Chapter Eleven

COLD COMFORT

BY Raynflower and Moldred

Over the icefield they traveled. It was not actually snowing at present, but the breezes made that which had already fallen dance and twirl. She felt almost as though she were traveling through a very, very low cloud.

"Nice place to visit," she muttered, wondering if the overseer would say anything.

"You better remember your training, Furn," he said, his eyes narrowing at her. "Hogarth is not a pleasant place to be cast out into if you fail to please your master." He seemed to expect no response and she was not about to offer him one.

A moment later her new lodgings came into view, partly obscured by swirling snow mist. It was a low lodge, the roof a curved half-circle. She shuddered. What would the mysterious Sven be like? Her virginity had been kept intact so that he could claim it – he must be someone deserving of special treatment, but why? Would he beat her as the Hyena had? The thought made her shiver. If she didn’t please him, would he hurt her? Would it please him to hurt her?

After all, here there would be no escape – the cold was a successful deterrent against escape and the landscape was so barren and desolate that she would never survive it. She bit her lip, tasting blood. What had she done to deserve the life of a sex slave? Once upon a time there had been so many dreams – so many aspirations. And now what was there? Nothing but a faint hope that she would not be mistreated too harshly.

Without knocking or announcing his presence in any way, the Serval slammed the door open and dragged her inside. Now the heat hit her – a great searing wall of it.

"Sven Bjornston," her overseer called. "I’ve brought you your whore."

There was a long, long pause and no response.

"Look," the Serval bellowed, "if you don’t want her, I’ll have her right here." He cupped his groin with one hand, making a crude thrusting motion. "She won’t mind, will she?"

Azreal merely shuddered in revulsion, but a revulsion that she was starting to become disturbingly used to.

And Sven Bjornston stepped into view.

He was a white Wolf clad in simple attire – as one might be when one lives alone on a desolate asteroid alone. Nothing more then a loose-fitting pair of trousers and a comfortable plaid shirt, hanging open to reveal the thick white fur of his chest. When he saw Azreal and the Serval he sighed.

Azreal was surprised to find herself disappointed – she had expected a rather more impressive reaction. He had after all been stationed alone for a considerable period of time. One might even think he would show some glee at being proffered female companionship.

Instead he just shook his head. "I’ve told them until I’m hoarse in the throat," he said, and his voice was pleasantly deep with the faintest twinge of an accent, "I don’t need no whore to warm my bed."

The Serval grinned at him. "This one’s no whore - she’s special. Fully vested in the arts, but never been fucked. See?" And before she could make a move to cover herself or even realize what was happening, he swung open the cage door. Attached to her collar was a chain, and this he pulled on, forcing her from the case.

She stood before her new master, completely naked but for the pure white collar and wristbands. Her nipples, dark patches against her chocolate-brown fur, stood erect from the cold. When she tried vainly to cover herself, the Serval jerked the chain again.

"So she wears the white," Sven said, a faint trace of irony in his voice, "that fails to truly prove anything. Anyone can wear white."

"She’s as innocent and pure as the driven snow," the Serval replied, "I’ll prove it." He jerked the chain again so suddenly that Azreal stumbled and fell to the ground, feet scrabbling for purchase.

Within a second he sat astride her, one hand holding her chain short and firm, the other drawing open her legs. "Go on, feel her yourself."

Sven rose his eyebrows and stepped forward, kneeling before her. She made a concerted effort to struggle free, but the Serval merely pressed down his weight and held her firmly in place. A moment later she felt the Wolf’s finger prying not-so-gently into her nether regions. She writhed a little, especially when he tried to insert another finger within her, beside the first.

"You’re right," he said after a moment, drawing back and wiping his hand unself-consciously on the Serval’s tunic. "She’s tight as a turtle. I believe they’ve actually found a genuine virgin. Who would’ve thought eh? I thought they were a dying breed."

"They are," the Serval made a vague effort at humour, "natural selection and all that."

Either the quip flew straight over Sven’s head or he deigned not to comment. "Well, I suppose now you’ve come to all the effort of bring her here I might as well keep her. I assume you brought food? They give me precious little of that rot without making me share it with a whore."

"I am NOT a whore," Azreal growled, sick of being treated as a non-sentient being.

"Not yet," the Serval winked, frowning at her. She had been submissive on the trip. Still – she was no longer his concern, let Sven deal with her. "Don’t forget, Whitey boy – fuck her as quick and as hard as possible. Don’t let her forget who’s boss, eh? Oh," he added, "and have fun."

"Yeh, whatever," Sven shrugged, "did you bring food as well?"

"Couple of crates," the Serval replied, "the boys are bringing it over as we speak. I’ll have them dump them just in the door – I’m sure you’re eager to get down to business, eh?" And he rubbed his groin once more.

Sven rolled his eyes, "just be gone with you." He waved his hand dismissively.

"Oh, you are an eager one." The Serval grinned. "Right then – I’ll be on my way then. I’ll leave the cage though – you might need it. This one seems to be a little feisty. Must be the brisk air."

"I am a sentient being," she snapped, "you don’t need to treat me like I’m some sort of pet."

Both of them ignored her. The Serval gave a little nod of his head (a minimalist bow) and marched from the room.

For a moment Fossa and Wolf just stared at one another. Azreal had drawn herself into a crouch, her position hiding much of her body from view.

"Right then," Sven said after the pause had worn thin, "why don’t you make me a coffee?"

Azreal frowned, unsure of this turn of events. "I am not your slave," she growled, "to be commanded to your every whim."

"On the contrare," he snapped in response, "you are my Furn and as such there a certain tasks you are required to perform. Now, all I am asking, at present, is for you to make me a coffee? Or did they not teach you that at whore-school?"

"I can make coffee," she said, sticking her chin out in defiance, "but I am not going to. I am not some ‘pet’ to be Mastered."

"Right." Sven stepped close to her, "sit," he pointed to the bed.

"I’d rather stand," she declared.

"So, to me you are impetulent and rude, yet to Stefan you defer. Interesting." His eyes narrowed, "now sit. I did not ask for them to send you here and I certainly don’t need to put up with this kind of crap. Now sit down." He grasped her chain in one hand, since it still hung from her throat, and dragged her roughly towards the bed. Azreal resisted as best she could, but the Wolf was very strong and the chain was attached to her throat. She found herself losing ground. A moment later he pushed her onto the bed.

She scrabbled across the blankets (which were disheveled as only a bachelor male can leave them) and crouched on the far end, her eyes glowing hatred in his direction.

"You gonna fuck me?" She goaded. It was not an invitation. "Going to rape my virginity from me?"

He frowned. "How dare you imply such a thing? I’m not going to take you against your will." The outrage and fury burned in his words. "You’re a bloody Furn!" He threw a pillow at her, disgusted, and stormed over to the window, staring out over the endless white of the horizon.

Azreal paused in her fuming, staring at him. She was damned if she was going to fuck him – her virginity was currently the only currency she had. Well, her virginity and her stubborn pride. Everything else had been stolen from her – everything but her socks. She regarded Sven for a long moment. He was broad shouldered, lean but muscular, his muscles twitching beneath the plaid shirt.

A crunching, thumping echoed from outside and he turned back to her.

"That," he said, "is Stefan’s boys dropping off my food. If you wish to share of it – ever, you will be lying on that bed, ready and willing when I return." He started to stalk away, but paused and turned back, "and I would just like to remind you – if you think about running, that we are all alone on an ice asteroid. And I very much doubt your pretty striped socks will keep you warm long in a blizzard, yes?"

And with that he stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that the windows rattled.

Pleased to be alone, Azreal studied the room, searching for places she could stuff herself into. Certainly that would not be a long-term strategy – since there was nowhere she could possibly go. The room was fairly large, although it seemed to act as kitchen, bedroom and living room all together. The door through which Sven had stormed was the entrance-way, and another door at the back probably led to the washroom. There was some sort of computer device in one corner and a telescope propped up in front of the enormous window. Outside it Azreal could see nothing but swirling clouds of white snow-mist that obscured the sky from view. She clambered off the bed and wandered over to the computer, currently showing a screensaver view of swirling, interweaving patterns. She reached out to deactivate the screensaver, her hand almost touching the screen

"Don’t touch that! Back on the bed, Furn!"

Azreal whirled, Sven stood in the doorway, jaws curled back in what resembled a snarl. He looked extremely pissed, and Azreal did not wish to push her luck any further then she had already pushed it. She dropped back but kept the gaze steady. "Why not?"

"I do not have to answer that," he snapped, "back on the bed, wench."

Their gazes warred briefly, Azreal as unwilling to admit submission as the Wolf. This may have been a successful ploy – had Sven not stalked towards her (gaze never faltering) and seized the chain. He drew on it hard, the collar pressing painfully against her throat and making her gag. Azreal stumbled and the Wolf lifted her bodily, depositing her on the bed.

"You will stay there," he said. "Do not move! Right now I need a strong coffee."

Azreal lay in a disheveled heap on the bed, breath rasping in her throat. She scrambled into a crouch. "You hurt me," she challenged.

"I’ll do a lot more to you if you don’t stop behaving like a spoilt brat," he growled, "I did not ask for a companion and I cannot help but wish they had given me one a little more docile. Do not touch my computer."

"How about your telescope?"

"You are here as a Furn," he replied, sounding rather calmer now as he brewed himself an extra strong coffee. "And if I need to, I will put you back in that carry case. Do you want that?"

"Well, not particularly," Azreal admitted. "May I have some coffee? All that choking has made my throat hurt."

Sven sighed and rolled his eyes, preparing a drink for her. He sat on the bed beside her and handed her the cup. The drink had been over-watered. With cold water. Azreal took one sip and almost gagged.

"What are you feeding me? Is this dishwater?"

Sven shrugged.

"You don’t trust me with hot water, do you?" She asked, coming to her own conclusions, "what – are you afraid I’ll throw it in your face?"

A flicker of a smile almost flashed across his muzzle. Almost. "Something like that."

She snorted. "Then you’re smarter then you look."

A frown furrowed his brow. "I shall take that as a compliment."

"If you like." She swirled the watery, luke warm coffee about in the mug, grimacing as she took another sip. "This really is foul," she admitted, "in fact, I am very tempted to throw it in your face just to express my distaste."

"You do and you’ll wish you hadn’t." He replied. There was no trace of humour in his tone, nor a sense of threat. It was nothing more then a fact.

They sipped their brews in silence for a while, Azreal gagging as she forced hers down. After a while Sven took hers from her (still half full) and set it aside with his.

"Right then,’ he said, sounding almost as unenthusiastic as Azreal, "I suppose we’d better get onto it then."

The silence and the coffee (as foul as it was) had lured Azreal into a false sense of security and now she only stared at him foolishly, not understanding what he was implying. Until, that is, his hand flew to his groin and he began to slide his trousers down. Underneath her wore midnight blue satin boxer shorts.

