In retrospect, Catame thought he probably shouldn't have gotten into that snow fight. He woke the next morning with a cold, which he refused to admit to, despite the sniffling that grew worse as the day progressed and the growing headache. Daynoren gave him a few concerned looks, but for the most part left him alone, and Dana had gone back to her cool, silent self, though the guards-- Jameth and Ruther, Catame had learned-- were a little less intimidating. It didn't snow again that day, but though the wind still whirled around them and worked its merry way under cloaks no matter how tightly Catame held his around him, it no longer felt like magic. The worst of it all, though, was that the annoyance of the cold prevented him from reaching the half-doze in which he could ignore the specific discomforts of cold and saddle for a kind of dim, diffuse misery; he was forced to endure it all without any manner of escape.

The second day was worse. Catame's head was pounding with every step Vale, his big gray gelding, took-- and Vale had a very steady gait, so he couldn't think that it was any kind of jarring. His nose felt frozen half of the time, and sore from constant running and rubbing the rest of the time. It snowed again that day, but Catame couldn't muster up the energy to even try to feel the powers within the flurry of snowflakes. Daynoren tried to start up another play battle when they stopped for lunch, but Dana didn't seem inclined to join in this time, and it just seemed like too much work to gather up the snow and throw it for Catame to play, so Day had to be disappointed. That night Catame's dreams were confused, and he wasn't sure if he really kept waking up tossing or if he only dreamed that he had.

On the third day, Catame's mind felt strangely clear, despite the restless sleep, but the pervasive cold was even worse. He couldn't stop shivering, even though he was wearing as many clothes as he could pull on at one time without looking like a pumpkin under his cloak. The sun was shining thinly through high, gray clouds, giving the snow all around an unearthly glow that Catame found surprisingly beautiful. His usual discomforts, exhaustion and pain and unhappiness, seemed at one remove-- they were still there, but they felt as if they belonged to someone else and he was only feeling the echo of them.

"Cat?" Daynoren brought his little mare closer, close enough for quieter talk that Dana would not immediately overhear.

"Hmm?" Catame said absently, watching Vale's ears as they twitched back to catch the sound of their voices.

"Cat, are you okay?" Day asked worriedly.

Catame could vaguely recall him asking the same thing twice already since they left a few hours ago-- or was it a few minutes ago? Catame couldn't remember. He drew his cloak closer around him, shivering again, but gave his brother a sweet, reassuring smile. "I'm fine, really," he answered, hearing his own voice echo oddly in his ears. Whatever was happening to him, it was fascinating.

"If you're sure," Day said reluctantly, but he couldn't do anything against Catame's serene nod, so he let the horses drift apart again.

That night his dreams were even more confused, and while he had been shivering all day, as he lay in bed he only felt hot and sweaty. The next morning he continued to feel oddly separate from everything, but he was aware of a strange burning sensation inside him that seemed to coexist with the returned chill without melting it away or soothing it in the slightest. It was like there was pure Fire warring with the ice inside him, but neither force was winning, and their battle was draining his own energy and making him tremble unceasingly.

Even more strange, as the sun climbed invisibly higher behind the heavy, damp clouds, Catame kept seeing things moving out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked, they had disappeared, or were nothing more unnatural than a frozen boulder or a stunted, snow-heavy tree, or nothing at all. The more they traveled, the clearer, and sometimes more bizarre, he thought the figures to be. By keeping his head still and trying not to look, he could see the image of his father, of Deep Kaur, or various vague people and daemons he couldn't recall a name for. In was unnerving, especially the way they just floated along to stay just within his range of vision, watching him. Even worse was when the shadows stirred and loomed over him, clutching at his sleeves or Vale's reigns. No one else seemed to notice, but by lunch time, Catame was not only shaking with fatigue and cold, he was jumpy and twitchy, starting at every little movement.

Daynoren got into another argument with Dana, but Catame couldn't muster enough attention to spare to listen to it. The sky was growing dark, full of the same shadows that taunted him as they rode, and his hyper-extended senses could feel Air and Water and even a hint of Fire among them. Rather than soothing him, it made him tremble again, afraid that they would break around him while he was so weak and unable to channel them correctly. Sure that something horrible was happening, he even thought he could sense the familiar presence of Kaur herself in the distance, following the storm. It was almost a relief to climb wearily back onto Vale and let the gelding follow Daynoren's white Lynn.

It seemed that he had only just nudged Vale into movement again when the snow was falling again, and the dim light had changed to come from the west. Catame felt dizzy and unsteady, and once again Fire had won over his body, banishing the ice and making the weight of his heavy, snow-dusted clothes an impossible burden. He tried to shrug free of the overlarge cloak he'd tucked so securely around him, but couldn't find the edges. Panicking, feeling trapped in the stifling embrace of fabric, he started to struggle.

Voices came to him dimly, full of fear, but he couldn't understand them-- Daynoren, Dana, the bass rumble of Ruther, and though he was sure he was imagining it, the low voice of the daemon Deep Kaur. He stilled, trying to hear more, but something was wrong-- suddenly he was free of the cloak's fist, free of Vale's saddle, sliding into something soft and mercifully cool, and then into darkness.