She reached an open stretch of snow with a wonderful view down to the river but did not pause, though her stomach grumbled with hunger. Some irrational fear drove her on, glancing often over her shoulder.

Then she saw movement on the path several bluffs behind her. She stared intently and recognized the squat figures of the goblins, running swiftly. There were twenty or more of them now and terror seized her. She broke into a run, casting around for somewhere to hide. It was difficult to run in all her furs, with the skimmer and satchel banging on her back. Soon she was panting and sweating. From her sleeve she heard Buba protest sleepily, but she blundered on. She came to a stand of pine trees and leaned against one, breathing harshly as she looked behind her. Then the goblins broke from the shadows and rantoward her, waving their clubs and spears, screaming with delight.

Isabeau threw down her satchel and skimmer and drew her axe from her belt. With a sweep of her hand she conjured a circle of flame about her. Maintaining fire with no fuel for it to feed on was exhausting work but she had no time to cut down dead branches from the trees. The goblins came to a halt beyond the flames, jeering and shouting and shaking their weapons. Then the biggest of them, a brute with a helmet made horribly from a dead wolf's head, began shouting orders. Quickly the goblins gathered up handfuls of snow in their great spades of hands and threw them on the fire. As Isabeau desperately fought to keep the circle of flame burning, one raised a slingshot and slung a stone through the hissing, dancing flames. It caught her on the temple and she fell back, keeping one off with her staff while swiping at the other with the little axe. Her concentration broken, the fire fizzled away and then the goblins were upon her.

Isabeau was in danger of falling beneath the onslaught, hideous hands with filthy, broken claws dragging at her furs, clubs falling on her shoulders and back. She shook them free and leaped high into the air, catching hold of the branch above her and swinging into the tree. Four began to quarrel over her satchel, tearing it open and spilling her precious grain into the snow, while wolf-head caught hold of the tree and began to shake it. The goblin with the slingshot peppered her with stones while the other goblins swiped at her feet with their spears. Isabeau clung tightly to the tree and tried to climb high, out of their reach, though the tree was shaking alarmingly. Her maimed hand was wrenched free and she fell, swinging from the other and trying desperately to regain her hold. Her dangling feet were hammered with blows before she was able to swing her legs up and grip the branch. Wolf-head jumped up and down, swiping at her with his spear. Isabeau felt the fur of her coat tear, then a sharp sting as the spearhead broke her skin.

She winced away from the pain, managed to climb onto the branch and then swung higher. A spear was thrown at her but hit a branch and fell back into the goblins crowding around the tree.

Suddenly a roar reverberated around the glade. Isabeau almost fell in her shock and the goblins screeched with dismay. Wolf-head swung around and then gibbered as he saw the huge white lion bounding down the slope toward him. The lion's golden eyes were burning with rage and his mouth was wide open, his fangs gleaming. The goblins fell over each other in their haste to escape, but the lion was among them in seconds, claws ripping, great jaws tearing. Some fell screaming, the others all scattered and ran. Within moments the glade was still.

The snow lion sat and licked his b.l.o.o.d.y paw clean, staring up at Isabeau. Isabeau stared back. She watched the lion groom himself, wondering if he could climb and thinking unhappily that he probably could, faster and more easily than she could herself. He finished tidying himself up, wrapped his black-tufted tail around his paws, and settled down to staring at Isabeau with undivided attention.

Isabeau suddenly realized he was purring deep in his throat. She relaxed. He grinned at her, stretched, yawned and got to his feet. Every line of his body expressed satisfaction and pleasure. She watched his chest rise with his purring and longed to run her fingers through his magnificent mane and rub the velvet whiteness of his cheek. She was still too wary to come down, though, and so she watched in silence as he slowly padded back up the meadow and disappeared into the shadows. Only then did Isabeau climb down and shakily gather her things together, careful to avoid the bodies of the dead goblins.

