The cold was relentless. The winds howled as a mournful wolf and lashed the landscape with its fury. The queen's form was draped in a heavy, grey fur mantle, that shielded her from the cutting shards of ice crystals, but even through the cured and skilfully sewn cloak, the temperatures nipped. There could be no rest until she discovered a location adequately spared of wind, in which to conjure a fire. She knew that she would be a fool if she did not take shelter in the first haven she found, but the aura of her son, his presence, worried at her magic and her heart. She was determined to find him, and neither Thor nor Heimdall could say her nay.
Her gloved hands groped along a rock face as she felt for her path, and her ankles and knees scraped against the harsh jutting surfaces of the stone. Her eyes peered through the din of the storm, but they were blinded by the glowing alabaster. He was near. She could feel it.
Frigga's stumbled as the wall of boulders on which she leaned gave forth into an opening. The wind abated and no longer beat upon her fur swathed body. Her magic flared, screaming wordlessly that was Loki close. Here. She gradually lifted her head, the hood of her cloak falling back, and her eyes beholding what lay within the cave.
