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whatever I saw there in the Sierra night glanced back at me. When she resumed her walk it wasn’t the stiff, horsey stride she’d been using before but a rolling, rocking, impossibly fluid gait that would’ve blasted the top knob off a frozen thermometer. I think she did it just for me. Maybe it was because of the season, but I tell you, it was one helluva present.
    Not knowing what else to do, I waved. I think she waved back as I called out, “Merry Christmas, Norma Jean.” Whacking my chest with my crossed arms, I hurried across the street to the parking lot to fire up Slewfoot.

LETHAL PERSPECTIVE
    Don’t do the expected. What’s the point? You’ll be
bored with it. Worse, so will the reader. There’s a huge
market called More of the Same, and sometimes we’re
all forced to sell to it. That’s why short stories are so
valuable.
    Me, I like a challenge. Take the obvious and twist it,
knot it, turn it upside down and inside out and see what
the result looks like. It may turn out twisted, knotted,
upside out and inside down, but even if it’s not successful, at least it won’t look like everybody else’s.
    Take dragons. Please. In today’s fantasy market, if I
had scales, I could retire to some tropical paradise on the
royalties (come to think of it, there’s a story there. But
not the one I’m about to tell). You try hard to make the
overly familiar a little different, maybe a little contemporary, a little unexpected, and sometimes it can gag in
your throat.
    In this case, that’s a
good
thing.
    They assembled in the Special Place. Though a considerable amount of time had passed, none forgot the date and none lost their way. It took more than several days for all to arrive, but they were very long-lived, and none took umbrage at another’s delay.
    It was the very end of the season, and a small team of climbers from France was exploring a new route up the south col of K5 when one happened to look up instead of down. He shouted as loud as he could, but the wind was blowing and it took a moment before he could get the attention of the woman directly ahead of him. By the time she tilted her head back to scan the sky, the apparition had vanished. She studied her climbing companion warily and then smiled. So did the others, when they were informed.
    They put it down to momentary snow blindness, and the climber who’d looked up at the singular moment didn’t press the point. He was a realist and knew he had no chance of convincing even the least skeptical of his friends. But to his dying day he would know in his heart that what he’d seen that frigid morning just east of Everest was not an accident of snow blindness, or a patrolling eagle, or a figment of his imagination.
    The Special Place was filling up. Legendary nemesis of the subcontinent, Videprasa had the least distance to travel and arrived first. Old Kurenskaya the Terrible appeared next, making good time despite his age and the need to avoid the aging air-defense radar based in southern Kazakhstan.
    O’mou’iroturotu showed up still damp from hours of flying through the biggest typhoon to hit the South China Sea in more than a decade, and Booloongatta the Night Stalker soon after. They were followed by Cracuti from central Europe, Al-Methzan ras-Shindar from out of the Empty Quarter, and Nhauantehotec from the green depths of Central America.
    It grew crowded in the Special Place as more of the Kind arrived. They jostled for space, grumbling and rumbling until the vast ancient cavern resounded like the Infinite Drum itself. Though solitary by nature, all gathered eagerly at this special predetermined time.
    Despite the incredible altitude and the winter storm that had begun to rage outside, conditions within the Special Place remained comfortable. Creatures that are capable of spontaneous internal combustion do not suffer from the cold.
    As the Elder Dominant, Old Kurenskaya performed the invocation. This was concluded with a binding, concerted