Lifts Harry

Deirdre turned toward me, her blade-hair rasping and slithering against itself, and shook her head with an expression of faint disgust. “You’ve won the round, boy. There’s no point in doing a victory dance too.”
“Still need the big guy to give me a lift,” I insisted.
“Why?” she demanded.
I jerked a thumb at the Gate of Ice. “They’re moving in a pattern. If I can see the whole field, if I can track the pattern, I can find a way through. But I can’t see over the first row of blocks. So I need to get higher.”
Deirdre stared at me steadily, both sets of eyes on mine, and I dropped my gaze away from hers hurriedly. The last thing I needed, at the moment, was to accidentally find myself in a soul gaze with a Fallen angel or a psychotic murderess with centuries of dark deeds behind her.
“Very well,” she said. “I will lift you.”
“How?” I asked.
Her hair suddenly burst into motion, striking down into the stone of the cavern floor and sending up bursts of sparks where the steely stuff bit deep into the rock. I would have jumped back from her if doing so wouldn’t have put me far enough out onto the ice to get myself smashed flat. Then some more of the blades slithered down to the floor and lay flat, side by side, in several layers. It was like looking at a floor tile made from razor blades.
“Stand there,” Deirdre said. Plenty of strands of her hair were still free and moving slightly. “I will lift you.”
I arched an eyebrow at her. “You’re kidding, right? What happens if you drop me? It’ll be like I fell into a blender.”
“Well, golly, Dresden,” she said, deadpan, “then I guess it looks like you’ll be well motivated to keep your balance and think positive thoughts.”
“Heh,” said Grey.
I glowered at him for a second and then said, “Fine,” and stepped onto Deirdre’s hair, keeping some bend in my knees.
The hair moved and she lifted me slowly, while other razor-blade strands rustled and rasped around me. There was something deliberate about the motion, as if it was taking all of her concentration to prevent herself from slicing me into confetti, and I decided that a comment about split ends and using some chain-saw oil for conditioner could go unspoken.
That’s what I call diplomacy.
She got my feet up maybe ten feet off the ground, which was more than enough for me to be able to look over the entire two hundred yards. I lifted my staff, murmured a word, and willed more light to issue forth from it. The air was filled with droplets of water and tiny chips of ice, where the blocks were smashing into one another, creating a glittering haze over everything, but I could track the motion of the blocks well enough, and in the archway ahead, I could see another lever exactly like the one at the Gate of Fire.


Skin Game Chapter 38, Page 320-321