Her body flickers dark and light, sinewy through shadow and scarlet setting sun. Already, slender blades of grass collect dew, in lieu of abundant and nourishing daylight. The snake’s rustling passage drops to cooler notes, notes soon to be silver and silent in the moonrise. Midsummer is long past, and her time to safely pass through the neighborhood and into her burrow is scant. Still, she pauses in her nightly patrol and lifts her diamond-shaped head, scenting vanilla and the rich tang of coffee from the small square of patio behind the one-story home. Continue reading
She stared through the not-quite-ice wall, relieved for the moment from the legions of strangely sexless men and women that had pestered her since she was summoned from deep sleep. Most were draped in what she assumed were the ceremonial robes and masks of their tribe, a stiff fabric of white and green, their eyes hidden behind smaller planes of not-quite-ice. 
Valley of the Trolls 