Fassn and Abianarin have never known snow. Its cold fangs bite their skin. Abia feels an intense understanding of the hirsute hides of many beasts. Fassn begs Old Ajralan to make him cold-blooded and at last end the torture.
The wind howls like a predator.
Dunes of snow grow and fade before their eyes under the gale. Shyan bristles against it and hauls her frigid companions to their feet. “We follow the sun,” she says, and leads a haggard march.