AZREAL'S resolve hardened. She might be naked, but she was not helpless. She crossed her legs, clasping her feet together. He straddled her, his large hands caressing her breasts. His palms were rough, working man’s hands. She shuddered back beneath his touch, used to, as she was, a rather gentler caress. As his hands reached her thighs, inserting one between them and beneath the gentle swell of her pubis, she stirred into action.

Writhing and twisting, she squirmed up the bed, one foot connecting solidly with poor Sven’s groin. He grunted, pulling away as she scrambled up the bed.

"Bitch," he muttered. "You didn’t need to do that – I said I’m not going to rape you."

Azreal merely glared at him. "You’re male," was all she said by way of response.

Sven had clearly had enough. It was bad enough that his daily routine had been disturbed by having a scantily clad female dumped on him – but it was worse that instead of the meek and mild sex slave he had expected (broken and brain-washed) they had chosen to "reward" him with a feisty Fossa. She might be a virgin indeed, but he could not help but think that the reason they had sent him here to this desolate ice asteroid was not to reward him.

But to get her well out of the way.

"Are you ever going to cooperate?" He asked her.

"Not without good reason," she replied. She stretched languorously, and a little arrogantly. Confident, no doubt, that he would not force himself upon her.

Such confidence – and there was none around to witness it if he did.

Sven, however, had no desire to take that which was not given willingly. However, nor was he going to let her away with such insolence. Grasping her by the chain again, he jerked her to her feet. She struggled, baring her teeth and snarling, as he dragged her to the door.

With one hand he slammed the door open and the wall of cold air hit him. Azreal struggled, suddenly realizing what he was intending.

"You are truly a bastard," she snapped, "and I would rather freeze in the snow then fuck you."

He ignored her. "You can wait out there until it has cooled off your temper. Don’t come back in until you’re ready to be submissive." And with that he shoved her out into the snow and slammed the door behind her. He did not lock it – he would not be responsible for her freezing to death in the snow. If her stubborn Civet nature refused to allow her to admit to failure and she did not seek the shelter and the warmth of the lodge, so be it.

Damn foolish, stubborn wench! Were all women like that?

He returned back to his one-room lodgings, and seated himself in his observatory. At least now he would have some peace and quiet. Not that there was much work to actually be done – the white Rabbits would never come.

Outside the window Azreal padded into view, naked but for those striped socks. With her short, tropic-adapted fur, she would be frozen in no time.

She stood there, hugging herself close, and stared at him defiantly, challenging him to go out there and drag her back in, kicking and screaming.

Sven gulped, hardened his heart, and set his eye to the telescope.

Azreal shuddered. She had never been this cold in her life, but at least the wall of the lodging provided some shelter against the driving wind. She had entertained the idea of wandering out into the snow in search of shelter – but the snow-mists rendered everything all but invisible within a few feet. Besides, there was nothing here, nothing but Sven’s pitiful observatory.

She observed him through the glass – so smugly going about her work, leaving her to freeze to death in the snow. Already she was losing feeling in her fingers and her toes. She shivered, short fur standing on end. She would not give in – would not relent.

It was a foolish battle, but she did not care. All she had left was her dignity – her dignity and her virginity. Oh, and her socks. Besides, what purpose was there in her life? Abandoned on a desolate asteroid in the company of a Wolf who wouldn’t let her do anything and was constantly trying to jump her bones? And Stefan… She shuddered as she remembered the Serval. He would be back, she was sure, and once Sven claimed her virginity (as he would were she to relent) then there would be nothing stopping Stefan from fucking her – nothing but Sven that was. And Sven would likely be glad to be rid of her.

Cold coffee indeed!

Although at this present point in time, even luke-warm coffee would be welcome relief against the cold chill. She shivered, her fur making a desperate attempt to keep her delicate form warm. It failed – Fossa were evolved for much warmer climes. Already the feeling crept from her fingers and toes – devoured by the frigid air. Inside his heated sanctuary, Sven would be waiting for her to admit defeat and crawl inside. But she could not admit defeat – to escape from the bitter cold would be betraying herself, handing over her dignity, her pride – the only commodities she had left, to him on a gilded platter. She would be that platter.

No, she would not succumb to that – better to die out here in the cold.

Around her the snow-mist drifted on currents of wind. Hogarth might be little more then an asteroid, but it was large enough to sustain a breathable, albeit frigid, atmosphere. Every breath seared her lungs – as though she were inhaling shards of ice.

As the cold began to take its toll, dark spots materialized around the edges of her vision, tiny dancing faeries of black. Entranced, she reached out – trying to touch one, but it shattered into nothingness. Furiously she blinked, only to find that her eyelids were frozen and she could not close her eyes. Wiping one hand across her eyes, she brushed them away, only to find her hand beaded with spots of blood.

Her shivering, now almost uncontrollable, gave way to stillness. It no longer seemed so cold. A great peace descended on her, a great white blanket.

And with the serenity descending, she saw a figure, stepping from the snow-mist and towards her. It took a moment for her to discern the shape for it was not so much a person, but more the snow-mist taking the form of a furson. A sleek creature, fur as glistening as white as the landscape and completely insubstantial.

Azreal reached out her hand, and accepted that of the creature in the snow. Her fingers found no resistance, and she stumbled forward and into oblivion.

"Sure you do," the Raccoon continued, "you roll your ‘r’s and commit similar atrocities to the other letters too. I don’t see why they should let refugees into our school. Your parents were probably like farmers or something."

It was the first time Stephanie had experienced such class-ism. "What’s wrong with being a farmer?" She asked. "And for your information, my father was a book-binder. My Aunt," she added, "is a physicist."

"A book binder," the Raccoon snorted. "My father is a security officer for the government. He’s actually important. We don’t need or want your sort around here."

*What is my sort?* Stephanie wondered to herself. She did not voice the words out loud. She feared the answer.

"Excuse me," Franny tapped the Raccoon on the shoulder. "We don’t need, or want, your sort around here either, so get out of my fur before I have to force you to."

The Raccoon snorted. "You and whose army, tiny?"

Fran bared her teeth. "I don’t need no army, Ricky, and you well know it. So leave my friend alone, okay? Her kind is much preferable to you superiority complex rodents any day."

"Hey," Ricky growled, "I’m not a rodent."

Franny shrugged, "then stop acting like one, rat-boy." Her ears were beginning to flatten dangerously.

"Children," one of the cooks snapped, suddenly noticing the argument, "break it up, okay? Don’t force me to take the ladle to you."

Ricky narrowed his eyes. "I’ll see the both of you later," he growled, almost beneath his breath, and turning on his heel, stalked away.

"Aww," Franny called after him, "you’re so cute when you’re angry, Ricky!"

"Do you want food or not?" The cook snapped, "cos if you don’t, stop holding up the line, okay?"

"No, that’s fine, we want food." Stephanie replied hurriedly. Since living the refugee camp, the Fossa’s appetite had known no boundaries. She had become a voracious eater, but (much to her Aunt’s relief) did not seem to be putting on much weight. Indeed, the increased diet had done wonders to her figure – in Grazland she had been scrawny, but here she was starting to fill out nicely and more resemble the woman she would one day become.

Francine watched as she encouraged the cook to pile her plate high with spaghetti. "Are you really going to eat all that?" She asked.

"Probably," Stephanie replied. "I’ve spent so long never having enough to eat, that now I have to make up for lost time."

They took a seat in the corner, Francine picking listlessly at her noodles, and Stephanie polishing off her plate with speed and dexterity.

"You know," Franny commented, twirling noodles around her fork, "we’re supposedly an upmarket school – you’d think they’d feed us half decent food."

Stephanie snorted, lowering her fork. "If you think this is only half decent, try living on nothing but dried rations boiled in water." She shuddered, "because that’s what I mostly ate for my whole life. Aside from the biscuits and bread I acquired from the guards, of course."

"What’s it like?" Franny asked, "living in a refugee camp, I mean?"

"Not nice, there’s never enough food and it’s so cold at night that you all have to huddle together in the same bed for warmth. My father got sick and died – they were working him too hard. Then my mother got sick too. She also died." She shoveled a meatball into her mouth. Everything she said had been matter-of-fact. Whilst she missed her parents mightily and whilst the grief still rested heavy on her heart, and always would – she had accepted their deaths. Growing up in the camp, death had been a part of life. In the winter months, the coughing had echoed throughout the barracks at night, and there were so many furrs that just could no longer get out of bed in the mornings. It had happened to her mother.

"That’s pretty horrible," Franny replied. "You poor thing."

"What’s pretty horrible?" Another girl had materialized beside the table. Stephanie recognized her as the feline girl that had smiled at her earlier.

"Step's past," Franny answered, "hi Jules, have a seat."

"Hi Stephanie," the girl said shyly, "I’m Julie. How are you finding North Parklands?"

"Fine," Stephanie replied. She was about to say more when something wet spuh-latted across the back of her head. Raucous laughter rose from behind her. She turned, to see Ricky and his three friends – a Weasel, a Chinchilla and a Coyote, falling over themselves with laughter. The icky and sticky and unpleasant gloop dripped along her hair and down her back.

"Go back to where you came from, refugee-scum." The Raccoon shouted, banging his fork against his plate for added effect. "We don’t need your like tainting our school."

"Ignore him," Julie growled. "He’s a loud mouth and a bully. If you ignore him, he’ll get bored. Eventually."

"Do you know what I would like to do?" Franny snarled, "I’d like to, just for once, show him I’m not just a weak little Fox. But he always hangs around with William, Carla and David, and finishing those three off would take so long that the teachers would get wind of it and stop me." She slammed her fork hard against her plate, the resulting "clang" making Stephanie jump.

"Listen to me, Ricky!" She shouted, "one day, you’ll get yours, you filthy rat."

Her retort was met with raucous laughter, not only from Ricky and his friends, but from the other students, all of whom were watching and listening, intrigued at the entertainment playing out before them. A meatball scythed through the air, winging Franny’s ear. She yelped in surprise, and the laughter rose.

"Is it always like this?" Stephanie whispered at Julie.

"Unfortunately, yes. Ricky lives to make others lives a misery. Franny, as you may have noticed, has the bad habit of jumping to the bait. Maybe if she would just sit down and keep her mouth shut, he would leave her – and us, alone. But she can’t, and thus is further humiliated."

"I think what we have to do," Stephanie replied, "is teach Ricky a lesson he will never forget."

And so the plotting began.

Sven peered through the snow-mist. It was certainly getting thick out there – too thick for his telescope to be effectual. That was the problem – the cloaking mist of Hogarth was so roiling it could cover all sorts of intruders. Not that he had really been concentrating on the skies for the last twenty minutes. No – his attention had been entirely diverted by the girl in the snow.

It was not that he cared for her, she was an annoyance more then anything, a distraction and something of a pest. No, it was more guilt gnawing away at him. If she died, he would be responsible. Her life was in his hands.

But that was a ridiculous thought – her life was in her hands. She knew the door was not locked, she knew that if she so chose she could push open the door and walk back into the warmth of his lodge. It was only her stubborn nature that kept her out there, where she would surely freeze to death within the hour.

