If there was one constant, the man didn't know when to shut up. Months in, and even with all his years, Sobek had never met someone who didn't pick up the proper rhythm and bearing before his tongue was cut out. The thought had crossed his mind more than once. He didn't need the man to talk out loud to dig through his mind. Perhaps he would do so later. Or he'd remove the Doctor's vocal chords, slowly, like plucking out the rot from fruit.

The Doctor was weakening despite the physical superiority to humans. One heart had stuttered, tried vainly to hold on, then went out, over several sessions. Sobek, sensitive to the failing vibrations in the air, the heat, thought it one of the most beautiful things he'd ever heard and felt. It never grew old. There was nothing like a heart stumbling and failing while the being was aware, struggling to push blood through the veins, and yet incredibly enough, the man continued to live anyway.

"Should you speak Truth, your death would be granted to you. Merciful. Swift. Painless. You need suffer no longer," Sobek said. It was a last out for him. In the meantime, the God picked up from the table a device that looked like a bastard child of a clawed poker, the tips as sharp as his talons, and a miniature staff weapon, the device black as soot and small enough to fit up a sleeve against the arm. Sobek held it up against his arm. A torture device, old and unoriginal, the God thought, but effective.

Sobek didn't bother to use it himself. This form of torture was beneath him. Reserved for those who didn't understand the beauty that could be made through violence.

He handed it to a Jaffa instead, who stepped up to the Doctor, and without much more prompting, stabbed the device into the old claw wounds in his side, activating the device as it buried itself in his skin.