Barin gasped for breath. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. Sweat trickled down his brow—his entire body wet from fear and perspiration, his lungs hot from lack of oxygen. He fought to stay awake and alert as he rumbled in the giant’s fist, tumbling against the rock walls that made up the giant’s hands.

His journey would end at the foot of the Skotádi himself. And then what? Barin had no weapon that could match the magic of a sorcerer, nor could he outrun a giant. Could he outwit an evil wizard? Doubtful, he thought. A genius created these beasts. They were formed from bones, air, and stones—with powers that exceeded anything in the natural world—sorcery used for vengeance and spite. Hardly an empire, kingdom, or township had not been affected by this deviltry. And yet, if this wicked lord wanted to kill him, why hadn’t he already?

The rocking stopped. Barin‘s cloak fell over him as a blanket covering a dead man. The walls opened slowly as the mountain giant exposed him to a deep and wet chamber. Barin lay prone, afraid to move lest he be trampled, or kicked, or grasped again by the giant.

The cave, only an overhang of obsidian the size of a small horse stall, faced another peak. Unprotected from rain and snow, an icy wind whistled against its interior. Barin slowly looked up at the snowcapped peak of Mount Ream in the distance. That would put him on the western ridge of Casda de Moor—a long course from where he had been, a longer way from any help. The distance didn’t surprise him. A giant could cover much ground in little time.

Sol pushed him under the overhang and dragged an iron portcullis down. Snow flew from the rocks as it slammed into place, and then the giant walked away. Barin looked out at his surroundings through the grille. Precipices and crags of the steep mountain on which they had caged him glared back. He shivered and drew his cloak closed, creeping into the rear-most part of the overhang as far away from the chilly wind as he could. He rubbed his arms in an attempt to get warm. The gash on his head had scabbed over but fatigue overtook him, and Barin collapsed to the ground, drifting off to a state of unconsciousness.

If he had slept, he may have dreamed, but instead, the numbness of the cold, snowy mountain took his mind and played games with it. Voices rang in his ears—a pleasantly familiar drinking song popular in Prasa Potama. Men’s voices rang out so distinctly he could almost see them lifting their mugs and toasting to the king.

When he opened his eyes, he listened to the wind. He perked up, sure that something more than the sound of a storm whistled in the gusts. He heard people!

“Hey, up there! Can you hear us?”

Barin crawled to the gate. He couldn’t stretch his neck between the grilles. But the voices were clear.

“Who’s there? Who did the evil devil catch this time?” a man called.

“Hallo!” Barin answered. “Prince Barin of Tobias. Who are you?”

He heard men talking. Someone whistled. “Vasil. We’re from Kevshire and some of us are from Fairmistle. Caught up in a raid. We’ve been here a week.”

“How many of you?”

He waited for an answer. Either they were counting, or they didn’t want to say. “There are twenty-two of us now. One death, Vasil.”

“Are you well?”

Another silence. “Mostly,” came the reply not as eagerly. “We’d be better if we were off this mountain in the warm of day. Never see much of the sun in these shadows. Some pretty remarkable sunsets beyond, though, if your eyes don’t freeze shut.”

“Are they feeding you?” Barin asked.

“They give us food. We don’t know what it is, but it’s kept most of us alive, those of us who can stomach it. Some of us are fasting.”

“Is there any way to escape?” Barin asked, knowing full well if there were, they’d be gone already.

“Vasil, we’ll do whatever you ask.”

“Vasil,” an unfamiliar voice yelled out and echoed over the canyon. “Is it true, about your father?”

“What about my father?”

“That the Casdamians overthrew him and killed him?”

“No.” Barin answered as a chill rushed up his spine. “Who told you that?”

“The man who died…he’d been summoned. He came back ill, Vasil. Told us they killed your father and then he died. The demons poisoned him, we’ll wager. Be careful.”

“Lies!” he called to them. “He said nothing else?”

“No, Vasil. The poison took him pretty quick-like.”

Barin sank back into his corner.

There were other creatures besides the mountain giant who visited Barin. Strange human-like individuals. Hairless, who didn’t seem to have much bone structure, nor any gender. They had eyes the color of their flesh, a reddish tan hue, and did not wear clothing. They moved on rubbery legs and could change shapes to pass through the small openings in the gate. In the evening, five of them congregated outside Barin’s cell and gazed at him. One squeezed through the grille, carrying a clay pot in an indentation in its arm. It set the bowl in front of Barin and hurried to join the others. They left after that.

Barin took one look at the contents of the bowl—oily green chunks of unidentified meat, He refused to taste it, especially after being told Skotádi had poisoned a man. The pot sat in the middle of his cave and slowly the frosty night seized the steam away. He didn’t hear from his friends below the rest of the evening.

