Everfrost

	The white witch turns her eyes to the behemoth and beholds might, her rain dampened figure turning to look more fully upon his great girth and height. Her eyes slip slowly, trailing each line of him, and though she has heard his inquiry, it is some while of silent, somewhat creepy, watchfulness which he receives for all his concern. Steadily, bits of her come to life, but for the steam rising from her heinously cold, pained flesh; her tail, first, swishes and twitches, its wet strands streaming droplets that weave further rings into the puddles at their hooves, collecting in the step-pocked beach, and then her hooves, which carry her closer, graceful step by curving hip, her crown lowered, and bi-chromatic gaze seductive. Her giggles meet him halfway, soft and peeling, and it is not but one or two steps more before her words weave between them. "Cursed," she answers, pausing close enough to touch him, should she desire, but instead holding her dished face to herself, her soft, velvet lined body off-limits, for now; her voice is sweetly cherubic, her eyes doe-like, though the void of the black one is haunting, and the silver quivers with restrained want, "the cold which races upon Beloved’s flesh burns. Are you warm? Could you… heat us?"