Apricot brandy. Writing.
Nope, the combo doesn't work for me.
An icy snow-laden gust of wind blew across the room, from open window through open door, and Smith shivered. 'My God, it's bitter.'
'Loss of blood,' Schaffer said briefly, then added, unsympathetically: 'And all that brandy you guzzled back there. When it comes to opening pores--'
He broke off and lay very still, lowering his head a fraction to sight along the barrel of his schmeisser.
--from "Where Eagles Dare," Alistair MacLean