"Circle time is nearly over! Think of what you can learn! Now!"

"But-"

"Step through!"

But that was a long time ago, in the past

. . . older.

A land of ice . . .

Not winter, because that presumes an autumn and perhaps one day a spring. This is a land of ice, not just a time of ice.

And three figures on horseback, looking down the snow covered slope to a ring of eight stones. From this side they look much bigger.

You might watch the figures for some time before you realised what it was about them that was strange-stranger, that is, than their clothing. The hot breath of their horses hung in the freezing air. But the breath of the riders did not.

"And this time," said the figure in the centre, a woman in red, "there will be no defeat. The land will welcome us. It must hate humans now."

"But there were witches," said one of the other riders. "I remember the witches."

"Once, yes," said the woman. "But now . . . poor things, poor things. Scarce any power in them at all. And suggestible. Pliant minds. I have crept about, my deary. I have crept about o'nights. I know the witches they have now. Leave the witches to me."

"I remember the witches," said the third rider insistently. "Minds like . . . like metal."

"Not anymore. I tell you, leave them to me." The Queen smiled benevolently at the stone circle.

"And then you can have them," she said. "For me, I rather fancy a mortal husband. A special mortal. A union of the worlds. To show them that this time we mean to stay."

"The King will not like that."

"And when has that ever mattered?"

"Never, lady."

"The time is right, Lankin. The circles are opening. Soon we can return."

The second rider leaned on the saddlehorn.

"And I can hunt again," it said. "When? When?"

"Soon," said the Queen. "Soon."

It was a dark night, the kind of darkness which is not simply explainable by absence of moon or stars, but the darkness that appears to flow in from somewhere else-so thick and tangible that maybe you could snatch a handful of air and squeeze the night out of it.