Fall: Scheherazade retold

One

If there was one thing Zoraida hated, it was dragons. Yes, she knew her godson's name was George and that his only ambition was to slay a dragon like his saintly namesake, but when the youth had chosen the biggest, most irritable dragon ever to crawl out of a cave, she'd found herself honour-bound as his fairy godmother to volunteer to be the maiden bait for the beast. Bait, yes. Sacrifice, no. But when silly George had gotten himself knocked out by a blow from the beast's tail, she'd had to decide between fighting the dragon herself or losing her godson.

Whoever had blessed the boy with intelligence had done a piss-poor job of it. They should have endowed him with some common sense instead. The enchanted sword she'd given him lay on the ground, useless, as he put her blessing to use: yes, she'd certainly given him all the swiftness a boy could need for running away.

Her godson was a fool and a coward, Zoraida fumed. Or perhaps the smoke was coming from her skirt, which was definitely smouldering. Damned fire-breathing nuisance.

She lobbed another fireball at the dragon, which splashed harmlessly against his scaly hide, but kept his attention firmly on her and not the fleeing boy. Just a few more seconds and he'd reach the shelter of the city. Then she could leave.

The dragon sent a jet of flame in her direction and she was too slow to deflect it. This time, her skirt caught fire. Swearing, Zoraida decided George could fend for himself.

Thinking to go somewhere that she might smother the flames, Zoraida opened a portal. She glimpsed snow, breathed a sigh of relief, and stepped through.