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There was, after all, his promise to Tanis, spider-web thin
but still holding after a fashion. And he could, he supposed,
manage to pass the time trying to find the magic in his pipe.
It was going to be, each thought, a very long, cold
afternoon.
Under the sheltering wings of the broad-branched pines
the storm seemed distant, deflected by the thick growing
trunks and the sweep of a rising hill. Deadfalls littered the
little stand. Tanis made right for the heart of the pines
where the snow was a thinner mantle covering the ground
and the fallen trees.
"Gather what you can first," he told Sturm. "It will be
easier if we don't have to cut any wood."
It had taken longer than he had hoped to reach the pines.
Though he could see little difference in the light under the
trees, he knew from some sure instinct that night had fallen.
The driving snow was no longer daytime gray, but brighter.
Only an hour ago the sky had been the color of wet slate.
Now it was an unreflecting, unforgiving black. It FELT like
a night sky for all that Tanis could see no moons, no stars.
The air was as cold and sharp as frozen blades.
They worked as fast as awkward hands would permit,
filling their packs with as much wood as they could carry
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