A snippet from a longer Dresden story. Summer’s being a bitch, so Winter’s offered her a fight…and got rather more than he bargained for.
She’d manifested a sword, somehow, and a blade made of fire was sweeping down towards him. Icicles sprang from his fingers and he blocked her, feeling the heat roar against his hand, and then she had spun and swung again.
The blades clanged and clashed as they stepped and parried across the arid ground. She was quick, dancing and weaving, the blade flashing around her head with a roar of heat and flame. It was taking most of his concentration to defend, parrying and blocking. He’d never seen her fight like this – and never really seen anyone fight like this. She was almost elemental.
And then she made a mistake; the blade slammed down into his icicles and he snapped his other hand into the fire, catching the flaming blade between his claws. A twist and tug left his wrist aching, but the sword flung out of her hands and vanished in a twist of smoke.
Summer stepped back, her face twisted in fury and her chest rising and falling, her hands going out, summoning something…
Fire was rolling towards him, sweeping across the scrubland; a phoenix of roaring flame, burning with a furious heat, scorching with the heart of the sun and the heat of the desert. He threw his hands forward and shielded, knowing it was the only thing he could do; he couldn’t fight a force as elemental as this. She was throwing everything at him.
The cold surrounded him. He could still feel Summer’s heat even through his shield; the sun was beating against the glaciers, life battering at the cold darkness, a roiling mix of fury and hatred and love sweeping against the lifeless indifference. But Winter was in his heart and his core, and he wrapped it around himself, invincible.
And then the flames were dying down. Summer was on her knees on the charred and blackened earth, and as he let the shield slowly dissipate, he saw tears falling as her fingers dug into the scorched soil.