So you want me to be cruel. You crave the ripping pain, fire in your flesh, knife into your bone. You long for the lash of my acid tongue. Oh, but I won't give you that pleasure; I will not sate your lust. Not yet. My touch is soft, and my heart is calm. My potion requires low heat, slow burning fire. Ashwinder eggs are too flammable; they must be frozen, or they will burn you to cinders. A wave of my wand, a spin of my ladle, a fleeting silver sparkle, and I will drown you in crepe-satin passion.