Nipping quickly over you pull one of the magical never-ending torches from its wall bracket and turn back to face the advancing swarm.
You try a couple of experimental strikes, and where the bright flame goes, the tendrils recoil and back away. Striking more violently, you catch the black flesh in the fire, causing it to shrivel and coil away.
More confident, you advance towards the tomb, keeping the tendrils at bay with apparent ease. A few of the more confident ones slump to the mosaic floor of the room, smoking and sizzling.
You reach the tomb, and push the flaming torch down into the black mass that lies there. Against your expectations, there is no sound, no screeching din, just silence, but the effect is still apparent. As one, the tumultuous black tendrils snap and whip about in the air, though not approaching you, and are suddenly sucked back in through the pores from which they emerged.
You grimly hold the torch flame against the skin of the black thing, and you are rewarded as it ever-so-slowly flexes its six feet of length in a feeble attempt to move away. It has nowhere to go, though, and where your flame touches the pored and pitted skin begins to bubble and pop. This disintegration spreads across the surface of the thing extremely quickly, and before long it has been reduced to a stinking morass at the bottom of the sarcophagus.