Of Thirst

Baskevyl’s mouth tasted as dry as a storm coat’s pocket lining, and his tongue felt like a scrap of webbing. He’d snatched two hours’ sleep since they’d entered the house, and all one hundred and twenty minutes of it had been a dream about a fountain, gushing pure, bright liquid.

[Only in Death]
{Gaunt's Ghosts - Book 11}
Dan Abnett