I stared at the purse. It was large and heavy with coin, more silver there than I
had in gold even if I emptied my vault; far more. Snow was drifting in to melt cold
against my cheeks, flecking my shawl. I thought of accepting it in silence, of
keeping my head bowed and afraid. I was afraid. He wore spurs on his heels and
jewels on his fingers like enormous chips of ice, and the voices of all the souls lost
in blizzards howled behind him. Of course I was afraid.
But I had learned to fear other things more: being despised, whittled down one
small piece of myself at a time, smirked at and taken advantage of. I put my chin
up and said, as cold as I could be in answer, “And what will you give me in
return?”
His eyes widened and all the color went out of them. The storm shrieked behind
him, and a lance of cold air full of snow and ice blew into my bare face, a stinging
prickle of pins-and-needles on my cheeks. I expected him to strike me, and he
looked as though he wanted to; but instead he said to me, “Thrice, mortal maiden,”
in a rhythm almost like a song, “Thrice you shall turn silver to gold for me, or be
changed to ice yourself.”
