He didn't think (not that he could). He didn't even look. He just threw himself backward, rolling awkwardly over the wet, mossy stones just as a blur of motion struck the spot where his neck had been a microsecond before.
He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his crude spear, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his bruised ribs.
Facing him, coiled on a flat rock, was a nightmare in Technicolor.
It was a snake, another snake, easily as thick as his thigh and long enough to wrap around a man twice. But it was the color that made Sol's stomach drop. It was patterned in hypnotic, swirling bands of electric blue and toxic orange. Its head was triangular and flat, the universal sign of 'I have poison glands and a bad attitude.' swaying rhythmically, tasting the air with a forked black tongue.
It swayed back and forth, its tongue flicking, looking at Sol not with fear, but with the cold calculation of a creature that had found a snack.