The other prisoners might have kept themselves warm huddling together. Barin had only his cloak to keep from freezing to death that night. He shivered—his body cramped. He had nowhere to bed but on the hard, icy surface. His teeth chattered as he trembled. Occasionally a burst of energy rushed through him, and he stretched, jumped, and trotted in place, but exercise caused hunger pains. The bowl of stew sat in the middle of the cave, now with a thin layer of ice over it. He resisted the temptation.

Counting helped him to stay alert, for if he handed himself over to fatigue, he’d never wake. He stared out through the portcullis, regarding the countless stars, wishing he were with his men fighting these demons on the outside, rather than being imprisoned by them.

Before dawn, the hairless creature climbed again into his prison to take his bowl away. The contents had turned to solid ice. The creature shook its head but said nothing, glancing at him several times as it yanked the bowl from the rock. Barin wondered if the creature could talk or communicate at all. The thing climbed through the grille and disappeared.

Dawn had come, and the sun rose onto the landscape of another dismal day. A slow change of dark gray to blue-gray and then to gray. Aside from the slimy creature who visited Barin’s cage, the world lacked color. The clouds, however, seemed to keep the heat close to the earth. Fog filled the valley. Fog evaporating into the atmosphere, or mountain giants seeking prey. Perhaps both. The mist came and went, taking on the dull glow of sunrise and sunset. Windswept snow off Mount Ream and clouds hovered on top of it, sealing off the uttermost peak. A flock of skura flew from the valley and landed near the cave, squawking, fighting over scraps of meat they’d brought with them. Barin noted their habits. He could hear them talking but couldn’t hear them well enough to know what they said. When not riled, they hid their human faces under a furry head appearing more like owls than monsters, but their scaly wings looked like those of giant bats.

Days passed, and Barin lost count of them. Flurries of snow came and went, yet the cold remained. Barin paced across his cell, flexing all his muscles from his head to his toes. Each morning the strange shapeless creature crawled through the bars and delivered to Barin the same grotesque bowl of stew. Three days Barin refused to eat. He peeled ice from the rocks for water. By the fourth day, he held the bowl in his hands to absorb its warmth. On the fifth day, the stew smelled more appetizing to him and so he took a taste of it to see if it would curl his tongue or upset his stomach. Tasteless, he had no reaction to the broth. He put the bowl down where it had been placed, giving the appearance that he hadn’t touched it. The creature took it away again that night. Before it left, it looked at him, its flesh-toned eyes somber. It reached out its hand and a piece of parchment paper floated to the ground in front of him. Barin waited for the creature to leave before he took the letter and read it.

Once you eat, we’ll bargain for your freedom.

Barin fumed. The devil had a plan, then—to starve him until he hands over his soul. He wrinkled the paper and threw it on the ground. It rolled and curled in a corner, a bright white parchment against the cold slate tempting him, beckoning him. Barin looked away and shivered. The lack of food depleted his body. Over time, his fatigue would overwhelm him. Then he would die.

Barin had seen people starve. Three years ago, in the lower plains of his father’s kingdom, there were villages where drought had hit, caused by crop-devouring demons. Before his father could send food to the serfs, several hundred people had died, not just of undernourishment, but of the diseases that came with it. Even when he and his soldiers brought wagons of supplies, some of those who were stricken never outlived the illnesses. He glanced at the note with disdain.

Each day after that, Barin tasted a little more of the stew. Sufficient to offer his body a touch of nutrition, but not enough to make a difference in the amount left in the bowl. Every evening the stew froze, and the pot stuck to the ground. The creature came and yanked it free and shook its head. Barin said nothing.

By the seventh day, Barin’s insides contracted in unbearable anguish. Hunger, combined with the freezing weather, had taken hold. His shirt fell loose over his shoulders, and he had to buckle his trousers tighter to keep them up. Even his cloak seemed too heavy to bear. The icy temperature crept into his bones and his hands had a blue hue to them. He exercised less simply because exhaustion consumed him. By the end of the seventh day of his incarceration, Barin called out to the men below, but no one answered. Had his voice grown too weak for them to hear? Or had the men been moved? Or had they died? The loneliness added to his suffering. He picked up the note and read it again.

When you eat, we’ll bargain for your freedom.

Barin had given all the fight he could. He relented. Should he be poisoned, death would come quickly, and he would welcome it. When the creature came with the bowl, Barin waited for it to leave, and then he ate. The tastelessness of the substance mattered not. It warmed his belly and satisfied his hunger.