I stop. I can hardly breath and my legs ache. This must be what asthma feels like.
The stairs haven't stopped. They continue to wind out of sight above me and, when I look down, I'm not convinced I can see the floor.
The frog-man and the sharp-edged guide have gone so far ahead I can't see them. I can hear them, though. They're laughing, which only goes to show that the frog's "wife" wasn't all that important, anyway, and that they're a shower of selfish bastards.
"How do you like your tea?" the frog calls down.
How can the stairs be this tall? Where did this tower come from?
"Milk," I say between gasps. "No sugar."
My legs shake as I start climbing the stairs. I will not be defeated by a talking animal and a body-modification addict. I am better than them. If they can do it, so can I.
The frog's voice drifts down again. "It isn't all that difficult. Admitting there's a problem is the important step."
"Problem?" I mutter. "What problem?"
Who builds a tower this tall without a sodding lift? Why can't my fevered imagination come up with one?
I'm sweating like a pig, gasping like a fish and moving like a snail. This is torture. This is a nightmare. They're still going to pay.
I hear them laughing.
I keep climbing.
My legs give way and I crawl on hands and knees.
I keep climbing.
Does their laughter sound even further away?
I want to say that this is too much and it's too hard. I can't. I can barely even breath, let alone speak. I keep climbing, though, dragging my body along with shaking arms, keeping my balance as best I can on bruised knees.
I hear the frog sigh. "She's never going to admit it and I want her out of here," he says clearly to my former guide.
The guide sounds sulky although I don't catch the words.
"Oh, she'll pay for that," says the frog. "I wouldn't want to get that over with too quickly."
I feel dizzy from lack of air and stop. All I can do is hang my head and watch the stair beneath me spin. When it stops, I'll look up again and return to climbing.
"Hurry up," says the frog. "Your tea is getting cold."
Suddenly the spinning stops. I can breath. I don't have the strength to stand up but I can carry on crawling.
And there's the top of the steps, a landing, bright and cheerful and twee as any aspirational lifestyle cottage-based photo shoot. All carefully stained woods and artfully uneven surfaces.
My arms give out before I manage to drag myself fully into this idyll of middle class country life.
"Your tea," says the frog.
He puts a cup and saucer in front of me. It looks thin and delicate, some equally twee blue pattern on bone white. How... not the thing to hand to someone who can barely lift their own hand right now.
"Suit yourself," he says and turns his back on me.