They plummeted through the atmosphere, baptized in rushing currents of frigid air, falling seraphs with their shattered snowflake wings fighting amidst their freefall toward hell. There hadn't been a divine purpose in Kershov's sudden savage lunge, no master plan he'd projected into the future--his secret beast was incapable of such forethought. It did not pause to imagine beyond the flavor of Alaska's blood, its sick curiosity driven by thirst for iron and saline and whatever else suffused the black-caped lady's essence. Would the carmine in her veins carry the rich spice of herbs, the way her two-toned pelt did? Or perhaps something unexpected--a dash of uglier things--a vile tang that would unveil anything she'd been hiding with her crisp ice sculpture vocabulary and cool jade windows--

His daggers sliced into a fold of furred satin. Rubies beaded upon their ivory points, her yielding flesh no match for his killing weapons, and it was then--as those first delicate notes of Alaska washed over his tongue in all their incongruous warmth and delectable glory--that Kershov's indomitable momentum pushed them soaring over the precipice. Gravity grasped at their tangled forms and swallowed them downward, yet the alabaster monster had never felt so fascinatingly weightless. No firm permafrost to press upon his paws. Nothing to tether him to the earth at all. The blank milk-colored sky flipped upside down and spun away from his limbs as they struggled to beat against Alaska's wild aerial assault, her scraping claws like the talons of an avenging eagle as she expertly twisted herself to perch atop the creature that had dared drag her down. His frantic fevered mind perceived everything in eternal increments. Seconds, heartbeats, a single snapshot of wind shrieking past their faces fast enough to draw tears from the corner of Kershov's lonesome obsidian lantern and his jaws sawed into the winter queen's tender meat as if she were the first delicacy to ever charm his senses and she returned the favor with precisely puncturing pearls stabbing every so sweetly through the skin layered over the side of his neck--

The impact of stone crushed the breath from his lungs and slammed coherent thought from his skull. A stomach-churning crackle echoed in Ker's eardrums: bones jolted out of place and tendons snapped taut with shock, his nervous system jumping back online with a searing pulse of agony. For a moment the massive arctic dragon simply lay there. Immobile. He did not unclench his crocodile trap from its grip on the hood of Alaska's cape. He did not tear his stunned bottomless gaze away from the frigid expanse of the smooth marble heavens above. The mindless demon that inhabited him briefly retracted its fangs, stunned, while Kershov tried to breath and silently assess just how badly damaged he was . . .

Distantly he noted Alaska shifting in his grasp, her lithe chassi turning away--though not as if to escape. He felt his contracted jaw muscles relaxing, tentatively, unwilling to release the prize he held so close but now no longer seized by the overwhelming urge to destroy. They were alive, weren't they? Kershov did not believe in Fate, except perhaps in the existential sense that it operated as a merciless and cruel sort of god, but it seemed miraculous that neither predator had perished upon impact. If anything, their mutual survival presented an interesting opportunity. Maybe this fortuitous cliff would serve as the final stage for their two-person masterpiece, expert actors forced into their final grand performance. An aching, staccato growl rumbled brokenly from Kershov's battered chest. How lovely. He had wanted to peer past the flawless facade Alaska presented him, and now he believed they'd dropped into the perfect place for a raw showdown. You won't be so controlled when you're faced with doom, will you? Not so eloquent and controlled now, are we?

The words readied themselves behind his teeth like vultures poised for flight. And then Alaska's paw was down his throat, a fist of nails and petals, and Kershov's traitorous reflexes gave him no choice but to swallow.

A roiling pulp of plant matter and blood slid into his stomach. Almost instantly the colossal titan was rolling shakily to his paws, gagging violently, trying to hack up the mixture that was seeping steadily into his bloodstream. "Whatever . . . are you . . . talking about?" the fallen king managed between wet coughs. His curved smile matched Alaska's serpent grin in its insane intensity as he locked eyes, fathomless midnight and polished malachite. "I did not 'fall' upon this earth, my dear . . . I crawled from the deepest pits imaginable and surfaced on the tundra. And I wondered why I didn't bother to remain in the hell where I'd come from." He blinked. Alaska had a stunningly beautiful face, chiseled delicately from porcelain and painted with a watercolor tapestry of soft charcoal and pale snow . . . but while he stared her down, those features began to blur and fade. The pitiless green of her eyes bled into the greyscale background.

"What . . . on earth . . . did you do to me . . . ?" The moonlit knight swayed on his feet, voice amused, as if Alaska had succeeded in playing a very clever joke. "I guess the gods favor you this round. Isn't poison a tad unfair?" Kershov stalked closer as he spoke, crowding her, inviting her to lunge at him as he had not a minute before. "Although . . . if I die here, you could be stranded with my corpse. I wonder if you left enough poppy for your own end? I suppose you could just dine on my leftovers . . . might give you some time to think about how to escape . . ." He paused, standing mere inches from her muzzle. Or where her muzzle should have been . . . things were so unclear now. His vision. His thoughts. "I'll be generous. If you're a good girl, I'll rip out your throat. There's so much poppy coating my tongue I'm sure if wouldn't hurt a bit . . ." With a sigh the basilisk leaned in, inhaling her perfume, muzzle going to nuzzle toward the base of her neck. What a pretty, odd little snowbird. So unexpectedly like himself . . .