The weather stayed clear and fine all day and Isabeau was able to make good time. She did not encounter any more goblins or lions, to her relief, though once she saw an ogre down in the river valley, crouched on the sh.o.r.e with a spear in his huge black hand. The cliff was not so steep or high here, with the land all about beginning to grow more gentle.

Late in the afternoon she rounded a bluff and saw a great wide sweep of snow running down to the river.

Ahead the peak of the Skull of the World cut into the blue sky. The river wound down from the tallmountain, its waters running a pure blue-green and fringed on either side with copses of trees. All around were high cliffs and bluffs, while an eagle floated far above, wings black against the apple-green sky.

Isabeau took a deep breath, unable to believe her journey's end was so close. The sun was sinking toward the mountain peaks and so she drew Buba out of her sleeve, cupping her in her hands and rubbing her tufted ears.

"Will ye find me a holt, dearling?" she asked. The owl blinked her great golden eyes sleepily, rotated her head then stretched out her wings. With a soft hoot she took flight over the broad slope. The apprentice witch strapped on her little sleigh and began to skim gladly down the slope toward the river, the owl gliding ahead of her.

Isabeau sped so swiftly the wind roared in her ears and tears sprang to her eyes. She gave a little cry of exultation and leaped off a high mound of snow so she could spin in the air. It had been some days since she had last been able to skim so freely. She landed with a hiss of ice flying, spun again and did a great swooping curve. From the corner of her eyes she saw something move, something huge. Her heart lurched. With a jerk of her body she came to a halt and pulled back her hood, shading her eyes with one hand.

Far above her a frost giant was lumbering down the slope. Twelve feet tall, with a s.h.a.ggy mane of hair and beard all stiff with blue ice crystals, he was dressed in a motley of white furs. Carrying a long ice spear in one hand, his eyes shone with a cold blue light. Each blundering step caused snow to slide down the slope with frightening speed. He shook his spear at her and bellowed, and cold fear shuddered in Isabeau's stomach. She took off, no longer swooping and swaying but fleeing straight down the middle of the slope. He leaped after her, gaining with every step, while a ma.s.s of snow raced ahead of him with a grinding, roaring noise as terrifying as his hoa.r.s.e bellows.

There was a great whoosh. Isabeau ducked instinctively. The ice spear flashed past her, missing her by inches. It smashed into the hill before her, loosening another great chunk of snow. Isabeau swerved, her heart pounding sickeningly. She bent low, skimming as fast as she could, the ground rising and dropping below her. She risked a glance behind her. The avalanche was eating at her tracks, swallowing the sky.

Buba flew up into the air, calling to her desperately. Soar-hooh, the owl cried. Soar-hooh high-hooh.

Suddenly the world plunged away. The clamor of the avalanche rose up and engulfed her. Stars spun overhead. Although dusk had fallen, Isabeau could see clearly. The ma.s.s of snow was plunging down the mountain, drowning trees tiny as matches, sweeping out across the river and blanking its glimmer. The frost giant was swept away. Isabeau saw his agonized face disappear under the raging white torrent far, far below her. The world was tilting, a fiery rim of black mountains spanned by sweeping stars. The wind rocked under her like a river of cold fire. All was quiet. She was queen of the night, her wings binding the wind to her will, the stars streaming away behind her. She saw Buba glide before her, leading the way down into thick trees where the shadows gathered dark, but not too dark for her keen gaze to pierce.

They came to rest on a branch.

I knezv-hooh you-hooh were Owl, Buba said complacently.

Instinctively Isabeau's talons flexed and gripped and she shuddered her wings. Her mind shrieked a denial. She stared at Buba, the bird's round eye as big as the sun. The owl blinked once or twice and shifted from claw to claw. Isabeau looked around rather wildly. The branch they were sitting on was as large as an oak tree. The tree was like a tower. She could hear every sigh and murmur of the wind among the pine needles like the melody of an orchestra. She ducked her head down into her feathers, terribly afraid.Why are you-hooh a-swoon? Buba asked. We flew-hooh together through moon cool-hooh, soar-swooped together as owls should-hooh.