He watched her sway, so cold that she barely shivered anymore. He wondered how she remained on her feet. Her bones must be numb with cold – maybe that was what held her upright?

Could he just sit there and watch her die?

Sven sighed. She was a right proper little annoyance and it would be decidedly easier for him were she just to cease to exist. But then again – she was a furson and he could not condone her to death, even of her own stupidity.

He stood up and brewed the kettle.

When he returned to the window she had fallen to her knees, her arms reaching upwards as though to take the hands of someone standing above her. There was a certain glazed appearance to her eyes, as though she were staring at something that only she could see.

"Stupid bitch," Sven muttered, "don’t throw your life away over something so meaningless, come back into the warmth. I’ll look after you."

It took him a moment to realize what he has said. He did not want to have to look after her. It was difficult enough, on this frozen planet, looking after himself. Wasn’t there such a thing as Natural Selection – survival of the smartest? Waiting in the snow for rescue that would never come, now that was smart. But then he had to consider what was going through her head. Taking from who knows what sort of life, and cast into that of a sex slave – trained to please men (and maybe women as well) but never allowed to actually put that training into action. And why not? Because she had to protect the only commodity she had. Sven had heard the rumours – he knew only too well what happened to the Furns branded as "whores", those that were so loose before being drafted that nothing anyone could do to them afterwards would have any effect. Being passed from soldier to soldier; crawling around on the dirty floors of dormitories and performing multiple fellatio on groups of men. Maybe some enjoyed it, but Sven could not help but think that the shame alone would be enough to kill one inside. Maybe surrendering oneself into the ice cold bosom of death was a welcome release?

He shuddered at the thought, perhaps there was some way to settle this without anyone getting hurt. With a deep resigned sigh, he pushed open the door and stepped outside, just in time to see Azreal topple face down and into the snow.

"Eshkaratu notabilium malifaecium," she chanted, "eshkaratu oshapatu tria dibolisia malkov." The words were meaningless to their ears, but there was something unnerving about them, perhaps even more-so by the foreign factor. Outside it seemed to get darker, as though all light was blocked from the sky. Stephanie knew that clouds had probably just covered the moon, but that did not stop the shiver dancing down her spine. Inside the box the bird scrabbled harder, wings flailing, as though it sensed its doom encroaching.

Francine nodded at Stephanie – the signal.

Hands shaking, Stephanie opened the box enough to insert them, grasping the bird in her grip. She withdrew it – one wing flapping free. A canary, nothing more then a gentle songbird, it still made a concerted effort at biting through her fingers. Against her hand she could feel its tiny heart flitting. It was so small, so delicate. She only had to tighten her grip to squeeze the life from its fragile body.

"Notorato!" Francine finished, waving her hands in the air. It was time for the blood sacrifice.

All she had to do was tighten her grip, to snap the tiny bones in the bird’s neck. But she hesitated. She held its life in her hands – could she take it?

She did not think she could.

An errant gust of wind blew through the treehouse, snuffing the lights from the candles.

Darkness descended, violently.

The three girls gasped simultaneously. The bird scrabbled free from Stephanie’s grasp, flapping manic and loud in the darkness. There was a "bang" so loud that it made the small treehouse shake. Julie squealed and Stephanie sat there, rocking back and forth.

What had they done?

A moment later, light flooded the treehouse – Francine, keeping her cool at all costs, had relit the lantern.

The canary lay dead in the middle of the pentagram. Its neck was twisted unnaturally and its wings were tangled and splayed, seeking only one thing – escape.

In only a few short strides Sven was by AZREAL'S side, scooping her frail form from the ground before he even realized what he was doing. She was cold – so cold, an icy chill against his chest. The cold stung his flesh, even through his thick Arctic fur. How had she lasted so long? Her with her thin tropics pelt?

No matter how irritating she was, no matter how much he resented her presence, he could not leave her to die in the snow. Even if it meant he admitted defeat, he would not do it. What sort of game was that? A game that left her fending off death and him safe and warm?

No game he was willing to play.

He carried her inside, hoping the sudden rush of heat did not prove too much for her. She was not even shivering, and for a moment there he worried she might already be dead. Perhaps the cold had done its dastardly work? But no – her pulse still fluttered against his hand. She was alive – but for how long?

He placed her on the bed and regarded her for a moment. How small she looked - how vulnerable and innocent. He could not, would not keep her. As soon as Stefan returned with supplies, he would send her back to the institute. Furn or not, he would not have her here, where she would cause trouble and ultimately get herself killed. And on the other paw, he would not be the one responsible for ripping from her the only thing left to her. Well, that and those striped socks. He stared at her candy-stripe clad feet for a moment. Were all Furns sent off to their duty wearing nothing but a collar and socks? Or was it just the Authority’s way of keeping her warm on this frigid ice asteroid? That was typical Authority thinking, that was. The same sort of thinking that had him stationed on a desolate ice planet undertaking an ultimately pointless and rather stupid mission. Drawing a blanket to cover that fragile form, he then set the kettle to brewing once more.

Returning to her, he gazed upon her supine form. Her lips were blue, here eyelids flecked with moisture droplets – melted ice that had once hold them frozen shut. Beneath her striped socks, her feet were as cold as ice blocks. There was one surefire way to warm her up.

Entering the small but well-equipped bathroom, he drew a bath, keeping the water warm but not hot (he did not want to shock her system, after all). Scooping her up once more, he placed her gently in the water. She sighed softly and her eyelids flickered for a moment, but she did not awaken. He eased off her socks, noting how her toes beneath were tinged with blue, beneath the thin fur and on the pads. She stirred further, making small whimpering noises, as he began massaging life back into her feet.

"Destroy it? You mean set it on fire or something? Cos…" she lowered her voice, "what happens if that makes things even worse for Ricky? I mean, I don’t want him to die!"

At that Fran laughed, which made many of her classmates turn and stare, frowning. She quickly turned it into a cough. "I don’t think jokes are really appropriate about right now, Steph," she said, for the benefit of the other students. "Nothing like that," she added in a low whisper, "you only have to remove the hair from it. ‘Sides, it’s only coincidence – it’s got to be, we never completed the," she glanced around at her fellow students, "’assignment’ properly. Not a drop of blood was spilt."

But Stephanie could not forget the crumpled shape of the canary, spread-eagled across the pentagram. Was that just coincidence? She was beginning to hope so.

"Don’t fret," Francine continued, "I’ll meet you at Julie’s after school."

Azreal continued to whimper and began flailing, splashing water about the room and almost kicking the Wolf in the face. Sven jumped back, startled. What was going through her head? Was she dreaming? Her eyes sprang open, and for a moment she stared directly at him. No – he realized, not at him, but through him. She was plainly in some sort of trance. Had the snow-mist stolen her senses? He chuckled dryly at that – as if she had much in the way of senses to begin with.

"Azreal?" He called, clasping her shoulders and shaking her gently, attempting to shake her back to reality.

She snarled, lashing out at him with one hand, claws unfurled. Her claw caught the underside of his arm and tore a gash through the white fur. Recoiling, he grasped his wrist tightly with the other hand. Was she bewitched?

No, of course not – Sven knew better then to believe in that sort of superstitious nonsense. The cold had clearly broken down the defenses of her mind. It was highly likely that she was just experiencing extremely vivid and disturbing dreams.

After a moment she calmed down, and he once again took one foot-paw in his hands and tried to return life to the frigid flesh.

"It wasn’t hidden," Stephanie pointed out. "She put it away there to keep it safe. You know how nosy kids can be, and her cousin’s coming to visit tomorrow. Don’t you think that maybe you’ve jumped to rather a few over-the-top conclusions, based on no proof, whatsoever?"

The Coyote girl bit her lip, not sure what to say, but clearly embarrassed by the whole affair.

"And you’re still trespassing," the Fossa pushed her advantage, "which I seem to remember is a crime – whereas making soft-toys for your relatives is not. At least not where I come from. I may be a bit backward, not growing up in your sophisticated cliques," she hoped Carla could recognize the sarcasm there, "but I very much doubt the construction of toys is criminal."

She wondered if Carla was about to cry. Poor girl. She was such a wimp without Ricky here to stand by her and back her up. Stephanie snorted. Poor girl indeed – Carla was nothing but a spoilt, stuck up bitch.

"I’ll tell you what – if you don’t spoil the surprise by telling Julie’s cousin, or anyone else for that matter, I won’t tell anyone that you broke into Julie’s treehouse and sorted through her stuff, okay?"

Carla frowned for a moment, as though aware that something was amiss with such a promise. Then she shrugged. It would probably be too embarrassing for her to have to admit to thinking such things, at any rate. "Okay, whatever," she replied. She pushed past Stephanie, attempting to make good her escape.

"Excuse me," Stephanie coughed, "I think Julie would be very upset if you stole her sister’s toy, wouldn’t she?"

Carla stared at the doll in her hand as though she had forgotten it was there. After a moment of deep, ponderous thought, she shoved the doll into Stephanie’s hands, scrambled down the ladder and disappeared down the street.

Stephanie stared at the doll in her hands for a long moment, and then leaned against the wall, easing herself into a sitting position with a great sigh of relief. That had been rather too close for comfort.

"Azreal?" Sven waved his hand in front of her eyes, trying to incite a blink. Her eyes were still glazed over. "Are you still in there?"

She blinked – once, twice, and then a third time, holding her eyes shut for what felt like eternity. When she opened her eyes again, clarity shone in them. Clarity – and then outrage.

"Get your filthy paws off me!" She shrieked, her voice near hysterical. Sven jumped back as though burned. Her hallucinations had clearly not helped her mood.

"Very well then," he said. "It will please you to know that I have made a decision – as soon as the supply ship returns, a week from today, it shall depart with you on it. How does that sound?"

Azreal stared at him, as though not believing his words, then she shook her head and turned her face away. "You can’t send me back there," she said, "you saw the way that creepy Serval eyed me up, like he wanted to rip or my clothes off and rape me on the spot. You can’t send me back – I won damnit!"

Sven rose his eyebrows. "So what do you want?"

"I want to be treated like a sapient being and not a sex slave," Azreal replied, her eyes meeting his without shame or any sign of submission. "You brought me in from the cold, didn’t you." It was not a question. "I wish you hadn’t. Better to sink into oblivion out there then to be treated like nothing more then a pet or an annoyance in here."

"And do you know what I want?" Sven asked, standing before her, hands on his hips, his head cocked on one side. "I want to stop being treated as though I’m some sort of malicious overlord that would rape you and throw you out in the snow to starve or freeze. If you stop behaving like a child for five minutes, I believe we can come to some sort of agreement."

Azreal was biting back a sharp retort. She would be a hard one to tame, he decided. Even the snow could not cool down her temper. Eventually she won the war against herself. "Very well then. You don’t try to force me into sex, and I’ll try not to make your life miserable."

"Good," Sven said, not allowing his face to show his relief. He proffered his hand to her. "So truce?"

