Blackfeather Woods I send a pestilence, a plague

Sheogorath chuckled at the boy's comment. He said, "I've often thought that, myself." But Cicero hadn't. Sheogorath was not as much a lover as pain as Cicero; it gave him mere madness, not the nearly sensual joy that Cicero got from the stings of pain. No, his tastes lay elsewhere. "But I know my limits." Cicero didn't always. He'd just have to keep him locked up. "The trick is to try only the littlest bit of it at first, so that you can find out its strength." You'd find out about the worst of the poisons before actually dying, then.