"Here," he said.
"Thank you."
The shamans heavily salted their meat and held it up to praise the goddess before they ate it. Mikhail bit into his own piece of meat, so laden with salt it drew all the moisture out of his tongue.
The youngest shaman tried his language:
"The weather is nice today?" Sagal-zimu asked.
"Yes. The weather is good."
"Do you think it will rain?"
"I don't know. I'm not a meteorologist."
The young shaman gave him a puzzled expression. While they spoke the same language, they did not understand his technology.
The questions shifted to become more personal. What do Angelics eat? Why doesn't he grow a beard? Do Angelics use a chamber pot? Is it true, that his sky canoe fell from the stars?
At last they asked the question he expected.
"What do you think of the
