Pippin sat with his knees drawn up and the ball between then. He bent low over it....Soon all the inside seemed on fire; the ball was spinning, or the lights within were revolving. Suddenly the lights went out.
-- J.R.R.Tolkien, "The Two Towers"
Pippin cried out and blindly shoved the palantir away from him. He hid his face in his hands, trembling, until the pleasant sounds of the breeze over heather comforted him. At last he thought himself calm enough to stealthily return the ball to Gandalf's side.
Then a terrible voice roared, "So you have come back? Why have you neglected to report for so long?"
Pippin ducked down only to realise the grass was gone and replaced by sharp stones. He knelt in the center of a circle of fire; he was very nearly overwhelmed by the oppressive heat, but he staggered to his feet and tried to shield his watering eyes from the flame as he vainly sought the missing palantir. It had gotten him here, after all, and he dearly hoped it could save him as well.
He saw the shadow only a second before it threw him to the ground. A hand smashed into his face, covering his eyes and mouth in one huge palm -- which stank of burning flesh -- and the other hand landed on Pippin's chest, pinning him to the ground. He flailed and kicked, and when he scratched at it, he thought the skin crumbled like charred wood.
It demanded, "Who are you?"
Pippin was too shocked to reply. He thought he felt claws pinching through his shirt, reaching for his pounding heart, while the other hand suffocated him. He resumed fighting; the hand on his head moved to let him breathe but even without seeing he sensed the face of -- of whatever It was -- leering at him.
"Who are you?" his captor asked again, but in a different tone. It was almost a purr -- mockery wrapped in comfort -- and it terrified Pippin even more. He wanted to cry. The hand remained over his eyes as something slithered along his law, like a tongue licking his sweat; it felt like candle wax that burned, then solidified, on his skin. He gasped -- instantly the tongue was on his lips, tasting of bile and rot. Pippin gagged but the mouth sucked his breath away.
He stopped struggling. The hands and mouth removed themselves, but Pippin lacked the will to open his eyes. He vaguely heard the question again: "Who are you?"
"A hobbit," he deliriously replied.
Cruel laughter stabbed at him, delighting in his tears and torment, and a pointy finger poked at Pippin's heart. "We shall meet again soon. Tell Saruman this...dainty...is not for him. We will send for it at once. Do you understand? Just say that!"
The palantir's familiar weight dropped into Pippin's hand. For a while he dared not look, even after the surrounding fire seemed to cool, for he feared that the grass and breeze and cricket chirps were only another illusion about to be shattered.
A pair of hand grasped him. He cried out, but then he knew these were Gandalf's hands, firm yet so gentle.
"Peregrin Took!" the wizard commanded. "Come back!"
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