Jo was holding her breath when George bent down, but yelped harshly when he touched her burns in the process. "Fuck," she snapped, "I'm not a fucking chew toy!"
But the walk to the tub was short, and soon she felt the partial relief of cool water. After gripping the side of the tub with a burnt hand instinctively (and getting a searing pain and stream of profanity for her effort), Jo braced herself with her forearms and sank into the water. It wasn't total relief, but the pain dulled to something almost tolerable.
She grimaced at her friend and was just gritting out a thanks when the phantom fire reached the tops of her thighs. It wasn't just legs anymore, the horrible burn (flames that she could still almost see consuming her, sending a plume of ugly smoke high above the town square) was spreading up her pelvis and hips, blisters and raw redness twisting ultra-sensitive skin. She arched her back and screamed, gripping the tub in spite of her burnt palms, trying not to cry in the wake of more pain than she had ever actually felt in life. The execution hadn't been this bad; Jo had passed out from heat stroke before the fire even reached her knees. But the legend of her death and the reality of her thrice-burned corpse had her in throes of agony, a pain that dulled after the first shock-wave to her nerves.