She sent a bolt outward. The sorcerer swiped it to sparks with his blade and advanced on her. Again-"Dramasthe!"-and again he knocked it away, almost nonchalantly. But that shot had been meant as a distraction. Amira took a step back and pointed her staff at her foe.

"Keljan saule!" The runes along the staff flared like hot coals kissed by a soft breeze. She aimed for the bastard's head-and that was her mistake. He didn't bother to try to deflect the shard of light, but crouched. The light flew over his head to disappear in the storm.

Amira gathered her breath, hoping there was time for another spell. A shadow emerged from the swirling snow. The light emanating from Amira did not reflect off the club the man was whirling on the end of a leather leash, for it was of the blackest iron. "Gyaidun, no!" she shouted. But where her attack had failed, Gyaidun's struck. Perhaps the dark sorcerer had simply been expecting only magical attacks, for the warrior's club swung down and connected with solid flesh somewhere in the folds of the cloak. The sorcerer did not collapse, but he did stumble down the slope. Gyaidun turned to her and shouted, "Get Jalan and go! Go!" Then he turned back to his foe, and it was all he could do to stay alive. Tears welling in her eyes, Amira turned and ran down the hill.

Every childhood nightmare, every horror feared at the back of the north wind, had taken form before Gyaidun, swathed in an ash-gray cloak, and it was coming for him. No battle cry or taunts of defiance did the sorcerer make. He was cold death, and he was coming for Gyaidun. The muscles in Gyaidun's shoulder were a mass of pain from swinging the heavy iron club, his legs felt both heavy and empty, and every breath of frigid air was like needles in his lungs. Still, Gyaidun fought, swinging his club and long knife. For the first few strikes, it was attack, if only in hopes of buying Amira enough time to get away. But then every swipe became an effort to keep the sorcerer at bay or to parry a thrust of his sword. Gyaidun retreated, half-stumbling back up the hill and away from Amira and Jalan.

In the confusion of the fight, Amira had lost her bearings, and it took her a moment to relocate Jalan. When she saw him, her first thought was that he had not moved since she'd seen him, her second that the blanket of snow was so thick on him now that he would soon be covered completely, and the third was to wonder at the dark shape that emerged from nothingness over Jalan. Amira screamed. But then the shape unfolded and she saw it for what it was-a huge cloak made up of many animal hides and painted in arcane symbols. The belkagen emerged from the folds of his cloak and stood over Jalan. "Go help Gyaidun! I will take the boy!" "No!" Amira said as she slid to a stop over her son. "I'm not leaving him again." "You must!" "I won't!" "Lady," said the belkagen, and though he had to shout to be heard over the wind, there was tenderness in his voice. "Hro'nyewachu does not give such weapons of power lightly. The staff was given to you for a reason. Do not let it be in vain." Amira knelt over her son. She brushed the snow away and pulled at the fabric until she could see his face. His eyes were closed-he looked so thin and worn!-but she could see his chest rising and falling. He was alive. If he had been hurt in the fall, it did not seem serious. "I will see to him, Lady!" said the belkagen.

She rose and looked the old elf in the eye. "Your blood if you don't."

The belkagen flinched, but something told Amira it was not at her threat but at something else her words had hit. "On my blood!" said the belkagen. Amira took two steps up the hill, then turned again.

"Tell him…" she said. "Tell Jalan I love him." She looked down at her son, then spun and sped up the hill.

Flickers of light, like minuscule bolts of cold lightning, flashed along the sorcerer's blade. Gyaidun stepped out of range and swung his own weapon, putting every bit of strength into it. The sorcerer's blade flicked down and then up, and Gyaidun felt the leather connecting his wrist to his club part. The heavy weight of black iron flew into the snow-stitched darkness. Gyaidun scrambled backward, the sorcerer advancing on him, and on the fourth step his heel struck a rock or tussock buried under the snow and he stumbled. He hit the ground but kept going, struggling like a crab on all fours. The thing in the ash-gray cloak lunged, his cloak flaring in the gale, and grabbed Gyaidun under the chin. The grip was beyond cold. It seemed to leech every bit of warmth from Gyaidun's skull, and he could feel his bones and the fluids in his ears freezing. The sorcerer stood, and although the arm that gripped him was thinner than a starved cadaver, he lifted Gyaidun's thick frame off the ground and brought him close.

Even with his elf-blessed sight, Gyaidun's vision could not penetrate the depths of the sorcerer's cowl, not even when the sorcerer pulled him close. The wind was at the sorcerer's back, and Gyaidun could smell the stench of tombs and worse from the thing's robes. The sorcerer inhaled deeply-Gyaidun could just hear it over the wind.

"Yes," said the sorcerer. "I know your blood. You might have been the one. Might have-" Gyaidun thrust his knife into the robes. He kept the blade sharp enough to shave with, and the point punctured through the layers of cloth. Gyaidun felt the steel hit a rib, turn, and plunge deep. The sorcerer gasped, but his grip did not weaken. "You have bite," the sorcerer said. "Like your pup. He fought, too." Blind rage filled Gyaidun. He stabbed, slashed, kicked, and punched. The sorcerer caught his wrist that held the knife, twisted, squeezed-Gyaidun held on through the bones grinding, but when they broke he let go and the knife fell to the ground. "Enough," said the sorcerer. "Time to die.

Time to-" An avalanche of snarling, whimpering fur hit them. The icy grip under his jaw slipped, and Gyaidun hit the snow and rolled free.

A massive paw smashed his shoulder into the ground, then was gone. His body was a mass of pain, but Gyaidun forced himself to keep rolling down the hill. He stopped several paces down and looked up just in time to see white haunches and tail disappearing into the storm. The sorcerer's winter wolf. It was still blinded by Amira's spell and maddened by pain. It must have slammed into them. Then the shadow was on him again, the life-draining hand gripping his throat and squeezing as the sorcerer lifted him. Gyaidun could feel the blood in his neck freezing, the veins bursting, his skin blistering and cracking from the cold. The grip tightened, and Gyaidun couldn't breathe. Darkness rimmed the edges of his vision, a pulsing mass of it closing in-and then Gyaidun noticed a change in the light. It seemed golden. Soft.

Even warm. And he had time to wonder if he was crossing over into the afterlife beforeA shard of light struck the sorcerer's midriff. A shriek louder than boulders cracking struck his ears, and Gyaidun went flying. He hit the ground hard, and his first thought was-Why do I smell blossoms? Gasping for air, he pushed himself up and wiped the snow from his face. Not ten paces away, the sorcerer and Amira were engaged in battle, spells flying and Amira's golden staff shining like summer's heart. It struck the sorcerer's blade, and sparks of silver and gold mingled with the blowing snowfall. "Enough!" the sorcerer said, and he flew backward out of the lady's reach. He landed with the practiced ease of a Shou monk, then raised his hands to the storm and shouted, "Uthrekh rakhshan thra!" The gale became a living thing, and Gyaidun felt the already frigid temperature plummet. The air in his throat thickened, choking him. The moisture in his eyes began to freeze, and his skin seemed to turn to stone. "Kenhakye unethke!" shouted Amira, her staff held high. Warmth and light flowed out from her, pushing back the sorcerer's spell. The sorcerer stood, arms still outstretched, and stared at Amira. Although Gyaidun could not see his face, he could sense that sorcerer was stunned at the thwarting of his magic. Enraged, the sorcerer took to the air again in a great leap, his sword raised above his flying robes. Blade struck staff in another shower of sparks, but this time Amira did not retreat and counter.