FROSTA

Blood spattered against snow as the Sword of He-Man slid from the last of the ice trolls. Standing at seven feet tall with shaggy white fur and yellow tusks, the trolls preyed on anyone foolish enough to wander north from the Whispering Woods. Now, four lay dead and bleeding, growling their last breaths. Beside him, Snow Cat clawed the grisly creatures, staining its white muzzle red. With torch in hand, and sword in the other, He-Man came across no more of the dreaded guardians. But moving further into the cavern, crouching beneath the hanging icicles, he found that his companion could no longer follow. The narrow pass ended in a solid wall of ice. Even with his great strength, he could not hope to break through it. But just as the Sorceress had predicted, there was a still pool shaped like a tear drop, no greater in diameter than a single man with arms apart. The water was clear as glass, and a pale blue light radiated from it, the source of which could not be seen. Leaning his torch against the embankment, He-Man dipped his arm beneath the surface. The water was cold, and his fingers grew stiff in the dry air. Clenching his fist to pump blood into his hand, he realized, reluctantly, what had to be done. Brushing Snow Cat’s fur, he said, “Stay here; I must go alone,” and with a deep breath, vanished feet first into the pool.

***

The blue haired beauty stood atop the balcony of her Ice Tower with palms to her bosom, feeling no warmth. How she longed for the touch of another . . . for a loving embrace. But it could never be, she knew. Her prison was a lonely, vast chamber, in which she wandered the past ten years. A dozen human likenesses kept her company, but none of the frozen bodies could speak or move, and yet she addressed them plainly. “Goodnight, Mandor.” The young face could only stare, frost growing from his bluish temples to the lashes of his eyes. Yet his unchanging expression seemed to satisfy her, as she brushed the frost to kiss his icy cheek. “Oh, now, don’t be jealous, Boramor,” she intoned, crossing the room to the other side, where a large brute stood with sword in hand, a look of shock on his face, long icicles hanging from his beard and mustache. “You get a goodnight kiss too.”

***

Cold gnawed his flesh like some tormenting fiend. All he could do to keep from freezing was to stay moving. If he had any torches left, they would be wet and useless. He only hoped that his great strength would last him.

Climbing the last of the broken stairs, He-Man passed through an arch into a dimly lit chamber. All was made of ice, the sight of which was disheartening. But at least his fur coat was beginning to thaw. Moving further inward, he marveled at the high vaulted ceiling. Suddenly, he spotted a shadow, like that of another warrior. An open balcony across from him let in the light of the night sky, and he gripped the pommel of his weapon tightly, prepared to encounter whatever guardians came his way. Following the light, he crossed the silhouette of a man, and many others. Was this some kind of small army? No, he realized, upon reaching the first of the champions. It was but a statue, an ice sculpture. With a nudge he tipped the figure over and it shattered into crystalline fragments.

Nearing the balcony he found, at last, what he had been seeking. There was an ottoman made of ice, and a four-poster bed of snow. Quietly, his anxious heart burning, he pulled back the starry veil, to find an angel sleeping in snow. She was more beautiful than the legends suggested. But he hesitated, remembering the story of her awful curse.

Ten long years ago, what seemed now like countless aeons, the Horde witch, Shadow Weaver, met a young village girl who dared mock the witch’s ugliness. Inspired by the cold of winter, Shadow Weaver’s wicked mind devised a most horrible curse,

“Hence forth let your name be Frosta! For though your beauty you may retain, like a rose shall you possess most horrid thorns, that should any man in liking pluck you, no warmth may ever usher from your lips, but your breath be like the blizzard! Nor shall any man know comfort in your arms, for should your heart beat with deepest passion, only blood like icy rivers will channel through your veins. Delight as some may in your fair likeness, a chilling touch will ever harden their affections, and all men turn a cold glance and with bitterness endure you. Never will you know Spring’s love or Summer’s ecstasy, but in time your very soul grow numb with craving, in Winter’s everlasting solitude.”

At once, the fair maiden felt all the warmth rush from her body. The villagers could see her hair, swaying to her waist, transforming to icy blue, and her fair pink flesh turn a deathly pale, like a drowned corpse dragged from the broken surface of a frozen lake. Only her youth, and tall shapely figure, remained. Try as she may, the girl could not bring herself comfort. Warm furs only served to seal the coldness radiating from her. Sitting near the hearth or reveling in the sun seared her flesh, and rubbing her arms increased her numbness. She became, in essence, cold blooded.

