Wintersmith

And then there was grass under her, and so much water pouring past her that it was a case of get up or drown. She managed to get to her knees, at least, and waited until it was possible to stand up without being knocked over.

"You have something of mine, child," said a voice behind her. She turned, and golden light rushed into a shape. It was her own shape, but her eyes were… odd, like a snake's. Right here and now, with the roaring of the heat of the sun still filling her ears, this didn't seem very amazing.

Slowly, Tiffany took the Cornucopia out of her pocket and handed it over.

"You are the Summer Lady, aren't you?" she asked.

"And you are the sheep-girl who would be me?" There was a hiss to the words.

"I didn't want to be!" said Tiffany hurriedly. "Why do you look like me?"

The Summer Lady sat down on the turf. It is very strange to watch yourself, and Tiffany noticed she had a small mole on the back of her neck.

"It's called resonance," she said. "Do you know what that is?"

"It means ‘vibrating with,'" said Tiffany.

"How does a sheep-girl know that?"

"I have a dictionary," said Tiffany. "And I'm a witch, thank you."

"Well, while you were picking up things from me, I've been picking up things from you, clever sheep-witch," said the Summer Lady. She was beginning to remind Tiffany a lot of Annagramma. That was actually a relief. She didn't sound wise, or nice…she was just another person, who happened to be very powerful but not frighteningly smart and was, frankly, a bit annoying.

"What's your real shape?" Tiffany asked.

"The shape of heat on a road, the shape of the smell of apples." Nice reply, Tiffany thought, but not helpful, as such.

Tiffany sat down next to the goddess. "Am I in trouble?" she asked.

"Because of what you did to the Wintersmith? No. He has to die every year, as do I. We die, and sleep and wake. Besides…you were entertaining."

"Oh? I was entertaining, was I?" said Tiffany, her eyes narrowing.

"What is it you want?" asked the Summer Lady. Yes, thought Tiffany, just like Annagramma. Wouldn't spot a hint a mile high.

"Want?" said Tiffany. "Nothing. Just the summer, thank you."

The Summer Lady looked puzzled. "But humans always want something from gods."

"But witches don't accept payment. Green grass and blue skies will do."

"What? You'll get those anyway!" The Summer Lady sounded both confused and angry, and Tiffany was quite happy about this, in a small and spiteful way.

"Good," she said.

"You saved the world from the Wintersmith!"

"Actually, I saved it from a silly girl, Miss Summer. I put right what I put wrong."

"One simple mistake? You'd be a silly girl not to accept a reward."

"I'd be a sensible young woman to refuse one," said Tiffany, and it felt good to say that. "Winter is over. I know. I've seen it through. Where it took me, there I chose to go. I chose when I danced with the Wintersmith."

The Summer Lady stood up. "Remarkable," she said. "And strange. And now we part. But first, some more things must be taken. Stand up, young woman."

Tiffany did so, and when she looked into the face of Summer, golden eyes became pits that drew her in.

And then the summer filled her up. It must have been for only a few seconds, but inside them it went on for much longer. She felt what it was like to be the breeze through green corn on a spring day, to ripen an apple, to make the salmon leap the rapids—the sensations came all at once and merged into one great big, glistening, golden-yellow feeling of summer…

…that grew hotter. Now the sun turned red in a burning sky. Tiffany drifted through air like warm oil into the searing calm of deep deserts, where even camels die. There was no living thing. Nothing moved except ash.

She drifted down a dried-up riverbed, with pure white animal bones on the banks. There was no mud, not one drop of moisture in this oven of a land. This was a river of stones—agates banded like a cat's eye, garnets lying loose, thunder eggs with their rings of color, stones of brown, orange, creamy white, some with black veins, all polished by the heat.

"Here is the heart of the summer," hissed the voice of the Summer Lady. "Fear me as much as the Wintersmith. We are not yours, though you give us shapes and names. Fire and ice we are, in balance. Do not come between us again…."

And now, at last, there was movement. From out of gaps between the stones they came like stones brought alive: bronze and red, umber and yellow, black and white, with harlequin patterns and deadly gleaming scales.

The snakes tested the boiling air with their forked tongues and hissed triumphantly.

The vision vanished. The world came back.

The water had poured away. The everlasting wind had teased the fogs and steams into long streamers of cloud, but the unconquered sun was finding its way through. And, as always happens, and happens far too soon, the strange and wonderful becomes a memory and a memory becomes a dream. Tomorrow it's gone.