Abia’s cells twist and scream with the pressure of the cold. Her fingers feel brittle, as though one swift knock could loose them from their moorings. She wears the agony on her face, but Cang is heedless, his mind blank, hungry for gold. He approaches her offered pile of stones with delusional greed. When he’s got both hands on the loot — such that it is — Abia strikes with her frozen fingers.

Her aim is good, Cang’s distraction is entire. She finds a space of open skin on his neck, makes contact. Instantly the cold flows into him, rushes through Abia’s bloodstream to freeze Cang’s flesh. His face twists in agony as he goes cold.

Washed with sadness, Abia struggles his rigid form out from the cave, lets the heavy door slowly shut behind her.

Abia’s attempt at jolting Cang with cold having failed, the magic fades from her fingers. She lets her hand fall to her side, as she watches Cang fill his overloaded pockets, sacks, pouches. Each is already fat with stone, but he fills them all the same, letting sand and grit run over their mouths and spill back onto the earth.

With a grimace, Abia wills more energy into her hand. Her nerves are wracked with pain as they twist and chill. She feels a corrupt mass flare up within her brain but pushes aside the sensation to focus on freezing her fingers.

When the spell is at last, painfully cast, Abia grabs up a few choice stones and offers them hesitantly to Cang, like a meal for a cat. He spots the stones and appears delighted, trotting over to accept them. Abia’s frozen hand hovers, ready to strike.

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Abia returns to the cavern. First in, last out is Cang, counting up his gems of rock and stone, a look of ebullience pasted across his face, such that Abia had never seen on him before. She takes a cautious step toward him, and he flinches. He’s not looking straight at her — how could he, with all this gold about? — but still, he’s twitchy.

Abia feels a wave of fatigue from activating the freezing in her fingers, but pushes past it. Again, frost creeps down her digits. She carefully approaches Cang, but when her fingers near his flesh, he bats her arm away with an instinctive flick of his wrist. He’s not alarmed, but he’s defensive.

“Please, Cang,” Abia says. “I try to help you.”

Cang, though, continues as though he cannot hear, his pockets bulging with ill-gotten, valueless loot.

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