The black dragon--well, the other black dragon--shook himself, doglike, as if to be rid of the irritating cold white flakes settling across a sizzling hide. Spines rattled along his back, and he looked around again.

"THERE'S BIG THINGS THAT WAY," he informed his son, launching into the air. It was a leap downhill, a shove up and out with hind legs and a spreading of massive wings to catch the bitter air. He hated that air.

It was cold.

Up billowed the dark wing-leather beneath the bones, and he rose skyward, a sail leading into a few powerful flaps and an arc to take him up and around Ursa Major. There were big flying things there (but not as large as he or Svartis, of course--nowhere near)--and small things on the ground... large things, even, here and there...