Terry Pratchett - Wintersmith

"But, you see, you need to know the whole song," said Tiffany. "It is mostly only about what humans are made of. It isn't about what humans are."

"There were some things that I could not find," said the Wintersmith. "They made no sense. They had no substance."

"Yes," said Tiffany, nodding sadly. "The last three lines, I expect, which are the whole point. I'm really sorry about that."

"But I will find them," said the Wintersmith. "I will!"

"I hope you do, one day," said Tiffany. "Now, have you ever heard of Boffo?"

"What is this Boffo? It was not in the song!" said the Wintersmith, looking uneasy.

"Oh, Boffo is how humans change the world by fooling themselves," said Tiffany. "It's wonderful. And Boffo says that things have no power that humans don't put there. You can make things magical, but you can't magically make a human out of things. It's just a nail in your heart. Only a nail."

And the time has come and I know what to do, she thought dreamily. I know how the Story has to end. I must end it in the right kind of way.

She pulled the Wintersmith toward her and saw the look of astonishment on his face. She felt light-headed, as though her feet weren't touching the floor. The world became…simpler. It was a tunnel, leading to the future. There was nothing to see but the Wintersmith's cold face, nothing to hear but her own breathing, nothing to feel but the warmth of the sun on her hair.

It wasn't the fiery globe of summer, but it was still much bigger than any bonfire could ever be.

Where this takes me, there I choose to go, she told herself, letting the warmth pour into her. I choose. This I choose to do. And I'm going to have to stand on tiptoe, she added.

Thunder on my right hand. Lightning in my left hand.

Fire above me….

"Please," she said, "take the winter away. Go back to your mountains. Please."

Frost in front of me….

"No. I am Winter. I cannot be anything else."

"Then you cannot be human," said Tiffany. "The last three lines are: ‘Strength enough to build a home, Time enough to hold a child, Love enough to break a heart.'"

Balance…and it came quickly, out of nowhere, lifting her up inside.

The center of the seesaw does not move. It feels neither upness nor downness. It is balanced.

Balance…and his lips were like blue ice. She'd cry, later, for the Wintersmith who wanted to be human.

Balance…and the old kelda had once told her: "There's a little bitty bit inside ye that willna melt and flow."

Time to thaw.

She shut her eyes and kissed the Wintersmith…

…and drew down the sun.

Frost to fire.

The entire top of the ice palace melted in a flash of white light that cast shadows on walls a hundred miles away. A pillar of steam roared up, stitched with lightning, and spread out above the world like an umbrella, covering the sun. Then it began to fall back as a soft, warm rain that punched little wormholes in the snow.

Tiffany, her head usually so full of thoughts, hadn't got a thought to spare. She lay on a slab of ice in the soft rain and listened to the palace collapse around her.

There are times when everything that you can do has been done and there's nothing for it now but to curl up and wait for the thunder to die down.

There was something else in the air, too, a golden glint that vanished when she tried to look at it and then turned up again in the corner of her eye.

The palace was melting like a waterfall. The slab she lay on half slid and half floated down a staircase that was turning into a river. Above her, huge pillars fell but went from ice to a gush of warm water in midair, so that what crashed down was spray.

Good-bye to the glittering crown, Tiffany thought with a touch of regret. Good-bye to the dress made of dancing light, and good-bye to the ice roses and the snowflakes. Such a shame. Such a shame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How does a sheep-girl know that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good," she said.

"You saved the world from the Wintersmith!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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