She accepted it, still dripping wet. "Truce."

"Right then," he said, "well, I suggest you hop out of the bath now and we can start on preparing dinner."

She opened her mouth, no doubt to complain.

He interrupted without giving her the chance, "I may not be treating you like a slave anymore, but I do expect you to do your share of the housework. If you don’t pull your weight, then you will really be leaving on the next supply ship."

She looked chastised at his scolding. "I was only going to ask it you had something I could wear," she snapped, "I don’t want you thinking any naughty thoughts, after all."

"Oh," he replied and sheepishly handed her his bathrobe.

Azreal wrapped the bathrobe about her small form. It was too long, the hem trailing on the ground, but at least she was no longer naked. She cast a glance at her treasured socks – the only possession she still owned. They hung over the towel railing, dripping listlessly into the bathtub. It would be foolish for her to put them on, but she felt so vulnerable without them. She would have to learn to face such fears at some time or another. Plus dying from hypothermia once she had achieved an actual success was not a desirable end to meet. She sighed, tying the bathrobe firmly shut. So what if Sven had already seen her naked? That didn’t mean she should continue to display her assets to all and sundry! She stepped out into the main living area, noticing how weak her legs were. The cold numbness residing in her toes began creeping away, bringing with it a stinging, burning pain. She clenched her teeth against it – not willing to display the weakness brought on by her own pig-headedness.

Sven was standing over the stove, an apron wrapped about his waist. In one hand he held a wooden spoon, stirring about in a chunky metal pot.

"So, what’s for dinner?"

"Stew," he replied. "But you’re in luck, because not only did they bring you, they also brought halfway decent food. Stefan always smuggles me some poultry," he added, "which is a good thing, because other wise it would be rehydrated rations."

"You live in a giant freezer," Azreal pointed out, "why can’t they bring you decent food?"

His lip twitched for a moment – almost, but not quite, a smile. "Because the government have more important things to transport in their cargo ships then food for one lone Wolf." He shrugged, "besides, they only come every six months and if the food took up more cargo space, I would get more of it and likely starve before that time came around."

"Every six months?" Azreal marveled at how similar this man’s life was to her life in the refugee camp. Their rations were airlifted in bulk only once every few months, and they had many more mouths to feed. The land had provided some food, but had resisted many efforts to farm it, producing only spindly, anorexic vegetables and tiny, shriveled fruits. The young Fossa had been lucky – half-wild with hunger, she had sampled many wild plants and found a few that had not made her violently ill and had actually tasted halfway edible. It had not been enough to save her parents. Disease traveled through the crowded, dirty quarters like wildfire, killing off the newborn babes and elderly and weakening the previously healthy adults.

"I’m sure that sounds like a terribly long time to you," he continued, misinterpreting the shake in her voice. "But aside from that fact that I am only one man, on a lone outpost, the snow-mists surrounding Hogarth are frequently tumulus and dangerous, if not deadly. Every time they send a ship, they take the risk of losing it."

"So what did you do?" Azreal asked.

Sven frowned at her. "What did I do?" He repeated.

"What crime did you commit to get yourself stuck on a lonely, frozen outpost where you only get deliveries twice a year?"

"I didn’t do anything," he replied, "anything wrong I mean. This was my designated position. Of all the soldiers in my squadron, I was deemed the one most capable of surviving on my own. Which is why," he added, "I haven’t the foggiest idea why they would want to send me a Furn."

"Maybe they thought you were lonely?" She queried. "Aren’t you?"

For a moment a darkness flitted over his features, but it was swiftly replaced by his usual stolid expression. He grunted, "no, why should I be? Now, make yourself useful, Furn and prepare the chicken." He plonked the carcass on the bench in front of her. It was a whole chicken. Aside from killing it, the only other treatment it had suffered had been a plucking, the head, wings and legs, were all still affixed. "You’ll need to take out its gizzards first. Keep them to one side, I’ll use them in a stew later." He narrowed his eyes at her, "and remember, this is the only meat you are likely to see in the next six months, so don’t let any of it go to waste."

"I won’t," she sighed. Of course she wouldn’t – she lived most of her life in a Refugee camp. Sven still watched her carefully as she sliced open the chicken, scraping out the entrails and carefully setting them aside in another bowl. She drained the blood – what little there was, into a mug. After the chicken was gutted, she set about pulling it apart. The mere action of dismembering her own meat brought back memories. Survival was hard in the refugee camps, and fellow wildlife scarce, but every so often some of the young Furrs would head forth in search of prey. There were often a few birds – quail and pigeons mainly, to be found, and these made a welcome addition to the diet of the half-starved refugees. Azreal had a childhood friend by the name of Philippe. He had no voice, but talked quite animatedly with his hands and had been the best hunter of the group. She remembered the thrill of downing her first quail, and how good the meat tasted.

One never completely released their past.

"Are you going to make stuffing?" She asked. Her Aunt had been a great cook and made the most marvelous roast chicken. After much persuasion, Aunt Stephanie had shown her how to prepare the stuffing. Now, although she did not fully understand why, Azreal wished to make it for her and Sven. Maybe if she impressed him with her culinary skills he would be less inclined to renege on his promise? At least here she was unlikely to be submitted to gang rape.

"If you like," Sven shrugged, "I’ve never bothered before. Didn’t seem much point. I doubt I’ve got the right ingredients for it anyway."

What have you got?"

Sven scowled at her, irritated at her wasting his time. He made no reply but began fossicking through the cupboards and flung a handful of items on the bench-top. He stared at her in challenge.

Very well then, she would accept his challenge and she would make him a tasty meal. From a couple of very old pieces of waybread, a shriveled up object that may have once been an onion (before suffering an unpleasant death by dehydration), a green block of cheese and a couple of rice cakes.

Azreal smiled slyly. "you wish for me to cook?" She asked, "how about you go look in your telescope and I’ll see what I can do."

The Wolf looked skeptical, but shrugged. "Very well then," he replied, "but remember- if you ruin my chicken, you’ll be sleeping in the snow tonight."

Somehow, Azreal did not think him serious. "Just go stare at the skies or something," she replied, and turned her attention to the cooking.

"You ready?" Azreal asked. Sven didn’t need to answer – he was practically drooling. Some ancestral habits proved difficult to break. She set the servings of roast chicken upon the card table serving (currently) as a dining table.

It was delicious – even the taciturn Sven had to concede. For a Furn, the lass certainly knew how to prepare a meal. Of course, he’d been living on dried, plain rations for so long that it could have just been the chicken, but he didn’t think so. He polished off the meal in record time, and may even have gone in pursuit of seconds if Azreal hadn’t stopped him.

"If we leave some now," she said, stepping in front of him, "then we can enjoy it tomorrow." She was using the no-nonsense voice of her Aunt. Having lived life half-starved, Azreal had been much inclined to eat everything available, but her Aunt Stephanie had made an effort at teaching her Manners.

Unwilling to admit that her idea was a worthy one, Sven pushed past the Fossa and drew himself a glass of water instead.

"Not bad," he admitted. "You might have some uses after all."

That was about as much of a compliment as she expected.

Sanguine stained the snow-mist as the asteroid turned its face from the sun. The blood-red sunset was disconcerting, Azreal was used to rather more passive colours.

Sven glanced up from the book he was reading. "It’s the chemicals in the atmosphere," he said, by way of explanation, then buried his muzzle once more.

Azreal crouched on the floor, staring at the sky for some time. The snow-mists had parted, revealing the darkness beyond. Was this the whole of Sven’s job then? To stare at the sky in case something happened? In case, what? Enemies chose to invade the little frozen ball of nothingness that was Hogarth.

His life was as pointless as hers.

"What are you reading?" She asked, as the sun faded from view altogether and the world outside was pitch black once more.

"Shut up," Sven growled. "I’m trying to read."

His tone was such that Azreal fell immediately silent. She gazed out the window longer, but there was nothing to see. After a time she yawned. With nothing else to do, she may as well sleep.

Drawing the bathrobe close around her, she clambered up onto the bed.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Sven peered at her down his long muzzle.

"Going to bed," she replied. "I’m tired and it appears to be dark outside."

"You’re not sleeping on the bed." He replied. "My hospitality does not extend that far. If you will not submit to me, then you shall not share my bed."

"So where do I sleep then?"

He shrugged, stood and stretched. "The floor, the armchair, I’m not particularly concerned. I’m sure you’re work something out. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed."

Azreal contemplated arguing and forcing the matter. She thought she could win such an argument – she had won the battle of wits in the snow, after all. But she was only now realizing how tired she was. It had been a long and involved day. Maybe Sven would be more agreeable in the morning.

"This argument is not over," she growled, eager to get in the last words.

Sven ruined any victory though however, by merely shrugging his shoulders, not giving half a damn. He stripped off his shirt and trousers as though oblivious to her presence. This argument, clearly, was over – at least as far as he was concerned. It had probably never even begun.

The Fossa curled up in the armchair, wrapping the bathrobe around her like a blanket. She was disappointed that Sven did not even spare her a glance as he settled himself into his bed.

Would anything she do ever impress him?

And why oh why did she care?

*

For the next few days, Sven spent much of his time stolidly ignoring her presence. He went about his usual duties of inspecting his equipment every morning, over his first cup of coffee, checking various things on his computer (Azreal could not even begin to comprehend the multitude of screens and so forth) and dealing with interstellar news and messages. Then he would generally undergo his morning ablutions. During this entire time he paid no heed to Azreal, until, in an effort to get some sort of reaction from him, she waited in the bathroom whilst he went about his cleansing duties. Perched on the closed toilet lid, she waited for him to enter and turn the shower on. At first he ignored her, and she wondered if he had even seen her, but just as she thought he was about to remove his boxer shorts, he whirled to face her.

"Out!" He snapped, "now!"

Azreal stood up, but did not move.

Sven was clearly not having a good morning, for in two strides he was in front of her, and had grabbed her about the waist and flung her over her shoulder before she could object. She pounded on his back and kicked, but it was all to no avail.

He carried her out and dumped her on the bed.

"Don’t make me hurt you," he growled, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

Well, Azreal admitted, she had certainly got his attention. She wasn’t sure to what ends though.

He then went on to ignore her entirely for two days.

Most of the morning the Wolf spent engaged in his "exercises". He had a few rudimentary exercise tools in one corner of the room – a rowing machine, some weights and a wooden box. For about an hour he would lift weights or row, and then do exactly one hundred step-ups onto the box (Azreal knew this precisely because she counted them – he never missed one and he never did an extra one, so he never lost count either). This generally left him with a hearty appetite for lunch and in need of another shower. The second shower was always a cold one, Azreal noted.

After a fairly substantial lunch, Sven generally spent an hour in what Azreal began to think of as "contemplation mode". He would wash off his dishes and turn on his stereo, before positioning himself comfortably in the armchair and closing his eyes. Whether he was meditating to the dramatic classical music he chose to play, or if he were just completely immersing himself in music, Azreal could not tell, but there was certainly something immense and engrossing about the music. It was powerful and emotive and she frequently found herself sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed as she too sank into it.

