, and having a supply; injected anti-venom, taking Illya out of danger.
"Gracias Sister Bonita."
"Por nada señor. He is in God's hands now."
Still Napoleon sat, drinking a warm cerveza, keeping vigil over his sleeping partner.
.
note: Bonita means pretty.