It was not long before she fled from home, unable to face the gawking and the whispers. Wandering the frozen tundra for many years, she sought nothing but death. Jumping into frigid waters, she prayed to drown herself, but the strange magic of her curse kept her alive. At last, she went up into the mountains to find an abandoned tower made entirely of ice. It was here that she made her home, eating nothing but snow and drinking from the stalactites. Somehow she lived on, in that place that no travelers could reach, for most journeying so far to the north died of the cold.

Back in her village, word spread of Frosta’s tale, of her beauty and curse. And the legend was born of the hero that would come and with his love, break the spell, and make her warm again. Such a man would know true love, and undying pleasure in her embrace, forever and ever. This was the story that He-Man knew, as told to him by the Sorceress of Grayskull.

“Wake, my beloved,” he whispered. 
Frosta opened her eyes to see him, a blue eyed, blond man standing at the foot of her bed. “Best be wary, stranger,” she coldly whispered, in an accent as alien to his ears as one isolated from humanity for unremembered time. “I am poison to the flames of love.” With a stern look, her dark lashes crowning her butterfly eyes, she rose from the bed and moved to her ottoman.
He studied her long pointed boots, her crystalline belt shielding her womanhood, the snowflake pattern adorning her pale bosom, her tall, womanly shape. But none of these things made such an impression on him as her fruitful lips and gray, elven eyes. His sword, stained with blood, fell heavily against the floor. “I have come from afar.” 
“So have others,” she replied, gesturing to the dozen male figures around them.

“Yes,” he said, clouds forming from his parched lips, “I can see.” But he had not quite seen. His first impression was that they were works of art. Only slowly did he come to understand that the figures were too lifelike for any sculptor. All were handsome, youths in armor, or older, robust barbarians. Some were nude, or in various stages of undress, though these were fewer in number. Many lay along the ground, their stiff bodies curled like fetuses, eyelids closed in deathly sleep.

“I would take you in my arms to die,” she said. “But last night I had a dream. Do you know what it was?”

“Yes,” he replied, “you dreamt a man had come and set you free.”

“You are just as much a fool as they were. Can’t you see? I am a bane to love. Love, like a flower, withers and dies at my touch. I cannot love you, nor anyone. I was not meant for embraces or lingering kisses. And should you try, you will die as the others have. Alas, no man has ever been so wise to heed my warning.”

“Tell me,” he said. “How did these men die?”

She sighed, heavy with grief to tell the tale. “The first man to come, wishing to break the spell, gave me hope. With hope brewing in my heart, I let him into my bed. But as the old red crone predicted, my touch was like ice to him. He took no pleasure in me, and in my bed he did not survive. By morning, he was stiff and dead, his handsome features immortalized in ice. All that day I wept, calling out his noble name, whom my body could not shelter from this cold.

“Many suitors followed, believing in the power of their love-making, to break the curse. But all failed at the expense of their lives. Now you see, this Ice Tower has become a museum of corpses. During the first few years, it pained me to look upon them, lamenting all the more the sight of their unchanging expressions, remembering with each my shattered hopes. When others arrived, I begged they turn from me, even though I longed for their embrace more than life itself. No man ever took my heed, mesmerized by my beauty and the promise of eternal love; even my collection of bodies could not sway them. And I, hungering for their touch, never could deny them.

“Sometimes, I grew angry, tossing the bodies from the balcony to shatter against the glacier below. But after ten years, as Shadow Weaver predicted, the flame of love in my soul was extinguished. The young girl I had been, and the family I once knew, were forgotten, and in time, I delighted in the collecting of handsome men. Now when the suitors come, I give no warning, but invite them to know my lethal love. In this way, I have made trophies of men.

“In dreams I find release, for a time, for the cold welcomes sleep. For months unending, I slumber, and upon waking and remembering what I am, despair returns to me tenfold.”

After pausing a while, He-Man said to her, “You must be so lonely.”

“There is something different about you,” she murmured, placing a fingernail to her lips, eyeing him sharply. “You seem kinder and gentler than the others, and so I implore you, count yourself fortunate that I am not in the mood to add you to my collection.”

