The Phlegethon?” He shinned along the ledge. They’d made it roughly a third of the way down the cliff – still high enough up to die if they fell. “Sounds like a marathon for hawking spitballs.”“Please don’t make me laugh,” she said. “Just trying to keep things light.” “Thanks,” she grunted, nearly missing the ledge with her bad foot. “I’ll have a smile on my face as I plummet to my death.
-Rick Riordan
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