The city is built on the side of a hill, where the streets wind back and forth in a series of winding terraces that look out upon the vast mountains and the frozen river wending between.
As the winters came and the snows fell the city became unliveable. Many froze and died.
Above it all a castle–its towers jutting from the snow.
She is walking somewhere very cold. The floor feels like ice beneath her feet. She is walking on great polished black stone, amidst black pillars.
She steps through an archway and the wind touches her face. She looks down at the ruins and she wonders.
She is standing somewhere very cold and the wind is making her colder. She would pull her black shawl more tightly about herself, but she knows it would not help. Nothing helps. For this cold is all-pervading. Absolute. Infinite.
The cold is a part of the castle itself. The cold is a part of her.
Michael Scott Hand 