Unexpectedly turned into a cat, Kat falls into Middle-earth with the mission to prevent a death. In a feline form she can only communicate with the elf Legolas - and that he is such an attractive specimen is certainly not helpful...
A humorous (but...
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"Rincewind had always relied on running away. But sometimes, perhaps, you had to stand and fight, if only because there was nowhere left to run."
― Terry Pratchett, Interesting Times
47. Mountain of Doom
They were very close to the mountain now, and the air was thick with the foul smell of rotten eggs. In her present form, Kat's nose rarely divided smells into good or bad, but this reek was strong enough even to bother her.
The grey desert was empty; the last orcs had passed by days ago, which made it possible for Frodo and Sam to walk quite in the open. As exhausted as they seemed, that was their small luck. Moving stealthily required a certain measure of energy.
"No food. No food for poor Sméagol," Gollum whined. "Why are the stupid hobbitses going this way?"
Kat didn't pay attention to him. She was hungry too, and very thirsty, but at the foot of the volcano she saw one of the visions from Galadriel's Mirror play out: Sam taking Frodo on his back, preparing to carry him up the steep slope. Seeing it happen for real gave her an ominous sense of foreboding, that she was nearing the end of her adventure.
She distantly heard Sam's voice, echoing across the rocky, deserted ground: "Come, Mr Frodo! I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get!"
"Up?" whispered Gollum. He was crouching behind a large boulder to hide from the hobbits' view until nightfall. "He carries it up?" Suddenly a dangerous glint alighted in his large eyes. "Why would Master carry the Precious up a mountain of fire? Tell me that, elf-cat!"
A trickle of fear ran through Kat at his tone of voice. He must have realized the truth at last.
"Curse him! Curse him! Wicked Masster! He wants to hurt the Precious!" He grabbed Kat by the scruff of her neck, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You knew," he accused.
She hissed and showed her claws threateningly until he dropped her.
"Wicked elf-cat. Wicked Master. Tricking poor old Sméagol." He muffled his cough with his arm. "We must kill him. Yesss... Kill him."
Kat shook her head vigorously. If only she could speak! Then at least she could try to make him understand that with the Ring destroyed, he might heal from whatever it was doing to his head.
"I don't listen to you," he mumbled sullenly.
She glared at him, but then pushed down her annoyance and did the only thing she could, something she knew would calm him and perhaps make him think less violent thoughts. She sat in his lap, and purred.
After a while he became less tense, and began stroking her back like she knew he would. "If Master burns it, nobody can have it," he mused. "Not the hobbitses, not the Black One, not poor Sméagol."