But I am not really an owl, Isabeau replied shakily. I do-hooh not know how to-hooh change back.

Why would you-hooh want to-hooh? Buba said.

I'm not an owl, I'm a girl-hoooooh, Isabeau wailed. If she had had tear ducts she would have cried, but all that came out was a long mournful hoot.

Owl now-hooh.

Isabeau unclasped and clasped her talons anxiously. Buba huddled closer, rubbing her feathery head against her. Come soar-sivoop through moon cool-hooh, the elf-owl said and took off into the darkness.

After a moment Isabeau spread her wings and flapped them. She was afraid to launch off as Buba had done. The ground was terribly far away. It would have been like jumping off the top of the Tower of Two Moons. She hooted anxiously and Buba materialized out of the darkness, white and silent as a snowflake. She landed beside Isabeau and, without warning, pushed her off the branch. Isabeau shrieked and flung open her wings. Effortlessly she glided through the darkness. A fretwork of twigs sprang toward her and she shrieked again and turned instinctively, narrowly missing a tree trunk. She ducked her head and flapped her wings, and her body obediently soared upward. Euphoria filled her. She was flying!

She experimented, stretching one wing then the other, flapping them, holding them still. Through the dark forest she b.u.mped and bounced, Buba gliding beside her.

At last they came to the edge of the forest, looking out across the river to the shoulders of the mountain.

The Skull of the World towered at the head of the valley. Isabeau's euphoria faded abruptly. Here she was at her journey's end, and she was trapped in the shape of an owl. How was she to complete her quest and return to the pride as an owl?

I have to-hooh remember how-hooh I changed shape, she said to Buba. If I can change shape once, I can surely do-hooh it again.

The elf-owl only stared at her unblinkingly. Isabeau stared back. She would have liked to have rubbed her eyes and yawned, for she was very tired. It was hard to think, her head felt stuffed with feathers.

Noon for snooze-hooh, moon cool for soar-swooping, Buba said. Snooze-hooh when sun comes.

So-hooh snoozy, Isabeau said. She could hardly stretch her wings out and thought if she had tried to fly, she would have dropped like a stone.

Come, Buba said. Creep inside tree and snooze-hooh. Owl shall pursue subdue for you-hooh.

Isabeau obeyed. Within the bole of the tree was a snug little cave, lined with sawdust and pine needles.

She huddled her wings about her and closed her eyes, sleep falling down on her like a giant hammer.

When she woke Buba slept beside her, head sunk into her ruffled-up feathers, a little pile of half-eaten moths and gra.s.shoppers beside her. Once Isabeau would have been revolted by the sight. Now she felt a savage hunger awake in her and devoured the insects hungrily. Once her appet.i.te was- sated, she poked her head out of the hole in the trunk. It was daytime and the sun dazzled her eyes. She snuggled back down into the burrow, hunched her head down into her wings, her ear tufts erect. Just as she was dropping back to sleep, she involuntarily burped up a little hard pellet of undigested sh.e.l.l and wing.

Feeling much better, she settled down into sleep again.It was night when she woke. Hunger was gnawing at her once more and so she made no complaint when Buba led her out to hunt. They flew through the forest, snapping at moths and little night insects, searching out grubs under bark, and breaking open coc.o.o.ns with their sharp hooked beaks. Isabeau managed her wings with some skill this time, though she did not have the same effortless silence as Buba.

When they were replete, the owls flew on through the forest, flying for the sheer joy of it. They soared along the curve of the river and up the cliff, where two thin waterfalls created fantastical curtains of water, intricate as lace. As Isabeau soared up into the dark sky, a vague thought tugged at the back of her mind.

She saw how the waterfalls streamed down on either side of a great yawning cave and said to herself, The Tears of the G.o.ds.

She turned and swooped back, following the course of .the falling water till she came again to the dark entrance of the cave. With her owl-sight she could see clearly in the darkness. With a great bulge of rock above the gaping cave and the two waterfalls streaming down from clefts on either side, the cliff face looked like a face contorted with grief. The entrance to the cave was like a mouth stretched into a howl.

