In silence the man reined in his horse, dismounted, lifted me down to a high...

In silence the man reined in his horse, dismounted, lifted me down to a high grassy spot that was scarcely damp. In the gathering gloom he tended to his horse, which presently cropped at the grass. My eyes had become accustomed to the darkness; the flare of light from a Fire Stick, and the reddish flicker of a fire, startled me.
At first I turned away, for the unsteady flame hurt my eyes, but after a time the prospect of warmth brought me around, and I started inching toward the fire.
The man looked up, dropped what he was doing, and took a step toward me. "I can carry you," he said.
I waved him off. "I'll do it myself," I said shortly, thinking, He hesitated. I ignored him and turned my attention to easing forward. After a moment he returned to whatever he had been doing. After a little experimenting, I found that it was easiest to sit backward and inchworm along, dragging my left leg.
Soon enough I was near to his fire, which was properly built in a ring of rocks. Using the tip of his rapier, he held out chunks of bread with cheese, toasting them just enough. The smell made my mouth water.
In silence he divided the food into two portions, laying mine on a flat rock near my hand.
Then he held up a camp kettle. "Want tea? Or just water?"
"Tea," I said.
He walked off toward the waterfall. I peered after him into the gloom, saw the horse standing near the pool where the water fell. One chance of escape gone. I'd never get to the horse before he could stop me.
With a small sense of relief, I turned my attention to the bread. I was suddenly ravenous, and even though the cheese was still hot, I wolfed my share down and licked my fingers to catch the last crumbs.
By then the man had returned and set the kettle among the embers. Then he looked up, paused, then picked up his share of the bread and reached over to put it in front of me.
"That's yours," I said.
"You appear to need it more than I do," he said, looking amused. "Go ahead. I won't starve." I picked up the bread, feeling a weird sense of unreality: Did he expect me to be grateful? The situation was so strange I simply had to turn it into absurdity--it was either that or sink into fear and apprehension. "Well, does it matter if I starve?" I said. "Or do Galdran's torturers require only plump victims for their arts?