At his back he hears the cry of wolves. He stops, turns. The light of the burning torch in his hand ripples out in the gusting wind. His eyes catch the light of the fire as he looks back down the slope at the forest. The trees have grown upwards, bare branches reaching to catch the wind. Eyes look back at him, red, green and fever-yellow. In the distance, still visible above and beyond the tops of the trees, he can see the lights of the tower he has left to make this journey. The wind gusts and the wolves come with it, forming from darkness and frost as they leap. He swings the torch. The wolves’ jaws are wide, broken fangs in rotten gums. Molten brass scatters from iron teeth, blue fire from black glass claws. The torch strikes the first wolf–

Flash of lightning.

Shattered night.

Burning snow.

The wolves fall back, cries shaking gales of snow from the sky.

The old man runs up the side of the mountain, legs sinking into the drifts, hands grasping at ice-skinned rock. The howls rise again. The opening to the cave is so close, just there, between the stones. Another step, another push of will and he will reach its sanctuary. Claws reach for him. He can feel their breath at his back. He turns, and throws the burning torch high. A jagged pillar of lightning catches it and strikes down. White light drowns the mountainside. The shadows of wolves melt into the ground but more are already coming. He leaps for the stone doorway into the mountain, and…

Quiet. The smell of stone and earth. Stillness.

The cave stretches down in front of him. Rough steps have been hacked into the floor. Seams of crystal glitter in raw stone walls. The sound of water dripping onto rock touches his ears. A glow of fire seeps up the steps as he descends. A square door waits at the bottom. He pauses on the threshold, then steps through.

The cave is small but has been enlarged, first with stone axes, and then with tools of bronze and iron. The light comes from burning wicks set in a bowl of clear oil. Stone benches line the walls either side of the door. The seats are smooth, worn by time and those who have come here. Channels run down the floor from where a lump of raw crystal rises. Symbols crawl over the crystal: a half-man half-equine, water falling from a cup, a figure with the head of a bull.

The man in black rags and fur stops.

Another man, swathed in golden robes, sits on one of the benches. He holds a staff in his hand, and a folded plait of laurel leaves and silver thread sits on his head. He looks young.