Memory came back to her, and with it a kind of horror. The World's Mouth!

Isabeau fled back to the sanctuary of the trees, owl-thought and human-thought jostling together. She crept into the burrow in the hole of the tree, though this time she did not sleep, just huddled there, her head nervously rotating to one side then the other. Buba crept in and snuggled down close for comfort.

I have to-hooh change back, I have to-hooh change back, Isabeau thought frantically. How-hooh?

How-hooh?

Buba gave a derisive cry. Why all this hooh-Jwoting? Just do-hooh it, she said. Not here-lwoh though. Too-hooh huge for- this nook-hooh.

Isabeau calmed a little. True-hooh.

It was almost dawn and Buba was sleepy. Snooze-hooh through noon-hooh, in moon cool you-hooh change, hooh-hooh?

Hooh-hooh, Isabeau agreed, coughing up a little pellet and settling down to sleep.

In the pine-scented darkness Isabeau crouched on the ground, her head sunk down into her wings as she concentrated as hard as she could. Buba sat on a branch above her, rotating her head occasionally to scan the forest, her round eyes unblinking.

Isabeau had absolutely no idea how she had managed to change shape. One moment she had been fleeing down the mountainside, an ocean of snow crashing down upon her. The next moment, she had been soaring up into the sky, a tiny white owl. There had been no conscious decision, no setting of her will as was usual with the working of witchcraft. All she had felt was an urgent need to escape, to fly into the sky as Buba did.

Shapechanging was not something witches could usually do. It was magic out of fairytales and myths, magic against the natural order of things. It was not like conjuring fire, which shivered always in the air between sky and earth. It was not like whistling up the wind, which coiled and shifted around the world in constant motion anyway. It was not like Meghan's charm with animals, which came from loving them and understanding them, or Ishbel's ability to fly, which came from reversing the natural forces of the universe which caused a stone to fall to the ground and the stars to swing in their courses.Yet Isabeau had seen tadpoles grow legs and lungs and become frogs. She had seen caterpillars spin themselves silken coc.o.o.ns in which to sleep, gnawing their way free in the spring with new wings glued to their backs, transformed into b.u.t.terflies. Nature was full of transformations.

And Eileanan was full of magical creatures that shifted from one shape to another. Isabeau had watched her friend Lilanthe shift into the shape of a tree many times, flesh growing leaves and bark and flowers in a most disconcerting manner. She had seen Maya the Ensorcellor metamorphose into her sea-shape, shining with silvery scales, her back curving down into a great finned tail like a fish. She had even watched as her father had been transformed back into a man after seventeen years trapped in the body of a horse. Thinking about those metamorphoses, Isabeau remembered what Buba had said. Just do-hooh it.

So Isabeau did. She imagined herself as a woman, her own well-known and comfortable shape, and concentrated all her will and all her desire on returning to that shape. And suddenly she was no longer a little white owl but a tall white woman, crouched shivering and naked in the forest.

It was bitterly cold. Isabeau hugged herself, her breath hanging before her face in frosty clouds. Above the forest the two moons sailed, one red as a blood plum, the other an ethereal blue. The sky itself was a midnight blue and strewn with stars and planets that glittered with all the cold colors of crystals, white, green, amethyst, rose.

The wind flayed her like a whip. She had no idea what had happened to her clothes and supplies. No doubt they lay beneath mounds of snow, left behind as she had flown into the sky. Desperation filled her.

Despite the clear sky, she would soon freeze to death without clothes or food. She could gather together firewood and build herself a fire, but even so it would be hard to keep herself warm. Already her feet were numb from the snow. It took only a few moments' hesitation before Isabeau changed back into an owl.

Buba hooted joyfully.

