Still beneath La Greche

Something crunched under foot and Rosco immediately dropped into a fighting stance; his knees bending, his centre of gravity lowering, his feet swivelling apart to improve his balance.  His eyes felt tight as they still tried to focus on the nothing in front of him, his brain insisting that there couldn't really be no light.
"Ha. Ha."  The whisperer's voice sounded hoarser now, and his (her?) speech was slowing.  "A fighter, are you?"
"How can you see me?" said Rosco, his head turning, listening intently, trying to work out which direction the voice was coming from.
"I can feel.  Your.  Heat."  whispered the voice.  "It is.  Much.  Strong. Er.... Than so many–"
"Enough!"  Rosco could feel sweat forming on his forehead, and a droplet of it rolled down the back of his neck, surprisingly cold.  His inability to see was frustrating and scaring him, and the laboured struggle of the whispered to get any words out set his nerve ajangle.  "I'm hot, I get it."
The whisperer laughed again, a dry, rustly and surprisingly dirty sound.  "Egotist," he (she?) said.
Something futzed and a weak light spilled out from Rosco's helmet lamp, revealing the wall near his face once more, the rope coiled on the floor, and the gritty black sand on the floor.  He stayed tensed in his stance, suspecting that the whisperer wouldn't move until the light gave out once more.
"These bones," he called out.  "I can't see any."
"You're not near.  Them." came the reply.
Rosco looked around, moving his head carefully and smoothly, hoping not to cause the light to turn off again, and was rewarded with the persistence of the beam.  The cavern extended off to his left and in front of him, but behind him and to his right was a natural corner of rock.  Wondering how safe he really was he picked up one end of the rope and edged his way to the left, determined to be able to find his way back if his light went out again.
Eight steps were enough for the first bone to come into view; a long bone, heavy looking, with a ball-joint at one end and tatters of flesh still clinging to it.  It was abhuman, but more disturbing were the evident teeth marks all along it.
"Is that enough. For. You?" gasped the whisperer.
"It's a bone," said Rosco, reaching out slowly, still tense, still ready to spring.  He picked the bone up with his free hand.  It was heavy, but not as heavy as the broadsword he'd trained with, and the length was similar.  "Perhaps it's even a weapon."
"Do you think.  That.  It's.  Enou–"
"Enough of a weapon?  Against someone who can't get three words out without running out of breath?"
Again, that papery laughter, like a moth were fluttering giant wings from where it perched on a rose-coloured wall.
"Why would an. Attacker.  Tell. You–"
"Oh crap."  Roscomboltin carefully swivelled around, but the small circle of light still showed no signs of anyone else, or even any more bones.  Somewhere – he still couldn't locate it – the whisperer chuckled to itself, and then, back where the other end of the rope was, the rope suddenly went slack as though the rest of it had been picked up.