One foot in front of the other, she reminded herself. One foot in front of the other. Do it again …

Her strength of will was eventually rewarded. The trees thinned and they came to the lake. The wind stilled. The snow stopped and the wolves quieted. They left her heels and settled underneath an evergreen tree, stretching out more like a pride of cats than a pack of dogs. The white wolf yawned and offered a memorable view of sharp canines. He wrapped himself around the already sleeping brown wolf. The brown wolf scratched her haunches and nuzzled her snout under a hind leg. She snickered in her sleep.

Only the larger of the black wolves kept watch. His energy was so familiar. Bara remembered the tall man with the top hat from an earlier dream. If Brynndalin could change shape, certainly he could too. Were the tall man and this black wolf one and the same? He lifted the ridge of one eye, a grotesque inconsistency with nature. It was him.

Bara forced herself to ignore her watcher and turned her attention to the lake. Winter had done its savage best. Ice covered unknown depths. She looked to the sky for a falling star and the arrival of the Spiritkin. Thick clouds blocked out any stars, and they were pink again. Great! More snow!

An idea took hold. There might be answers somewhere out on the frozen surface. Maybe someplace where the ice was thin and the Slipkin could come to her. It was worth a try. Bara stepped onto the ice. Frost-encrusted socks didn’t offer much grip. She slipped but maintained her balance. The black wolf tilted his head and stared curiously at her. She ignored the predatory glow of his eyes and took another step. She half-walked, half-slid her way across the ice and before long arrived at the lake’s center. No luck. The lake was frozen solid from shore to shore and seemingly from top to bottom. There’d be no answers here either. Bara turned back to the shore. She’d taken no more than a couple of steps when her feet slid out and she fell. She hit the icy lake—hard.

When her sensed returned, she took stock of her bones. Arms and legs moved okay. Her rear-end would bruise but nothing was broken. She came to her knees and went to heft herself up. Her face was inches from the surface. No! It was like gazing into a looking-glass that reflected back death. The pale figure below the ice resembled her so, but it was no mirror. The Slipkin stared back from beneath the ice, her face frozen and silent, a mouth opened in an eternal scream never to be heard.

Yet Bara heard screaming … in her head … no, not in her head. It was her voice, howling in horror.

The wolves stirred. They stood, ears pointed and alert. Her screams turned to hysterical tears. The pack exchanged knowing glances. As though it were a game to be played at, they howled along with her. Ravenous saliva slid past greedy canines. They left the beach and took to the ice. With sharp claws, they gripped the surface, making rapid progress towards their intended prey. Bara looked up and saw their approach. There was little time. She still knelt on the ice. She tried to stand but fell again. A question arose in her mind, something she hadn’t thought of before. I’m going to die. Will I die in my world too?

The pack was but a few feet away. She heard their rasping breath, the clip-clip of their claws on the ice and another sound—high pitched laughter and swoosh. Bara assumed it was coming from the wolves but they stopped suddenly. Rather they stopped running and slid across the ice out-of-control. Two wolves fell and continued forward snout first. Bara almost laughed at the comical way they came, but she was more concerned about why they’d stopped. The sight of something had brought their pursuit to a not-so-sudden end. She turned and there it was. A formless blur of silver and white glided across the ice. As it neared, the blur took shape. White robes were a whirlwind and flashes of silver sparked like lightning. Strands of silver hair weaved in the wind. Laughter cracked the air. Clouds released the promised snow and it hailed through the torrent. Gusts were hurricane force. Closer the twisting figure came.

In wafts of red-gold, her own hair blew as though trying to convince her to run. Bara stayed firm. The words of Shakespeare came to mind. Screw your courage to the sticking post. Lady Macbeth had been browbeating her husband to commit murder, but the words worked here too. Bara stood, screwed her courage to the sticking post, and waited.