The afternoon was much the same as the morning, except that there was less fiddling with the equipment and more staring aimlessly at the sky then turning back to the book.

Azreal wondered how he could cope with such an existence. It was not as though he could go outside for a quick stroll, the cold would chill anyone to the bone. And with only the two main rooms, the storage shed and the hallway, there wasn’t a lot inside either. Then again, perhaps he liked this dull, repetitive existence.

It was on the fourth day, exploring through his cupboards in the hope of finding something to do, that she found the chess set. It was an old, cracked and chipped affair, but none of the pieces were missing. She set the board up on the card table, carefully dusting and polishing each piece.

Some time later she noticed Sven looking at it.

"Do you play?" She asked, creeping up behind him and making him jump. Perhaps he had forgotten she was there. They hadn’t spoken in two days, not since the bathroom incident. She had been trying to keep out of his way and their dinner time communication had been little more then a series of grunts and nods.

"Once upon a time," he replied, "’tis rather difficult a game to play by yourself. I grew tired of losing all the time."

Azreal could not help but snigger at the uncharacteristic joke. "My Aunt taught me," she said, "I’m not very good at it, but I think I can remember how the pieces move. And who knows, you might actually win?"

He smiled at her a little crookedly. "Well, it is about time I got some use out of you, lass, and if you’re not going to submit to me sexually, maybe you’ll submit to me in chess."

And so they seated themselves at either end and within thirty minutes (and the sacrifice of many pawns later), Sven took AZREAL'S Queen with his Knight.

"Check," he said. "No, wait, make that Checkmate."

Azreal grumbled, staring at her vulnerable King. "Okay, so you win," she replied, "but I believe a rematch is required."

They played long into the night, and Azreal never won once. After the sixth triumphant loss, she conceded, throwing up her hands in despair:

"Very well, you’re the better player."

"You did get me into Check three times," he admitted, "maybe next time you’ll win."

"Maybe indeed."

Her defeat may have been complete, but she had to admit to herself, curling up in her armchair, that a barrier had been broken down between them. That night, as she drifted off into the deep clutches of sleep (and dreams filled with Knights ravishing her poor Queen) she felt Sven gently place a blanket atop her supine form.

*

Azreal sunk back into the water, enjoying the feel of the lukewarm liquid lapping about her spine. She closed her eyes and for a moment allowed herself to escape into a different world. Her life had always been one of trials, from her birth in the camp to her difficulty at school and finally her arrest. This was just another trial she would have to struggle through. Sven was a decent enough sort, for all his brusk nature. He had been true to his word and had never tried to force her. She had to admire that. But she could not hide the fact that she was a little disappointed as well. It would be nice to see some sign of lust in his eyes – to feel she was attractive to him and that he desired her. How would it feel, to have someone desire you?

As she sunk back, pondering such thoughts, a new sound emanated from the living room. It sounded like someone strumming a guitar.

She blinked back to attention, lying their listening for a moment or three. It was definitely not a recording. Clearly Sven was also a musician, and a pretty good one if this tune was anything to go on.

After a time she stood up - the water was growing cold anyway, and eased herself from the tub, wrapping the towel about her. Quietly she padded to the door, peering through at the white Wolf. He sat cross-legged on the floor, strumming some sort of triangular guitar. There was a calm aura about him, he seemed more relaxed then she had ever seen him, even when asleep. It was as though the tension seeped through him and into the instrument. She padded closer, unable to resist but unwilling to disturb him from his trance.

He finished the tune, lost in his own world and humming quietly along with it and then placed the instrument aside. Only then did he notice her and a frown furrowed his forehead, his smile returning to its usual discontent scowl.

"You play beautifully," Azreal commented, keeping her eyes shyly on the floor. She felt almost as though she had intruded on a personal moment.

"Thanks," he replied, rather less gruffly then usual.

*

A loud, shrill noise pierced deep into the dreams of the slumbering Fossa, tearing her from sleep. She awoke, thrashing and throwing her blanket to the ground.

"What’s going on?" She asked blearily.

Sven was staring into his telescope, his entire body tensed. Whatever had set the alarm off could not be good news. He said nothing, but merely made a vague gesture towards his computer monitor. At first the image on the screen meant little to Azreal, but after a moment she could see what appear to be a great black pyramid. It speared through the star-studded blackness with intent.

"What is it? Are we being invaded?"

"I don’t know," Sven replied through gritted teeth. "It’s on a collision course towards us, however. I’ve tried reaching it on radio, but I keep getting an automated response in a language the translators cannot understand." He pushed the button and the alarm cut off sharply. The silence it left in its wake echoed loudly.

AZREAL'S ears perked up. "Aliens?"

He shrugged, "who knows, the translator isn’t entirely complete, there are some obscure dialects not programmed into it."

"What are you going to do? Blow it up?"

He chuckled, despite himself, "a tempting idea, but they didn’t equip me with a laser canon, or any such device. Indeed, all I can do is send a signal through to my superiors on Geode and they can work to intercept it. However, that won’t be necessary, since it’s going to hit Hogarth in approximately ten hours and thirty five minutes."

"Surely they’ll just fly it around!"

"You’d hope so, but I don’t know, it’s definitely a recorded message I’m receiving – I’d say the crew are in stasis and something’s disrupted the auto-pilot. Either that or they’re on a suicide mission."

Azreal was starting to feel a little panicky now – Hogarth was a fairly sizeable asteroid, but being struck by an out-of-control spaceship was distinctly non-ideal. "What can we do?"

"Pray," Sven muttered, "pray that it doesn’t impact within a ten kilometer radius of camp, because that’s how far away it would have to land to destroy us."

"Is that likely?"

He nodded, "I’m afraid so, calculations indicate that the orbit of Hogarth will put us directly under the ship when it pierces the atmosphere." He turned to Azreal, concern showing on his handsome face as he saw her panic. "It’s impossible to know what impact the atmospheric entry will have – it may refract the ship completely off-course and away us, or even burn it to a crisp. If we’re lucky the pilots will have resumed control by then and skim it along the atmosphere and away. Don’t worry – it may not be the end of it all yet."

"We could run away, travel to somewhere else on the asteroid!"

"I can’t," he said, "I have to send reports to Geode – if it does skim across the atmosphere, it could be a threat to them."

Azreal snickered, although it was almost completely without humour. "You’re going to stay here to die just because your boss needs to know what’s going on?"

"I’m a soldier. It is my duty."

"You’re a fool!" She exclaimed.

He moved so swiftly she barely had time to flinch, let alone dodge out of the way, his paw slapped her cheek hard, four pale welts materializing in its wake. She squealed in anger and lashed out at him, claws unsheathed. He seized her tightly about the wrist.

"I’m a fool because I take my duty seriously? I swore to defend Geode against invasion, and here I am, watching a potential invasion. If I were to flee now, I would be demoted, demoted to a position lower then the lowest gutter-whore. Don’t you understand that? I would be lower even then you. Besides – have you seen the world we’re in? It’s a frozen wasteland. This lodge is the only habitable place on its entire expanse. Anywhere else, even with all the blankets and food we could carry, which would be very little, we would have frozen to death within a day. And a Hogarth day is only thirteen hours long." He was speaking quite calmly, the tightness of his grip the only betrayer of the anger raging within him. "Do you understand?" And he released his grip, flinging her away from him in the same move.

Azreal stumbled back, trying to balance herself by way of swinging her long tail. She failed and fell to the floor, catching her arm on the card table as she fell. Chess pieces cascaded everywhere and she crawled under the table in a panic. Blood gushed from a gash in her forearm.

The change that came over Sven was profound, expression radiating only concern, he dropped to his knees down beside her. "I’m sorry," he said, and actually sounded apologetic, "are you hurt?"

"Oh so you’re all concerned now? It’s only a scratch, I’ll live." She smiled crookedly, "at least for another ten hours."

"Well, I guess that’s a positive then," he smiled dryly at his own bland humour. "Do you need a bandage or anything?"

She examined the gash on her arm. It was shallow and already the blood was beginning to dry. "It’s just a scratch."

Sven nodded and proffered his hand to her. Ignoring it, she crawled backwards out from under the table and stood up.

"Just don’t touch me again," she growled. "You may be willing to die for your stupid superiors, but I don’t want to admit defeat just yet."

"Can you move a planet from its orbit?" He asked. "I thought not, besides, you could not survive the wastelands of Hogarth. The cold would eat you alive. None can survive the frozen cold."

"It’s better then waiting here to die."

He shrugged. "Like I said, you can always pray."

For the next few hours, silence reigned. There was nothing they could say to each other, nothing they could do to relieve the impending doom. Sven hovered over his telescope like a worried mother, eye glued to the eyepiece. Azreal merely paced. Back and forth, back and forth, trying to seek a way to relief all the nervous energy that swelled inside her.

They picked their way through a desultory lunch of beans and bread and the last of the meat. Azreal felt that somehow a last banquet would be more fitting, but was unable to pick up the motivation to prepare anything more then beans on toast flavored with what little remained of the chicken.

For a while the snow-mist cleared, and she saw, with her naked eyes, their destruction coming towards them. Vast and black, it was the spear that carried with it their doom. As the hours passed, it grew larger and larger as Hogarth’s orbit brought them closer to devastation.

They did not bother washing up the dishes.

The snow-mist thickened and the wind began to howl around the eaves. Hogarth was ever an uneasy asteroid.

Azreal sat on the bed, head in her hands. Soon she would be dead. Whether she chose death by impact or death from cold, well, the end result was still the same, wasn’t it?

And was pacing back and forth any way to die?

It was not the way she would chose. And despite everything, she did not want all her training as a Furn to go to waste. She did not want to die a virgin.

And since Sven was the only likely candidate…

She gulped, stepping towards him and placing her hand on his shoulder. A tremor passed through him at the contact, but he did not push her away. Not yet.

"What are you doing?" He asked. His voice wavered slightly.

"In under two hours we’re going to die, yes?"

Sven gulped and nodded. "It would appear likely."

"And there’s absolutely nothing we can do?"

"Short of moving Hogarth from its orbit, no."

"Then we’re going to die right? And if we can’t die fighting…" She faltered, and took a deep breath, trying to still her pounding heart. It was not a successful ploy. Lowering herself, she breathed gently in his ear, her tongue flicking out lightly to tease his earlobe.

He shuddered again, but it was a different kind of shudder.

"You want to…" He seemed to be suffering from the same inability to finish his sentences.

"To go out fucking," she said, "do you think it would make much difference to your superiors?"

"At this point," Sven replied, "I honestly don’t give a damn." He paused, looking at her quizzically, "are you sure you want to do this?"

She nodded, a little tentatively, "it’s probably my last chance."

"Oh thanks," he replied, ruefully, "well, I guess it’s my last chance too, so it would be a shame to let it slide by." He turned to his computer and flicked a few switches. "It’ll let us know if it diverts from its current path," he said. "Now where were we?"

