The biting cold had given way to a searing heat, and the paws once scorched by frost would soon be consumed by the desert’s merciless fire. Thirst had wrenched the tongue from the depths of his throat; it now hung limp against his blackened lips, while a cavernous rasp tore its way from his chest — yet another testament to his plight, to an acclimation that would not come. He was a child of ice, not of fire.

Time and again, the immense golden creature — that desert entity, treacherous and mocking — had made sport of his suffering. It had promised water on the distant horizon, only for it to retreat like a mirage; it had whispered of an escape, only to lead him to the edge of ravines. A true labyrinth under an open sky, without walls or end — an endless expanse that toyed with him until nothing of him remained but dust.

And yet, this next vision bore none of the cruel hallmarks of illusion. Perhaps it was a hand extended toward deliverance, the frail hope of salvation from the stern mistress that was the desert.
Dry-mouthed Julius, stripped of all caution, stumbled towards the woman: a real, tangible figure, clothed in a robe of golden sand, his tongue lolling, parched beyond all endurance.

One glance had been enough to lay bare his desperate thirst. Nothing else escaped the man of the frozen lands — nothing but rasping breaths and hollow gasps.