He whirled, but she was already gone. He snatched up Gunterfys as she darted around the corner of the altar table. She held the spear pointed towards him and crouched in a defensive stance, ready for battle.

“You’d be dead before you ever drew back that spear to strike,” he snapped.

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But kill a priestess of Wyrn in her own temple, and you won’t live to cross the threshold.”

He snarled at her. While others might doubt the gods still actively manifested their power in the world of men, Wynter knew better. For now, at least, Galacia had won. “You always were an annoying wretch of a girl.” He gave her a last, black scowl, heaved out an irritated gust of air, and shoved Gunterfys back in its sheath. “Well, did I pass your test?”

“What do you think?”

He gave her a sullen look. “I think if I hadn’t, I’d already be dead.”

A ghost of a smile warmed her eyes. She straightened and slowly raised the spear until its sharp tip pointed towards the roof of the ice cave. “The flame only burns flesh that still retains the heat of life. If the Ice Heart had consumed you, the fire would have remained blue and cold.” She turned her back to him and set the spear back in place with its twin on the wall.

“You’ve shown your hand, priestess. If I do become the Ice King, I won’t be fool enough to return here and let you prove it.”

“I know,” she agreed, “but the refusal will be proof enough on its own.”

“I am so warned.” His pride was still smarting at the way she’d outmaneuvered him. He’d never liked losing to her. He still didn’t. “Do what you must, Galacia. You always have.” He turned and headed for the entrance to the cave.

“There was a reason I needed to test you today,” she called after him.

He ignored her. He’d had enough of her mysteries and torments.

“The garm have come.”

He stopped. Turned slowly back. The garm were deadly, giant wolflike monsters from the ice fields of the Craig, pets and servants of the Frost Giants, Rorjak’s deadly minions. His brows drew together in a scowl. “Barsul said nothing of it.”

“He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him. I haven’t told anyone until you, just now.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“No. Not seen.” Already her haughty air of superiority was returning. She circled the altar, running a long, blue-nailed finger along the edge. “Smelled them on the wind.”

“I have not.”

“Your nose is full of weatherwitch.” She arched a brow. “Did you think I would not scent her on you?”

“I know better than that.” Her mother was Snow Wolf clan, like him. Galacia and he had run together with the wolves as children, until Wyrn had called her to service on her tenth birthday. He knew she had enough blood of the wolf in her to grant her a portion of its power. “I wed her to sire an heir, and the begetting of one has proven much more enjoyable than I’d dared hope. Summerfolk are exceedingly passionate.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Jealous, Laci?” he jabbed, unable to resist a taunt of his own. Deliberately, he used the name he’d used when they’d run together as children. Until she’d been called by Wyrn, her parents and his had intended her to be his bride. But as a priestess of Wyrn, her bed was as cold as the goddess she served.

She didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s good that part of this marriage agrees with you. An enjoyable duty is a pleasure, not a chore, and thus more likely to be completed well and swiftly.”

The cool response irritated him, so he dug his next barb a little deeper. “Well, if that’s your measure, a dozen of my children should already be growing in her womb.”

She gave him a brittle smile. “Only a dozen? You disappoint me, Wyn.”

That brittleness shamed him. He’d struck her, all right, and hard, and there was no excuse for it. She’d not chosen her path; it had been chosen for her. Wyrn had called her at age ten, before she’d even known boys were good for more than beating in footraces and games of war. She’d never known a man’s love or passion, and never would. She’d never hold a child of her own. “Laci . . .”

She cut him off. Already, the brief moment of vulnerability had passed. She was once more the icy Lady Frey, Wyrn’s priestess, coldly distant and impervious to the frailties of human emotion. “In truth, even if you didn’t reek of your Summer witch, I’d be surprised if you could detect the garm. Their scent is very faint, and I myself can only catch it when the wind is just right. And if not for the dreams Wyrn sends me, I would not have noticed even that. They are still keeping to the mountains, but I doubt it will be long before they grow bolder.”

“I will organize a Hunt.”

“A Hunt? Where? Through the entire breadth and depth of the Craig?” She laughed shortly. “You won’t have any idea where to start until they strike, and you find a trail fresh enough to follow. And the moment you mention the garm, your own life will be in danger. There are those who would stab you in the back rather than risk the coming of the Ice King.”

“Including you, as I just discovered.”

“Including me.” Her gaze was every bit as steady as his. “I am Wyrn’s, after all.”

He gave a rueful laugh. She was an honest woman. Often brutally so, but that was one of the qualities he’d always liked about her. He’d rather have an honest spear aimed at his back than a faceful of lies and political machinations.