She knelt before him, demonstrating the submission encouraged by her tutors. "What is it you desire of me, master?" She kept her eyes averted; submissive and shy, that was the image she had been taught to display. Submissive, shy, but most of all, willing.

Sven growled, low in his throat. He crouched before her, one hand lifting her chin so that their eyes met. She fought to break the eye contact – there was something so intense in his gaze, so… hungry, something his body had beaten into submission, but could never fully be tamed.

She struggled against the intensity of the gaze and sought deep into her memories of the Training for her next move… what should she do? Kiss him?

He answered the question for her, his lips brushing against hers as he tested the water. A shiver vibrated down her spine, thrilling at the contact. Her training was forgotten as animal instinct took over. She drew him closer to her, her hands stroking through the thick white fur of his mane and ruff to the delicate skin beneath. He sighed deeply, then scooped her up in his arms, took two steps, and flung her onto the bed. A moment later he pounced on her, pinning her shoulders against the mattress. His body was warm and hard against her, as he slowly rubbed his chest against her. Azreal moaned, low in her throat, as the heated bulge of his groin rubbed against her. There was no one word to describe the way she was feeling, sort of nervous, excited, the spaceship closing in on them almost forgotten.

Sven growled low in her ear. His hands groped her breasts rather indelicately, pinching her nipples between thumb and forefinger. Azreal quivered in expectation, arousal and a little pain. He lowered his muzzle, tongue flicking out to taste her salty flesh, then blew gently in its wake.

Cold shivers shuddered down AZREAL'S spine and she made a low groaning noise in the back of her throat. This Sven took as encouragement, and bringing his muzzle closer, gently nipped her nipple.

She shrieked then – partly because it hurt but mainly because with the pain came pleasure. Between her legs she could feel the moisture beginning to pool and her arousal made her writhe beneath him, running herself along his erection. This, in turn, made him spasm in delight and make small, ineffectual, thrusts of his own.

His hand traced down the contours of her belly, stroking gently through the paler fur, caressing, massaging and tugging slightly on the hairs.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asked, his voice heavy with lust.

Azreal nodded – she did not trust herself to speak.

"Good," he replied, "but I suggest, if you would rather I stop, that you tell me now rather then later." He paused. "Because I think, once I start, it will be most difficult to stop myself."

In response Azreal could only nod. She did not want him to stop, she wanted him to do oh-so many other things. The things Selma had spoken of – but where they true? Or had the Civet merely being toying with her?

All thoughts were cut off as Sven’s hand reached her crotch.

His touch was nothing like Stefan’s, or indeed any of the other men that had fingered her in her sordid, better forgotten, past. His hands were rough, yes, the palms calloused and worn, but his touch was slow, cautious. Many men, and women, had laid their hands on her genitalia, but none had done it with such gentleness.

"So it’s true what they say then?" He said, his fingers brushing gently against her engorged clitoris.

She startled. "What who say?"

He gently flicked his fingers and a wave spread through her, clouding her mind and emotions for a fleeting moment. "That Fossa femmes have an organ of their own."

She shuddered, half from pleasure, half with embarrassment. "Yes," she said, although the words came as a struggle. "Does it bother you?"

"Not at all," he replied, flicking it again, "it’s just… different. Does it work,’ he added, almost embarrassed.

"Not in the…" She gasped as he ran his fingers across it again, "the way that… yours does."

"For that," he replied, "I must confess I am somewhat relieved."

Azreal giggled, sounding almost manic to her own ears. In less then two hours she would be dead, and here she was worrying about what her lover would think of her exaggerated clitoris. That thought just made her laugh harder and Sven stared at her, looking hurt.

"You haven’t gone mad have you?" He asked.

"No," she replied, blinking back tears of lust and laughter. "At least, I don’t think so. Who knows?"

"You sure?"

She nodded.

He grinned a little then, and kneeling before her, proceeded to draw down his trousers, exposing his member, ready, willing and clearly able.

Azreal choked a little at the sight of it. She was supposed to put that inside her?

"It’s, it’s so big," she exclaimed.

Even the taciturn Sven chuckled at that. "Thank you," he said, "I’m honoured at the compliment."

Azreal looked up to meet his eyes, and there was pleading in hers. "Can I… touch it?"

Her sudden shyness seemed to appeal to him, for his return smile was one of kindness. "Well, I certainly won’t complain," he said, "but please keep your claws sheathed."

Tentatively, her hand shaking a little, Azreal reached out, running her hand down the skin and over the strange lump partway down its length. She was surprised at how soft it was, between the web-like threads of veins and arteries. Her touch was very light, very gentle, but Sven still shuddered, closing his eyes.

She closed her hand about it, wondering how this must feel to him. How would he feel inside her? He was so much bigger then she had expected – were all men that well endowed? Her trainer certainly had not been, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Size varied, Selma had told her, but it was what was done with it that counted. Selma had chuckled after saying that, as though it were some sort of enormous joke.

"Maybe the corporation were right to send you," Sven panted, leaning forward to kiss her once more. "I want you. I want you now. Don’t say no?" He added hopefully, as though it were a question.

"I won’t," she replied, and he eased her legs apart, kneeling between them. A moment later he lowered his head towards her burning groin. His fingers pried at her nether lips, and then he blew gently upon them. Shivers cascaded down her spine and just as they were about to burn out, his tongue flicked out, moistening them further.

"Are you ready?" He asked, drawing away and she wanted to say ‘no’, wanted him to nuzzle her further and for his tongue to do its magic dance, but her own tongue seemed too thick for her mouth. She nodded once more.

Sven eased himself between her legs, gently easing the tip of his penis between her nether lips. He pushed into her. She gasped at the pain – and it was pain, proper pain, a tearing sensation and she wondered shakily if his gigantic cock was going to tear her apart. Was it supposed to feel like this?

Feeling her shaking, he eased off the pressure, gently running his large hands down her cheeks and catching her tears of pain. "Does it hurt badly?" He asked, and she could hear the lust, ill-concealed in his voice.

She nodded mutely.

"Do you want me to stop?"

She pondered this, actually thought about it. Selma had warned her it would hurt, at first but then the pain would go away, but had the Civet ever fucked a man this well-endowed? She didn’t doubt that – judging from Selma’s stories, she fucked half of Geode. And this would be her only chance.

She wanted the pain to stop, yes, but there was another part of her that demanded him not to. She was more aroused then she had ever been in her life.

"No," she replied finally, and the look of relief on Sven’s face was enough to reward her. "Only… be very gentle."

"I will," he replied tenderly, running one hand down her jaw-line and resting his fingers in the hollow beneath her mouth. "I will." He kissed her then, on the eyelids, the nose and finally the lips.

She gasped as he pushed himself further into her, his eyes rolling back with the pleasure, his lower jaw hanging open. "Oh the gods," he whispered, "you’re so tight. Oh god, I don’t think I’m gonna last very long."

AZREAL'S fingers clawed at the bedspread. It was easier now, it was still painful, yes, but her inner wall had been broken with the first thrust, taking the ripping agony with it. And now she could feel him inside her, caressing her intimately. His belly rubbed against her exaggerated clitoris, and she moaned in response. Every thrust the pleasure outweighed the pain a little more and she could feel the pleasure welling inside her – a floodwall threatening to burst. So close… so close…

And then Sven released his seed with a mighty gasp and collapsed across her. Strangely enough, he did not seem heavy, more the weight of him atop her was comforting. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close as he panted and gasped in the after-throes of passion. Her own need still gnawed at her and she opened her mouth, prepared to beg him to bring her to completion.

But then the alarms went wild.

The shrill shriek reverberated about the small cabin, bouncing off the walls and filling the room with its presence. Sven slid off the bed and hopped over to the window, tugging his pants up on the way. He affixed his eye to the telescope, fiddling with the computer with one hand and tying his trousers with the other. Azreal wondered why he bothered. Maybe he didn’t want to die with his pants around his ankles, it did seem a bit undignified. A moment later an image sprang into view – the spear that was the spaceship.

"It’s broken through the atmosphere," he informed her. He was trying to keep his voice steady but nothing could halt the waver in it. Such a break in his usual demeanor could be excused – there was imminent death loaming on the horizon, after all. Flames engulfed the ship as it passed through Hogarth’s ozone layer. Azreal stood, her legs shaky but quite capable of holding her, and stood by the Wolf’s side.

Together they would watch their world end.

Except it didn’t. As the ship passed through the atmosphere, it jerked erratically, its path turning away from them.

Hope dawned in AZREAL'S heart. "What’s happening?" She said, unable to believe her eyes. "Are we maybe not going to die after all?"

Sven grasped her hand tightly. "I don’t know. I think we may be in luck. Either the storms, or perhaps Hogarth’s somewhat distorted magnetic field, has knocked it off course." He drew her closer to him, seeking comfort in her presence. "We’re not out of the woods yet. We better get prepared for when it hits."

Azreal nodded. The adrenaline flowed through her and she felt oddly exhilarated. It may have been the sex, or it may be the near-death experience, but she had never felt more alive.

Sven collected all the blankets off the bed. "Wrap yourselves in these," he commanded, "and get beneath the bed – it’s the sturdiest thing in the room." It was indeed a very sturdy bed, made of good solid timber – a relic of a bygone era. How it would hold up to an earthquake was another matter entirely.

Sven pushed her under the bed, then crawled in after her. It was cramped underneath, and smelt of must and sweat and the bitter after-tang of sex. Yet she drew comfort from the smells and the closeness of Sven – reeking of musk and sweat himself. They were familiar scents, comforting scents. She cocooned herself in them and waited for the collision.

"Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself," Sven asked, disturbing her from her contemplations. "Is Azreal your real name?"

"Hardly," she chuckled, "why do you suddenly care about me now?"

"Because if we are to die, it would be nice to die knowing something about the woman who lost her virginity to me. Besides, it might help break the tension."

"Like I know anything about you," she replied, "but since you asked." She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "My parents called me Stephanie, after my Aunt, but they died and after a while I went to live with my Aunt and well, in school I called myself ‘Azrael’ and everyone took to calling me that because it was too confusing having two Stephanies in the house. That’s all there is to it really."

"Your parents died?" He queried, "that must have been hard for you."

She shrugged, her shoulders brushing close to him. "I survived," she said, "Papa got sick because he worked too hard and his lungs weren’t up to it and Mama followed him a few years later, when the influenza struck. It wasn’t a good time for anyone. I got sick too, but Aunt Stephanie turned up and brought with her medicines and so forth."

"Sounds like you had a rough childhood. Where did you live?"

"You are being nosy today," she said, "but if you really want to know, it was Grazland."

"Grazland?" His brow furrowed, "isn’t that a relocation camp? You were brought up in a relocation camp?"

"Didn’t I just say that? How about you tell me something about yourself now, Mister Nosy?"

He opened his mouth then – perhaps with a short rebuttal, or perhaps with an answer – whatever it was she would never find out, because at that instant the ship struck the ground.