Too-hooh cool-hooh, Isabeau hooted back, ruffling all her feathers gratefully. This time she could tell the difference between human-sight and owl-sight. The moons were huge and pockmarked in the sky, but gray. Everything was gray, even the darkness. She could see the gradations of blackness clearly, able to discern the shape of twigs and gra.s.ses even in the darkest shadows. Her hearing was also much sharper and her ability to locate the source of the sound pre-ternaturally precise. Since she was so much smaller, the trees were like towers, looming over her. She spread her wings and flew up to the branch where Buba perched, dancing a little in her excitement.

Together they flew through the trees and out across the river, which wailed and sobbed against the stones, shining oddly in the moonlight. Beyond was the wreck of the avalanche, roots and branches sticking up out of the mess of snow and stone. Isa-beau's keen eyesight scanned the broken slope and she saw something metallic glint. Immediately they flew down and Isabeau transformed again into her own shape. She dug frantically and found the strap of leather with its metal buckle. She freed it from the snow and was relieved to find most of her tools still firmly attached to the belt. The mace was gone and the blade of the dagger had snapped but her axe and skewer were intact still.

Isabeau used the long skewer to poke through the snow, ignoring the shivers wracking her naked body.

The skewer knocked dully against something, and she dug with a bound of her heart. Happily she retrieved her skimmer from a deep drift of snow and knelt on it, though the wood was near as cold as the snow. Despite all her frantic searching, she could find no clothes or her satchel and so sat back on her heels with despair, her teeth chattering. She was so numb with cold she could hardly move; but she was reluctant to change back into an owl since she could not then carry her tools or skimmer away, or searchthrough the snow.

Inspiration burst upon her. Isabeau shut her eyes, gripped her hands together and concentrated. She felt the change ripple over her, felt power and strength race through her like a draught of gold-ensloe wine.

She opened her eyes and grinned as she saw furry white paws stretched before her. Gingerly she extended and retracted her wicked claws, lashed her black-tufted tail about, and turned around on the spot. It took a few moments to adjust but once Isabeau has grown used to the change, she stretched out her great strong body and leaped forward over the snow, intoxicated with her speed and grace. The owl flew before her, hooting mournfully, while far overhead a star died in a burst of silver fire, arching across the dark night sky.

Isabeau could have run and leaped all night, every muscle and tendon in her body working in perfect rhythm, her blood singing with the knowledge of her own magnificence. She rolled in the snow, licked her fur sleek once more, and explored the sudden acute sensitivity of her sense of smell.

In this way she found her coat, quite unexpectedly, for she had merely been following the vague delicious smell of woman and ulez. With her ma.s.sive paws and sharp teeth, she dragged it free of the great weight of snow covering it, and found some sc.r.a.ps of torn cloth that had once been her shirt. A dim memory stirred in her and she was able to sharpen her focus upon what it was she did here, in this snowy fiejd under a frozen sky. She searched with greater resolve, and found her leather leggings, with the stockings still inside them, wet through. Then she found one boot.

Joyfully she bounded about, searching for the other, but it was nowhere to be found. At last she gave up, sitting and licking her paws clean of snow, conscious of having looked ridiculous bounding about like a new-born kitten. When her coat was clean and her poise restored, she rose and strolled back to where the little owl was perched on the curve of the skimmer, watching expressionlessly. It occurred to Isabeau the bird might be a tasty morsel, for she was conscious of the emptiness of her belly. The round golden eyes stared at her apprehensively and Isabeau grinned. Immediately the round, white bird spread its wings and flew up into the sky, hooting angrily. Isabeau told herself it would have been like choking on feathers and followed a most delicious smell of dead meat instead.

She found its source, half buried in snow, and dug at it hungrily. Although the meat was half frozen she could still smell its slowly decaying reek and had soon uncovered it, worrying at it with her teeth. It was huge, an unwholesome bluish color, covered with thick wiry hair and stiff as wood. Even exerting all the strength of her jaws and neck, Isabeau was unable to drag it free of the snow. She sat back, snarling, tail lashing. The huge digits clawed for the starry sky. Somewhere deep inside her she recognized it as a giant hand. Contradictory emotions warred in her, hunger and disgust. She soothed herself by tidying up her whiskers.

