Fortunately, there was no wind. The snow came straight down as if it had no limit. If any wind had whipped it into Klamath’s face, he would not have been able to see his own mount’s head. Even without that hindrance, he had to blink constantly to clear his sight.

Twisting in his saddle, he was able to make out a lantern behind him. But he could not identify the Magister holding it. The other lights might have ceased to exist, effaced by snow.

The General contained himself for a league. Then he halted; waited for his company to arrive around him. So far, he had not lost anyone.

To the group, he announced, “I need a Magister of drought.”

“Why?” came the answer. He recognized the acid voice of Magister Whimper, a woman almost as arrogant—or perhaps as protective of her dignity—as Magister Lambent.

Calmly, Klamath answered, “Can you counter the snowfall directly above us?”

“Why not?” she retorted. “It is only frozen rain.”

The General kept his tone mild. “Then do so. I want to see all of you.”

“A waste of time,” snorted Magister Lambent. “Foolish. This cold will kill me while we indulge your curiosity.”

That was all the prodding Magister Whimper needed. Shedding clots of snow, she raised her arms.

Almost immediately, the snowfall over the company began to dwindle. Briefly, it spun like spume. Then it faded to a delicate scatter of flakes. Soon it stopped altogether.

It still fell thickly around the riders, blocking the vistas in every direction. But now they sat their mounts in a clear space like a ragged cylinder reaching for the clouds. While Klamath watched, the clouds themselves thinned overhead, letting a hint of the new day touch the company.

Hells! he thought. Amazing!

He had no words to describe his sensation of openness within the thick embrace of the snow. He had grown accustomed to its wet clasp. Its absence lifted his spirit like a small taste of victory.

In a world where such things were possible, everything was possible.

The effect was better than he had hoped. If it could be sustained—

But of course she could not sustain it. Klamath had time to count his company again; reassure himself that he had not lost anyone. They were all present, cloaked in inches of snow. Magister Pillion, in particular, looked like a child’s snowman perched atop his little mare.

Then Magister Whimper sagged. At once, the snowfall resumed as if it had never stopped. The future became as blank as dark water.

Satisfied, General Klamath told his company, “You see that it can be done. The effort is draining, but it provides a respite. It will ease our journey.

“Magister Whimper, if you and your comrades in turn will give us as much relief as you can, we will all have reason to thank you.”