The vibrations reverberated through the earth, making a noise like a plucked violin string. Azreal, much to her shame, wriggled in close to Sven, as though his presence could somehow protect her.

A rattling followed, as the earth shivered and Sven’s utensils danced across the bench top. This was swiftly followed by the sound of smashing pottery as several danced off the bench and onto the floor.

And only then did the full blast hit.

The earth heaved as though awakening from a long sleep. No longer did it feel like the ground beneath her, but waves instead. It bounced her upwards, so that the top of her head compacted sharply with the underside of the bed. Whimpering, she buried her head in her chest, just as the bed lurched sharply sideways. Sven grabbed her and dragged her beneath it again.

There followed an almighty clattering as anything not supported fell over, followed by a quiet "ping, ping, ping" which Azreal could not identify.

The lights, an ever-present constant, flickered and died.

And then silence came crashing down, broken only by the howling of the wind.

Some time later the lights flashed back into life, flooding the devastation of the room in subdued halogen glare. The two survivors crawled out from beneath the bed, investigating the damage. It was not as bad as it looked – the huge window had not broken (a situation which would have been almost fatal), thanks to the flexible, bullet proof, glass it was constructed from. The telescope had tilted sharply to one side, and leaned heavily against the computer. Broken crockery, utensils and chess pieces littered the floor, and several of the food bags had split open. Flour covered a large patch of the floor so that it looked as though the snow had come in.

Several of the boards of the ceiling were buckled and hanging. The "pinging" had been the nails working loose and tumbling to the linoleum beneath. The bed had held up amazingly well, not even damaged from its skip-hop across the floor.

"That wasn’t as bad as it could have been," Azreal commented.

"Indeed, we’re still alive. You know," he added, "your collar’s changed colour."

"Has it?" Her fingers flew to it, but it felt no different. However, the bands on her wrists had turned from pure white to a fresh, grass green. "Odd," she commented.

"Must be magical," he said and stooped, buckling on his heavy "outdoor" shoes.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting on my boots," he replied. "Isn’t that obvious?"

"Why?"

"I have to go and investigate."

Azreal looked out the window to where the ever-shifting snow-mists swirled and heaved like living beasts. "Looks like the weather’s turning nasty," she pointed out. "Shouldn’t we wait until the storm passes over?

"It’s the storm season. If there were any survivors, they won’t last long in a Hogarth storm. It also took out one of the sensors, so I’ll have to go and investigate for Geode." He moved over to the computer and fiddled with it. After a moment of flickering, distorted images, it sparked into clarity, showing a rather staticky image of the spaceship.

"Always for your bloody country," Azreal snapped, "can’t you ever do something for yourself? Why risk your neck for someone that you don’t even know? Can’t you just rewind and see what that camera recorded earlier?"

"That’s not a camera." He snapped, "the sensor views the world using sonar and constructs the image based on that. The damned thing took out the camera. This is the only image I have of it."

He flicked some more switches and the alarm died, much to the relief of AZREAL'S ringing ears. A moment later another image appeared on the screen. It appeared, to all intents and purposes, to be a great ball of flame. A great ball of flame that was getting bigger and bigger.

Then struck in a shower of snow and static.

"How did it survive that?" Azreal asked.

"Most spaceships are built with an inner core to withstand the great heat of atmospheric re-entry," Sven explained, "didn’t they teach you anything at school? If anyone was on it, they could have survived the crash." He stood up, making his way over to the big wardrobe. "I must go and investigate," he replied, "I shouldn’t be too long. Keep the kettle hot and don’t get into trouble."

"I’m coming with you," Azreal stated.

"No you’re not."

Azreal was not about to let him win this argument. He was going out to investigate something that could possibly be exciting and there was no way she was going to let him leave her behind. Cabin fever gnawed at her. She had to get out! "So you trust me enough to leave me here?"

Sven pondered this. "If you damage anything here, then I’ll send you back with Stefan and he’ll be more then willing to take advantage of your loss of virginity."

The damned Wolf had made his point, now she was ‘soiled’ she would be fair game as far as Furns went. But she had another trump card to play. It was a bit of a risk, since she had only an inkling that he was starting to grow used to, and maybe even enjoying, her company (and she had to admit, the sex must have helped), but she was not going to allow him to leave her here alone whilst he went out and had all the fun.

"If you leave me here, I’ll follow you."

He chuckled, "you’ll die in the snow. You really are a suicidal lass, aren’t you? One near death experience not enough for today?"

"Better to perish in the snow then stay here and wonder if you’re ever coming back," she replied. "Besides, you might need my help."

"I never have before."

She shrugged, "whatever. Leave me here then – see what’s left when you return. Who’ll you beat at chess then?"

He sighed. "Very well then, just quit delaying me further. There could be people out there dying in the snow whilst you manipulate me, you little fiend."

She grinned, trying not to skip. This checkmate was hers.

An hour later, she was starting to wonder if victory had really been hers. Sven’s snow-pod raced across the snow, the Plexiglas dome keeping out the wind but doing little against the cold. It was not a vehicle made for two, and Azreal was scrunched into the storage compartment behind the driver’s seat, her knees tucked under her chin and her hands braced against the dome to stop her tumbling about like an ice-cube in a blender.

Even in the thick, oversized gloves and three layers of clothing, she could feel the cold. Her palms burned with it, touching the dome as they were. The little pod jerked and bounced over the uneven ground erratically, threatening to capsize in the roaring wind.

She could not hear anything, the screaming winds and the hum of the engine drowned out any chance for speech and for that Azreal was glad. She would have so many bumps and bruises in the morning.

The view was nothing to write home about either – roiling white clouds blocked out all but the tiniest glimpses of the purple-black sky. The balaclava Sven had forced her to wear obscured most of it anyhow. It itched and irritated, but at least it was warm.

The little pod lurched and groaned for several hours, or perhaps an eternity, and then skidded to a halt, snow cascading up around it in great billowing clouds.

"Stay here," Sven shouted to be heard above the roaring wind. The dome slid back and he stepped out, pulling it back down behind him. They stood on he edge of a crater, the earth torn open from the impact. The edges were wavy – as though there had been several blasts and each had taken out another layer. And down in the depths, where the wind twisted and whirled a maelstrom, was the glistening black pyramid of the spaceship. It looked smaller then she had thought, and she felt oddly disappointed. Then the snow-mist licked over it again, obscuring it from view.

So, they were here, and here she was, made to wait in the vehicle while he had all the fun. Azreal didn’t really want to go out in the snow – it was quite cold enough here without the addition of wind chill, but her legs were paining her something wicked. She would just get out and stretch her legs, just for two minutes. No harm would come of it.

She somehow managed to drag herself out of the storage compartment and into the driver’s seat. Cramp burned her thighs, her muscles exclaiming loudly as such treatment. It did not take long for her to work out how to open the dome and slide out into the rugged wilds of Hogarth.

The wind struck her, so swift and fierce that it near nigh lifted her from her feet and sent her tumbling and rolling like a tumbleweed. The cold inside the dome had been nothing compared to the cold out here, not even the cold of her temporary exile could compete. It seemed to strip her through all her layers of clothing, fur, skin and flesh and head straight for the bones. When she moved, it was as though her joints were filled with broken glass. Sven was nowhere to be seen – but then again, she could not see more then a few feet at any rate.

Was it her imagination or was the storm getting worse?

She waited, the cold gnawing at her and the wind doing its best to undress her. Her eyes grew sore from peering through the snow-mists in search of someone who did not come.

Why was he taking so long?

And then came the high-pitched whistling sound, so high it danced around the top of the auditory spectrum, echoing in her head and making her brain throb. Her clothing crackled with sparkling blue lights and her hair stood on end, even beneath the thick clothing.

And then a brilliant blue-white flash, so dazzling it seared her retinas, scythed through the sky, illuminating for an instance the hulk of the fallen spaceship. And then a wave of energy swept over her, throwing her to the ground with the force of it all.

Beside her the snow-pod made a low whining sound that abruptly turned to a shrill shriek and then cut off.

Silence descended, save for the ringing in her ears.

Around her the snow continued to fall, although the wind seemed temporarily stilled.

The air reeked with the scent of ozone and heated metal.

"Sven!" She shrieked, dragging herself to her feet, concern for her only companion in this desolate wasteland flooding her senses. One glove, too large for her small hands, tumbled off and she scrambled after it feeling the cold claw at her exposes flesh.

Bracing herself against the wind, which was rising once more, and sliding the retrieved glove back over her hand, she made her way over the edge of the crater. The snow had been blasted clear, and she found herself edging her way down rock and a dry, shingly dirt that shifted under her feet and threatened at every footfall to send her tumbling to her doom.

It did not take long for one foot to slide from beneath her and send her lurching to the side. She skidded ten feet before falling to her knees and tearing shreds from her trousers. The cold burrowed deep and she was forced to half crawl, half slide, the remainder of the way.

And then, finally, she approached the hulk.

Lightning struck again, arching brilliantly across the sky. It was not followed by the characteristic rumble of thunder - only the howl of the wind answered it.

The after-image of the lightning, echoing in her vision, she struggled to seek clarity from confusion and soon the hulk of the fallen spaceship rose before her.

"Sven!" She called again. What if something had happened to him? She would be stranded out here – she couldn’t drive the pod and even if she could, how could she find the homebase again?

She stumbled closer, the wind lessening as she stepped into the lee of the fallen spaceship. Where was he? Her voice was hoarse, stolen away by the chill wind. Her limbs felt heavy as lead.

Once she staggered, almost falling and catching herself barely in time. She could no longer feel her feet. And then she saw him – or at least she thought it might be he, a hump in the snow at the base of the ship.

Finding energy she didn’t know she had, she staggered closer, towards the fallen figure. It was Sven – he lay in the snow as though dead, one hand extended towards the ship. Beside him lay a long metal pole of unknown purpose.

The stink of singed fur filled the air, even through the frigid air.

She hastened to the side of the fallen Wolf, crouching beside him. Her fingers quickly confirmed he was still breathing, the pulse in his neck fluttering like a trapped moth. "Sven," she hissed, close to his ear, but he made no response.

She had to get him into shelter – even here in the lee of the crashed ship, the cold would kill him in only a few short hours. But where could she take him?

The snow-pod was too far away.

Shuddering, she removed her outer layer, a thick, plush coat, and laid it across his head and shoulders. Those were the important parts to keep warm. She stared up at the wrecked hulk.

Where had it come from? Where was it going? Why had it crashed? The concept of finding the answers to such questions both daunted and terrified her. Not that log ago, the prospect of a crashed ship had been exciting – but now she was not so sure. Had some deadly virus wiped out the entire crew? Had there been an equipment malfunction?

Would the inside be more dangerous then the cold outside?

The chances of that seemed unlikely, and time was of the essence.