Overhead an owl hooted and Isabeau's ears swiv-eled. She watched the little white owl float down and settle on the ma.s.sive dead fingers. Round eyes met slanted.

Moon-hooh go-hooh, the owl hooted, rather coldly. Snooze-hooh soon-hooh?

Isabeau was confused. Between her pride, her hunger and her disdain struggled a little thread of memory.

The smell of the decaying frost giant's hand suddenly made her nauseous. She retched, and found herself on her hands and knees, red hair hanging over her face as she vomited into the snow. Her stomach was so empty only a thin bile burned her throat and coated her tongue with a foul taste. She swilled her mouth out with a handful of snow and looked about her blearily.

Seeing the giant's hand Isabeau scrambled away hastily, her stomach heaving again as she remembered dimly worrying at it with her teeth. She picked up her fur coat and huddled it around her, even though itwas heavy and wet. She struggled into her leggings, the damp leather unpleasantly slimy. Buckling the belt around her waist she dragged on the one boot and shoved her dripping stockings into her pocket. She then pulled the skimmer along behind her as she slogged down the slope toward the river.

Soar-hooh? Buba called.

Isabeau shook her head. "I think J need to bide as a la.s.sie a wee while," she replied grimly in her own language.

Why-hooh? The owl hooted.

"I just do," Isabeau replied, and slogged on, conscious that the sensation of cold in her bare foot was turning to a dangerous numbness. She reached the stony banks of the river and plunged her foot into its unnatural warmth. Life rushed back into the limb with a shock of pain, turning again to a fiery cold as she withdrew it. Gently she dried it on her coat, careful not to rub too hard, until her whole foot tingled with returning blood.

Isabeau looked about her wearily. Exhaustion lay on her, heavy as a mountain. She had to have shelter, fire and food, and quickly. The sky was beginning to lighten, and it had been a long, arduous night. She did not understand much of what had happened but until she had slept and eaten, she knew she could not puzzle it out.

There was a huge dead tree on the rocks, swept down in the spring floods. Isabeau gathered her will together and caused it to burst into flame. She had not much strength and the flame guttered quickly, but enough of the wood had caught for the log to begin to smoulder at one end. Isabeau could summon no more fire, but she fanned it and blew on it until little sparks began to fly. At last a small fire was burning and Isabeau could crouch before it, warming her chilled body. She pa.s.sed into a half-doze, the damp coat huddled around her.

Isabeau woke some time later, shivering with cold. The sun was up but its light was thin with little warmth. She looked about her dazedly and immediately froze into stillness.

A young Khan'cohban boy was standing only a few feet away, his staff held before him. His horns were only just budding but his face was as stern and hard as any fully grown warrior, his long mane of hair as coa.r.s.e and white. His staff was decorated with gray ta.s.sels and feathers, and beneath his s.h.a.ggy coat Isabeau could see the same color st.i.tched along his woolen shirt in the stylized shape of running wolves.

Rising slowly, Isabeau carefully and humbly made the gesture of greeting. He did not return it, looking her over suspiciously. Isabeau knew she must present a very odd sight, dressed as she was in only a s.h.a.ggy coat, leggings and one boot, her red curls wildly tumbled and matted with leaves. Her bare foot was blue and mottled-looking, with white patches here and there showing frostbite was sinking its bitter teeth into her flesh. The skin of her hands was white and dead looking, her nails blue as the river. She could not feel her ears or her nose or much of her face. Isabeau knew she needed treatment fast.

Patience was needed with Khan'cohbans, however. She repeated the salutation, saying courteously, "Greetings to you, Khan of the Gray Wolves. I see you, like myself, are on your naming-quest. I hope that your path, unlike mine, has been free of frost giants and avalanches."

The Khan'cohban boy's face softened slightly. He gestured to her, saying: "But how can you be one of the Children of the G.o.ds of White? Your hair . . .""You ask of me a question. Do you offer me a story in return?" Isabeau said.

