Now he tried. He drew his symbols on the floor —  scattered his powders,blinking through the ever-shifting spectacles, panting with his exertions. Hewould do it this time — would hold the tower on the edge of faery, between theEmpire of Man and the kingdom of the elves. He believed, this time. He conjuredpowers. He called on the great ones. The winds sighed and roared inside thetower.

And died.

His arms fell. He wept, great tears sliding down into his beard. He picked upthe dormouse and the hedgehog and held them to his breast, having no more hope.

Then she came. The light grew, white and pure. The scent of lilies filled theair — and she was there, naked, and white, hands empty — beautiful.

“I’ve come,” she said.

His heart hurt him all the more. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was trying forsomething — fiercer.”

“Oh,” she said, dark eyes sad.

“I make only — small magics,” he said. “I was trying for — a dragon,maybe. A basilisk. An elemental. To stop the king. But I do flowers best. Andsmokes and maybe a little fireworks. And it’s not enough. Goodbye. Please go.Please do go. Whichever you are. You’re the wrong kind. You’re beautiful.And he’s going to come tomorrow — the king — and the armies… it’s not aplace for a gentle spirit. Only — could you take them… please? Mouse andHedgehog —  they’d not be so much. I’d not like to bother you. But could you?And then you can go.”

“Of course,” she said. It was the whisper of wind, her voice. The moving ofsnow crystals on frozen crust. She took them to her breast. Kissed them inturn, and jewels clothed them in white. “Old man,” she said, and on his browtoo planted a kiss, and jewels followed, frosty white. White dusted all theroom, all the books and the clutter and the cobwebs. She walked down the stairsand out the gate, and jeweled it all in her wake. She walked the land, and thesnow fell, and fell, and the winds blew — till only the banners were left,here and there, stiffened with ice, above drifts and humps of snow which markedthe tents. The land was all white, horizon to horizon. Nothing stirred — butthe wolves that hunted the deer, and the birds that hunted the last summer’sberries.