She studied the hulk for a while, growing colder and colder with every passing moment. Her toes went completely numb, and she could no longer feel her nose, even with the thick boots and balaclava, she was slowly freezing from the inside. Would she have to return to Sven’s side, curl up beside him and the both of them freeze quietly together?

It was then that she saw the fracture in the ship’s casing. The force it had struck the ground must have been extreme, to damage to the shell of a space traveling vessel, cracking open the joint where two sheets of metal had been welded together. Perhaps the extreme heat of atmospheric re-entry had been the cause.

The crack gaped, a long dark gash wide enough for her to crawl through, possibly, but certainly not for the Wolf. She would have to widen it. Stamping her feet and hugging herself tight, Azreal made her way back to Sven. The metal rod glowed faintly in the lavender light of the water Hogarth sun. It could work as a crowbar. Couldn’t it?

As she stooped to pick it up, she realized that there was something attached to it, some sort of metal cylinder with wide straps. A small smile danced on her lips as she recognized the device.

It was heavy, almost too heavy for the small Civet, but she managed to wriggle into the straps and lift it from the ground, moving like a hunchback. She should have realized Sven would not have undertaken such an adventure unprepared.

Staggering beneath the heavy weight, Azreal returned to the gash. Bracing her feet, she held the nozzle of the pipe a foot from the bodywork of the ship and pulled the trigger.

The gas erupted and alighted, a spear of fire of the purest white. The force unbalanced Azreal and she staggered, an erratic gash materializing in the bodywork. The fire-blade cut through the metal as though it were little more then cheese. She fought to regain control before she accidentally bisected herself in the process. The light flickered and died as she released her grip and she sagged in relief.

Well, it worked. Now all she had to do was learn how to control it.

Now that she expected the recoil, it was not so bad, and after much effort she succeeded in enlarging the crack so that it was large enough to crawl through.

A chunk of amputated metal crunched onto the snow in a cloud of steam, Azreal leaping back and releasing the trigger at the same instant. Sweat beaded her body, forming a layer of ice between her clothing and her fur as the air chilled it. Her muscles throbbed with the exertion. The fire-spear had been heavy.

After the edges of the new porthole had cooled, Azreal tentatively peered in. The innards were dark, tinted with lavender reflected from the sky. Another bolt of lightning shattered the sky some distance away, illuminating her surroundings in vivid blue. She appeared to be in some kind of corridor. It was cold, yes, but at least there was no wind and she was not going any further without Sven – even if she did have the fire-spear to protect her. It was too heavy to carry back across the snow, so she left it, leaning against the ship.

The Wolf had moved, casting the blanketing cloak aside. He still wore his heavy clothing, of course, but that would offer little protection.

"Sven," Azreal half-knelt, half fell to her knees beside him and shook him. He muttered something. Not unconscious then, delirious maybe? "Can you stand up?"

He muttered again - it could have been a foreign language for all she knew. He opened his eyes, his pupils were dilated and the iris bloodshot. Hands twisted into claws grasped at her shoulders and for a moment she was scared of him. She was used to his distant, often borderline-aggressive nature, not this wild-eyed creature he had become.

His teeth clattered together. She had to get him out of the cold. All feeling had dissipated from her fingers and she dreaded to think how he might feel. Together the two of them managed to regain their footing, although who was leaning on her was quite unclear. Sven kept babbling to himself and she could feel his heart pounding even beneath his thick clothing, it was erratic and unsteady. What had the lightning done to him?

By the time they reached the shelter of her newly-created spaceship cave both of them were more dead then alive, the only thing keeping them upright and mobile their sheer stubbornness. Sven collapsed first, his legs folding beneath him and lurching to the wall, taking Azreal down with him in a tangle of limbs.

For the longest moment the two of them lay there, too exhausted and cold to move. AZREAL'S brain felt foggy, as though her brain were packed in place with cotton wool.

"We have to keep moving," she murmured, disentangling herself from Sven. He grabbed at her, holding her close to him in a grip stronger then she thought he could manage.

"Don’t leave me," he growled, half pleading. He was like a frightened child, vulnerable and desperate. What had happened to him? He hadn’t been struck by lightning, that was plain, for if he had, he would be dead. Maybe the lightning bolt had shattered his mind?

Azreal helped him to his feet again. "Do you have a flashlight?" She asked.

He did not verbalize an answer, but one hand fossicked around the inside of his coat and after what felt like forever, produced a flashlight. It was a heavy, black metal affair that could double as a club if the situation demanded it. A moment later the glare split the darkness.

They had were in a small, square and completely empty room. There was a heavy door on the far side, with a small, but strong, glass window set in it. Some sort of airlock, Azreal guessed.

Beside the door was a big red button, which she pressed, hoping that the lightning strike had not fried the electrics. She was in luck. There was a whining of gears and a few sparks flew, some reaching dangerously near her, but the door slid open about a foot and a half, then stopped. It was enough.

The two of them staggered through the opening and they found themselves in a small, roughly square chamber. What appeared to be a particularly bulky type of space suit lined one wall. They were of very primitive design and looked most uncomfortable to wear. A row of metal drums, not unlike the cylinder of the fire-spear, rested against the opposite wall, and on a shelf above them was as series of clear glass domes. They looked to be designed to fit a race with a very flat muzzle, something Azreal found startling.

And it was quiet – so quiet. If there were crew around and alive, wouldn’t they be examining the damage? Perhaps they were all dead?

Or maybe they were all asleep?

There was another door at the end of the short corridor, and it too opened at the push of a button. As the doors slowly "swooshed" open, they revealed a large chamber, the centre of the pyramid.

It was like no spacecraft Azreal had ever seen.

The chamber was a smaller pyramid within the larger one, the walls angled upwards towards a single point, in which a great sphere burned like a miniature sun, small sparkles of colour dancing across its surface, crackling quietly. Walkways encircled the walls, connected by ladders. Azreal shuddered, half-expecting to see someone standing on one of them, observing the new entrants.

"Odd," Azreal commented. "At least it’s warm. Ish."

It was indeed warm, as though the bizarre sun produced heat. Sven collapsed against the wall.

"My heart…" he muttered, "what’s wrong with me?"

"I don’t know." Was all Azreal could respond. Had the lightning struck him? He didn’t appear to be suffering any burns, or at least there were none visible. The Wolf slid down the wall to sit in a huddled heap at the bottom. Azreal placed the cloak over him.

It was warm here – but not quite warm enough. Shouldn’t the residents have blankets or anything? Perhaps she could find something flammable – aside from their clothing, of course. Everything, however, looked extremely sterile.

Her explorations led her to a vehicle. It was a squat device, with huge, wide brimmed tires, plainly designed for rugged, dusty terrain, and a small cabin consisting of four seats and a storage area, encased in a tinted glass dome. She opened the bonnet, but the engine was completely alien to her, aside from the small sphere floating in the middle of it. It looked like a miniature and inactive version of one above. The alien’s power source, perhaps?

After a scrabble and a scramble, she managed to open one of the doors and clambered inside. The design was different – obviously these aliens had no tails, because the seats had fitted backs and were fairly narrow. She scrambled across the seat and examined the interior thoroughly – there were a large number of dials and buttons and lights which probably measured everything from oxygen content in the air to the ambient temperature. The language, however, was an unknown one compiled of an iconographic style font. She slid out, there was nothing useful to be found here, although the vehicle may come in handy later. If they drove it back to the base camp then it would be possible to properly study the energy source.

Her explorations carried her further around the chamber and made an even more interesting find.

Set in the wall was a collection of glass domes, each looking into a small chamber. She angled her flashlight to view the contents and froze in horror as the light darted across the ivory of old bones.

Inside every chamber was a skeleton. Some were curled up into a fetal position, grinning skull faces staring forever at nothingness. Others, perhaps disrupted from the impact, were nothing more then scattered piles. There was something decidedly odd about them - the bone structure was … different. For one thing, the skull faces were flattened with no trace of a muzzle whatsoever. The legs too were decidedly odd – the lower calf bones longer and the feet differently proportioned, not unlike the limbs of a Raccoon. There was no trace of a tail structure at all, save for a pitiful stump at the base of the spine.

What manner of an alien had these bones belonged to?

She stared at them for a long while, almost expecting them to move, but of course they did not, their grinning skull faces merely stared at her, secrets kept safe within their bones.

What had happened to them? Clearly their life support had failed and it was equally clear that it had happened some time ago. No scrap of tissue remained on the bones. That in itself was bizarre, because even with the heat, there was nothing that could have rotted it.

Was there?

She had many questions, but alas, the skulls weren’t talking and Sven was behind her, perhaps freezing to death or perhaps exhibiting some bizarre after-effects from the electricity strike. Azreal didn’t think the lightning had actually hit him, but it certainly had done something to him.

There was a walk-in-wardrobe at the end of the stasis chambers. Inside it, perfectly preserved, were about two dozen jumpsuits, made of a coarse material that looked almost flammable, hanging from a railing. There was also – and this was much more to her liking, a pile of blankets. Filling her arms with them, she hastened back to Sven.

He appeared slightly more coherent now then when she had left him, and had managed to pull himself upright. His eyes were still bloodshot and his ears lay flat against his skull. Sweat beaded his brow from the effort.

"I found some blankets," Azreal said, unrolling one and proffering it to him. "You need to keep yourself warm."

"And what about you? Aren’t you cold? It’s so cold…" He shivered, despite his thick fur.

Azreal was not finding it that cold, and it worried her. "Here," she said, "wrap these around you, I’ll be fine. I’ve found us a vehicle and…" She paused. "I don’t think the inhabitants of this place are going to bother us much. They’re dead."

"Dead? Before or after?"

"Before I’d be guessing," she assumed he meant the crash, "unless the impact stripped their skin from their bones. They’re aliens," she added.

"I’ll have to see them," he replied, "must make a report. If only I could stop shaking."

"My guess is that they’re some sort of exploration party, so they’ve probably got food around somewhere. I’m going to try and find it. You’ll be okay?" She couldn’t cope with him in this state, he was frightened, that was clear, but he would never admit it to himself, let alone to her. Sven was not the sort to take kindly to attempts at comfort. Better to be practical.

He nodded mutely by way of response. Azreal patted him on the shoulder. "Hang in there," she said, and walked away.

Sven watched her go with a mixture of relief and disappointment. After their coupling earlier, a part of him wanted nothing more then to curl up with her here and last out the storm. The other part of him took a more realistic, practical, approach. He could not explore the alien spacecraft – the electric current had passed through the ship and struck him and offset the rhythm of his heart. He felt weak – weaker then he ever had before and far weaker then he was comfortable with. The only hope was that somehow the fibrillations would pass and his heartbeat would return to normal. But for now he was helpless, able to do nothing more then wrap the blankets around his shoulders and body (and it was so cold, and he was used to the cold so why did he feel colder then he ever had before?), close his eyes and wait.

After a short search, Azreal found the barracks. Clearly this pyramid had been built as a landing base – which seemed odd to her, because usually shuttle-ships were used, but then again, they were aliens… And when the ship landed, the crew would go forth