There was a brief struggle between curiosity and the natural disinclination of any Khan'cohban to owe a story, then the boy nodded. "I ask of you a question," he said reluctantly. "Will you answer in fullness and in truth?"

"I will answer in fullness and in truth," Isabeau answered, and a.s.sumed the storytelling position. She told the story of her birth yet again, taking care to explain that she had no desire to inherit the Firemak-er's position. Even though the lands of the Pride of the Gray Wolf were far away from the Fire Dragon's lands, the boy knew all about the Firemaker and accepted Isabeau's story with as much interest as it was polite for him to show.

She ended with an account of the attack by the frost giant. She made no attempt to explain how she had escaped the subsequent snow slide, despite her promise to tell the full truth, telling herself he had not asked the right question.

When she had finished, he hesitated then said gruffly, "What question do you wish to ask me?"

"I would gladly relinquish the question in return for some food and clothing," Isabeau replied, trying in vain to still her shivering.

He almost smiled then, and came to her side, setting down his gray-ta.s.seled staff against the rocks and undoing his satchel.

He gave her flat bread and dried fruit, then threw down a brace of dead coneys he was carrying over his shoulder. Isabeau turned her body so she did not have to look at the poor little corpses, though she devoured the bread and fruit hungrily. He then relit her fire from the live coal he carried at his waist and began to cook them up some gruel from herbs and wild grains, roasting one of the coneys on a spit made from a twig. Isabeau wondered how it was he managed to have such a well-stocked satchel and remembered his pride owned the land closest to the Skull of the World. He had not had far to travel. It did not seem fair somehow.

While she waited for the porridge to cook, Isabeau hung her fur coat up to dry and ran naked over the stones to immerse herself in the river again. She knew from her training as a healer that the only way to treat frostbite was to return warmth and circulation to the affected area as quickly as possible. Strange as it seemed, the water of the s...o...b..und river was hot and would warm her faster than anything else in this wilderness of mountains.

Isabeau chose her entry point carefully for the river was swift and powerful and the rocks sharp. She found a place where the water was calmer and slid thankfully into its buoyant warmth. Sweat sprang up on her face and neck, the water so hot it was almost unbearable. She bent her head back so all her hair flowed like ruddy water weed and the numb tips of her ears were submerged. She floated there, her hands and feet moving constantly to restore fluidity to her joints and to keep her close to the sh.o.r.e.

Staring up at the blue sky, she felt pain thrill through the affected parts and rejoiced. Having lost two digits in the torture chambers of the Anti-Witchcraft League, she had no desire to lose any more.

She rolled and kept her face under the water as long as she could, then swam about gently, feeling warmer than she had in months. The horned boy was watching her, gnawing on a coney leg, his face trying hard not to show his amazement and fear. Khan'cohbans never swam, Isabeau remembered. He must think her very strange indeed, to show no fear of the water and to swim as nimbly as any otter.

At last Isabeau swam to the sh.o.r.e and climbed out, having to fight the force of the current. Immediately the cold air lashed her but she ran over the stones to the fire, shaking off the water and rubbing herselfdry with her companion's spare shirt. Her coat was dry and warm now and she wrapped it around her gratefully, then pulled on her woolen stockings and the leggings, rather tight after being dried so close to the fire. Her feet and hands were coming up in blisters where the skin had been frostbitten and carefully she bandaged them in the torn pieces of her shirt.

She then wrapped her feet in the damp shirt, having nothing else to keep them warm. The horned boy shook his head and gently pulled her feet free, wrapping them in his own s.h.a.ggy coat. She looked at him in surprise and he said, "The sun is warm enough. Let the shirt dry by the fire and when you are ready, you can give me back my coat."

"Thank you," she said and hungrily ate the bowl of gruel he pa.s.sed her. When she had finished, she paused and then said tentatively, "You are very kind. I am in your debt, for surely I would have died without your food and the loan of your clothes. I shall remember."