“I have slain many ice trolls to be here,” he replied, “climbed many mountains, and swam freezing waters to reach the entrance to your abode. I shall not be denied the object of my quest!”

“But I am more perilous than those things. Do not turn a blind eye to the other brave souls who succeeded where you have, but fell far short of their quest!”

“Where they have failed,” he replied, letting his fur coat drop to reveal his naked breast, “I shall succeed.”

She laughed. “All men are fools! One more boastful than the next! What makes you think your fate shall differ?”

“Because I love you.”

“You . . . what? You do not even know me.”

“No, Frosta, I have known you from afar, your image in the magic mirror of Castle Grayskull. It was the Sorceress of Grayskull that first showed me, and told me, of you and of your story. Many a night since have I spent, watching you through the glass, dreaming of us together, till at last a portal was made to bring me to this land. But this portal will not remain open for long, Frosta. Come with me now, so that I may take you to my kingdom as my companion.”

“No,” she answered, turning away. “I can never come with you. In all the world there is no place as cold and lonely as this, yet I prefer it to the taunting and the jeers, and the cruel stares. And how could you want such a companion? Such a wretched being that I am, that knows no compassion, someone utterly barren of warmth. I cannot love you! Nor anyone!”

“You are wrong. The Sorceress is wise in the ways of magic, and has found a way to break the witch’s spell.”

Frosta’s pale eyes widened, embers of hope glittering within. “Tell me!”

“With your maidenhood broken, so shall the curse be.”

“And has your Sorceress cast a spell of protection on you?”

“No, our love must be pure.”

She sighed. “Well, you are quite handsome. Perhaps, more so than any other. You will make a fine trophy.”

“Do not harden your heart,” he replied.

“My heart is ice,” said she. “I feel nothing. But, strange, I cannot bring myself to want you dead. So, just leave me now, and let me be.”

“I will not!” he asserted. “If you will not come with me, I will remain with you here.”

“Why would you do this . . . for me? No man has ever offered such a thing.” She let the ribbons of her hair down across her cheeks. “Who are you?”

“I am He-Man, Champion of Eternia, Defender of Castle Grayskull.”

“He-Man,” said she, as if remembering a name long forgotten. “You can’t stay here. You’ll freeze.”

“Yes, this weather is a fiend. But it’s not so bad. May I sit there with you? My legs are weary.”

“Yes,” she said, trembling, sliding to the far edge of the ottoman.

“Why do you turn away from me?”

“Because, I will not have you staring at me.”

“Forgive me. It’s just that, you’re so beautiful.”

“Would that I were hideous,” she exclaimed, burying her face in her palms, “to suffer the death of no man.”

He reached for her, but she snapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me! There is no warmth in this body. I am cold.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Here, take my coat.”

“No, you don’t understand. I am cold.”

He-Man realized that if he were to free this woman, he would need to act. And so he pulled her close and kissed her passionately. To her utter amazement, his breath seemed to melt away the frost.

“Wait,” she said, removing the fastener from her shoulders, leaving her garments to pool about her ankles until she stood, naked in all her wondrous beauty, rubbing the blue hairs between her eager thighs. The stranger approached her from behind, gripping her cheeks tightly, directing his throbbing member as she closed her eyes, and waited.

“This may hurt a little,” he warned, working the head against her lips.

“Hurry,” she begged, “I’ve waited ages for this, for the simplest touch of another, and cannot bear to wait longer!” He pushed, melting the walls of her icy flesh, continuing inch by inch. She could feel him inside her now, like a fire raging in her belly, burning, burning away the witch’s curse. She gasped, and wept, unable to accept what she had so longed for, what for so many years she dreamed of. “Do not stop!” she groaned, “I can feel it . . . I can feel the blood coursing through my veins.”

He placed his hands down her spine, looping his fingers around, pressing her body firmly against his, her every inch swallowing him. He kept at it, feeding her more and more, her glistening hole like a bottomless pit, eating as though her appetite grew more in the feeding. They were like two beasts in rhythm, as if every knee and elbow, every component of their two bodies were made to merge, and Frosta felt herself falling into a maelstrom of pleasures, goose-bumps and giddiness and bliss rolling into a blinding mix, taking her whole, drowning her in euphoria.

As their two bodies lay still and contented upon the snowy bed, she shuddered, feeling the cold as for the first time, but he was there to hold her, and to keep her warm.