The dawn light surrounded the two figures on the hill with shimmering, frosty reflections. The tall, well-muscled man clasped the boy's bony shoulder with one huge hand. "We need hunters now, Running Squirrel. It is your time," he said, stern eyes holding the boy's uncertain stare.

"What if I fail?" The boy's voice was no more than a whisper.

"You will not," Two Elk said, not reassuringly, but as an order. "The spirits of the tribe are with you. You are my son, after all."

Running Squirrel twisted his hands together, a familiar unconscious gesture. "Maybe tomorrow I would feel better."

"Listen," the man said, "every boy is nervous on his first hunt. You're as good as any of them - better. And Broken Claw is planning to bring his son out tomorrow for his first hunt. I won't have his son become a man first."

Running Squirrel bit his lip and said nothing. Taking the silence for assent, Two Elk continued. "There's a herd over those ridges," he said, pointing into the rising sun. "We'll go and bring one down. They just moved into the area, so they'll be watchful. You'll have to remember everything I've been teaching you. Understand?"

His son nodded. "You're not going to let your tribe down, are you?" Two Elk asked, and was met with a silent shake of the head. "Of course not," he said, wishing he felt that confident. The boy took after his mother, light and delicate, and despite daily hours of rigorous training, he still was no physical match for most of the other boys his age. He'd tried to convince himself that the boy was just a late bloomer, but as the years went on, it was becoming harder and harder to believe.

He looked down into the blue eyes staring up into his own. "You know the rituals?" His last hope for the boy was that the tribe's medicine would be strong in him. He'd drilled the boy over and over, so there would be no mistake in the ritual. Many boys went out several times before succeeding.

Not his son.

Running Squirrel nodded. "Then begin." He released the boy's shoulder and stepped a few feet back.

Lifting his face to the sky, Running Squirrel spread his arms and sang a series of words in a clear, high voice. His eyes closed, concentrating, wishing. He was singing properly, he knew he was, but he didn't feel the spirits.

And then ... a brush of wind along his cheek, cold and sharp, but more than wind, creeping inside him. Then another, and another, and then he was only a shell, dimly aware of the spirits probing through him with light, icy fingers, until they all fled, back out into the misty air. All but one.

Running Squirrel's body belonged to him again, but he was cold, so cold with the spirit inside him. Frost began at the nape of his neck and spread outward from there, covering him in seconds.

The cold in him bled out, frost thickening and lengthening into thick fur, just as it constricted inside him and doubled him over. He fell to all fours, his bones icy cold as they cracked and reshaped; then warming into a new configuration. His nose lengthened, legs shortened, spine extended into a tail. The pain was swallowed by the cold, over almost before he felt it. The spirit receded then, to a faint icy touch in his head he knew would always be with him.

The small grey wolf looked back. Two Elk met his yellow eyes, a lump in his chest. The boy had done it, and done it well. The chill air drew a tear to his eye, or perhaps something less tangible was responsible.

He didn't know if the wolf saw the tear, but at that moment his son slipped down the hill into the sunrise, to claim his prey, and his manhood.